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Part III – Under the Divine Spell

Kakuji seemed to be in a good mood. No vestige of the sullenness that had besieged him yesterday. We started for Kalpa at 9.15 in the morning, retracing our onward route till Karchamm where we left the foaming Baspa and turned towards Rekong Peo, along muddy Satluj. The vertebrae shattering road cut across deep gorges and looming crags. Beyond Shong Tong we traversed as series of switch backs and reached Peo at noon. From then on the towering summits of Kinner Kailash range held us in their unflinching gaze all the way to Kalpa.

At HPTDC Hotel Kinner Kailash, our room offered an unhampered view of the snow bound pinnacles. But, before anything we desperately needed a bath after the night spent under filthy blankets at Chitkul. Post shower we went to the hotel restaurant; an elegant, spacious wooden structure on the first floor of the main building. Dark clouds obliterated the mountains as we sat down to lunch. Rain drops borne on a strong wind fell aslant on the windowpanes. Weather is capricious in the mountains. By the time we finished lunch the it had cleared, leaving moist grass, dripping leaves and a washed out sun. Cuddled against the mountains, the freshly laundered valley reposed under the lengthening shadows of the afternoon sun, glistening with a languorous allure.

Evening we visited the quaint old village of Roghi, 5 Km from Kalpa. Groups of school children giggled past us as we climbed down stone steps. We bought chocolates for them from a local shop. As we wandered about trying to locate the ancient temples in the village a voice cried out from behind us “Temple is that way!!”. We turned around and found a wide eyed school girl, probably 10 years old, in a frayed red pullover over her blue uniform. Renuka took us under her protection and guided us to the temples. Grimy, happy children playing in the temple courtyard made faces at us and nimbly snatched away the chocolates we proffered. Within the gloom of the temple sanctum, a deity wrapped in red silk cloth was barely visible.

Renuka wanted a print of the photographs we took of her. When we expressed our inability to send them without her address she wanted us to frame and hang it in our home in Gurgaon. She didn’t want us to forget her. She desired to be remembered. I feel ashamed that I haven’t abided by her request so far. Before parting she asked us if we were hungry. She wanted to offer us food. The directness and innocence of the question surprised and overwhelmed us. When we smilingly refused, she took out a bunch of walnuts from her jacket pocket and thrust it into our hands. Renuka practiced what we paid lip service to. She gave without expecting anything in return. It was an important lesson.

On our return to Kalpa we got off midway and walked down narrow, sinuous tracks bordered by stone pile walls to the town centre. Apple and Chuli trees dotted the terraces of paddy. The trees were overhung with flowers which caught the sunlight in a ruby haze.  At a roadside restaurant, we sipped butter tea flavoured with milk. The Buddhist monastery was closed, but we met the care taker of the orphanage next door. She was originally from Shimla, but found Kalpa peaceful and serene. It was relatively prosperous too. Tourism was picking up. The valley was very fertile and yielded plenty of fruits and vegetables. She was happy to be there. We too wanted to stay in Kalpa forever and after, under the watchful eye of the majestic Kinner Kailash, under its ever changing hue, under the divine spell.

Hotel Kinner Kailash
Kalpa, Kinnaur Dist.
Himachal Pradesh
PIN – 172108
Contact: 01786- 226159

Note 1: Check out Batu Kheer (made of Chalayi), a Himachali speciality served at the hotel restaurant

Note 2: During July – August devotees trek to the natural Shivling on top of Kinner Kailash. Trek duration: 2 – 3 days.

Part I – Sarahan: Click Here, Part II – Chitkul: Click Here, Part IV – Shimla: Click Here

Photo Courtesy: SV

HPTDC brochure of Kalpa

A Culinary Omnium Gatherum

Last weekend, driven by the relentless summer heat, we sought refuge in various restaurants and food courts. There wasn’t much else we could do. Movies? well, there weren’t many we cared to watch. Travelling was out of question. Half the population of Delhi was making a beeline for the mountains during weekends. Flight tickets were expensive. Reservation was not available in trains. Hotel rooms were at a premium. Stranded in the city, all we could think as a means of entertainment was eating.

Driving you crazy with their noodles…

Crazy Noodles at the Galleria was the first on our circuit. The shapeless and squiggly structure of the restaurant seemed inspired by an amoeba. Its funky, ultra modern interior was done up in pale pink, pastel green and pitch black. Splodgy tables, chairs and sofas followed the amorphous contours of the transparent plexiglass wall through which outside world gaped at the dining chatterati.

The weirdness of the restaurant was not limited to the facade or flashy ambience. It was manifest in the waiter’s attire, the service and the cutlery. The moment we were seated, our waiter tossed two convex bottomed glasses on the table filling water in them with dramatic flourish. The pendular motion of the glasses kept us in perpetual suspense of a spill for the rest of the dinner. Later he brought two tablets inscribed “CRAZY” in a small bowl asking us to dip them in water. Before our astounded eyes the tablets pulled themselves erect into wet wipes. The erotic symbolism of this phallic miracle was not entirely lost on us as we shyly unfurled the wipe and applied it to our face and hands.  A circular menu exhibiting some measure of order and symmetry succeeded the wipe episode announcing temporary respite from miracles.

After painstaking debate and some enlightening (and pricey) suggestions from our table attendant we chose

1. Vietnamese Paper Rolls (Veg)
2. Veg Thukpa
3. Mint Caprioska
4. Lychee Chill

Our post order vigil and covert surveillance of other patrons was interrupted by the waiter who didn’t want to stop at indulging our taste buds; he intended to provide us some intellectual nourishment as well. We were enticed into grappling with a puzzle by the promise of an extra drink if we solved it. Meanwhile the paper rolls and the drinks made their appearance. Despite a surfeit of crushed ice, the Mint Caprioska retained the taste of mint, basil and lemon. Lychee Chill was sugary sweet and not quite appealing. The rolls, glass noodles, peanuts and basil leaves wrapped in thin rice paper, tasted delicate.

We declined the promised drink and asked for more puzzles and ended up solving all four they had while distractedly supping delicious Thukpa from voluminous bowls. We went on to order a plate of vegetable Dimsum and the signature dessert of the restaurant – chocolate money bags. The Dimsum was okay while the dessert was more memorable for the ice-cream scoops than the miniscule chocolate bags.

Personally I prefer quiet dining environs devoid of razzmatazz and gimmickry. But, I wouldn’t mind a rerun of this joint for the wonderful food they serve. The drinks and the money bag dessert are, in my opinion, dough down the drain. But the rest are definitely worth it, for the taste and the enormous proportions as well.

CRAZY NOODLES
TRAK SERVICES PVT. LTD.
R-003, GALLERIA, DLF PHASE IV
GURGAON
Contact: 0124-4255758

Gastronomics
Vietnamese Paper Rolls (Veg) – Rs.125.00
Veg Thukpa – Rs.150.00
Mint Caprioska – Rs.85.00
Lychee Chill – Rs.85.00
Veg Dimsum – Rs.95.00
Chocolate Money Bags – Rs.125.00
The Detestables – VAT 12.5%, Service Charge – 7.5%, VAT Surcharge

Opinion: Avoid the drinks. They are expensive. Besides, most of them are piles of crushed ice topped with the flavouring concoction. I have been told that the banana milk shake is the only good drink.

Crazy Noodles menu at Foodiebay: Not available at the time of writing this post

Ikays – Buffet Ambush

This was a golden honey trap. The Rs.225.00 + taxes buffet was the lure. And we fell for it.

Inside the restaurant it was green and gloom all over. Monster.com green, tropical rain forest green, Greenpeace green. Chairs, sofas, walls, pillars, uniforms of the staff – green, green, green. Jewel studded imitation Mughal jugs and bowls mocked us from wall niches. Feng Shui bamboo vases and laughing monks lend much needed astrological support to this tardy restaurant.

The buffet? well, I have seen much better buffets. It was not totally hopeless as far as a vegetarian was concerned. My non-vegetarian soul sank to the deepest depths of misery at the sight of the sole unappetizing bowl of butter chicken. To give the restaurant its due, I should admit that they had a reasonable array of standard salad items and some vegetarian dishes were tasty. But somehow, with such minimal non vegetarian fare and with just one dessert, it didn’t seem quite worth it. For another 30 bucks, Bawarchi offered a far better deal.

What surprised us most was a rave review of the restaurant being telecast on TV – on CNEB Channel – while we were dining. The restaurant staff (including the distinguished chef whose culinary expertise on Mushroom Kurkure was being showcased) were all busy watching and recording the show on their mobile phones. That was not all. A large framed certificate from TIMES Research (????!!!!!!!) rating Ikays as the best multi-cuisine restaurant in Gurgaon hung prominently on the wall. If the buffet was any indication, the quality of food that come out of the kitchen was no great shakes, mediocre at best. Same for the service. TIMES Research seems to have done a pretty shoddy business of their researching as far as I could tell.

My sincerest advice to prospective patrons of Ikays is to give it a skip and try the DLF Mega Mall food court instead, if you really care for the “Joy of Eating”.

IKAYS (“Misery of Eating”)
Multi-cuisine Restaurant & Bar
2nd Floor, DT Mega Mall, Gurgaon
Contact: 0124-4278640, 9971695958

Ikays menu and reviews at Foodiebay: Click Here

DLF Megamall Foodcourt – 3rd Floor

Mann Salva - Excellent Kebabs.
I have tried the Boti Kebab (6 pieces of boneless mutton) with a Rumali Roti. Rs.176.00 including taxes. Worth every rupee. Mann Salva is one of the surviving members of the original cast of counters that made up this food court.

Contact: 0124-4051200 for delivery

Mann Salva menu at Foodiebay: Click Here

There is of course McDonalds and Subway and homely food at Sip n Bite. Bamboo Dynasty has some okay soups. The Excess Chocolate Cake at Lavazza is worth trying. It is not too sweet. (Rs.84.00 inclusive of taxes)

Bamboo Dynasty
Contact: 0124-4114163

Bheja Fry!!!

Meet any one on the street (if you can find any) and the conversation inevitably kicks off every time on the same note. HEAT! This summer, and it has only begun, it feels like living inside a Wok. Yesterday’s maximum recorded temperature was 47.6 degrees, enough to ignite your hair. You don’t have to colour it brunette anymore. Take a walk at noon and a crimson flame will erupt on your head. Spontaneous combustion!!!

You see, it all began with Carbon. That miserable molecule, free or in the company of Oxygen (that thing we breathe), it hangs around and blocks all these sun rays on their way back, the slow moving infrared rays, just blocks them all. We don’t like this policing, we would rather let go these desperate infrareds, they are not communists, are they? But Carbon; Carbon just don’t let them off so easily. As if that is not enough, what does the atmosphere do when we pour a wee bit more Carbon into it? Why doesn’t it just sneeze and send it all away, vamoose, out into the empty universe. It doesn’t do that. Soft-pedaling when it comes to Carbon, that’s what atmosphere does. Of course, I don’t want to blatantly accuse it. There is gravity to contend with, I agree. If only God hadn’t created gravity, if only Newton hadn’t discovered it. Then atmosphere could have sneezed and got it all out of the system. But, nope, we are stuck with all that Carbon, whirling right round our heads and poking into our noses. Happy, free, emancipated Carbon, that infidel, hanging around and trapping all that poor, innocent infrared radiation and heating up the atmosphere and making us run our air conditioners round the clock, piling up the electricity bill and making lives miserable. Screw Carbon. Dammit. I’d like to declare a Fatwa on it.

But, hey, coming to think of it, I’m made of Carbon. Right from an amoeba to this pinnacle of evolution, this supreme being, this I, me and Myself – made of Carbon. Hic!!, Humbug. Didn’t evolution have any sense? Was it blind? Couldn’t it have foreseen it all? What was God doing with all that omniscience and omnipotence? Couldn’t IT have seen it all coming and made some contingency plans? It is time someone knocked some sense into God and this whole rigmarole of creation. If only we were a zirconium based life form, we could have done away with Carbon and all this mess. But we are bonded with Carbon, for better or worse. Oh, we can control Carbon emission, but then you would ask; can we stop breathing, can we stop our cars, our air conditioners, our factories, our….You must be joking.

Our government, can’t it do something? It is for the people, by the people, of the people, isn’t it. Can’t it enforce some law or something, legislate all those infrareds out of Carbon’s sinister custody? Or maybe they can travel cattle class, reduce “Phoren travel”, save forests and cut emissions. Or maybe capture all that Carbon and throw them in jail, kinda sequestrate? That was on the cards, wasn’t it? Instead the government is planning to send more Carbon up in the air by constructing almost 300,000 MW of coal powered plants within the next few years. Can’t blame the government. Their hands are tied. We, the people, the vote bank, are clamouring for power, more and more of it. We need it to support our lifestyle, our consumption, our comfort. So what can the government do? It just goes and pretends to appease us. If people want power, pile it on high, election is round the corner! Does it mean that we are to blame? I don’t like blame games, let me make that loud and clear. Blame it on nature, blame it on devil, blame it on Carbon, but leave me out of it. I do my daily prayers, perform the Puja, visit the temple, do my pilgrimage, worship a million Gods, feed the cows, vote in every election, hoot for Sachin – what more can you ask for? Don’t ever try to sully my reputation. Carbon or no Carbon, my honour, that is impeccable. I’ll never let you fiddle with it. The sky will split asunder and oceans shall rise up and swallow you. Don’t you dare?

Oh, well, did you say renewable energy? Government has ambitious plans for that too. But only on paper. January; this January, in its boundless enthusiasm the government revealed to the asinine public, yes, you, me, to us all, a plan, mind you, a PLAN!!! to build solar power plants, 20000 MW of it, by 2022. Long term planning you see. Since it is a plan, and since plans are not as evolved as we are, they are still languishing in sheaf’s of paper, waiting for the distinguished and enlightened minister, whenever he/ she/ it has time to spare from the arduous schedule of personal aggrandizement, waiting for this minister to put a signature, and thus bring it to life, so that it can pull itself out of paper and transform into Photovoltaics etcetera and stare at the sun and soak its rays and turn into electricity and connect to grid and flow into our living rooms and pubs and theatres and shopping malls and office complexes… All that is possible, and probable and yes, of course all that costs money. But we, the proletariat, we the larger public, are we willing to pay up? Nope, that is totally unacceptable. It doesn’t cut ice, you see. Power should be free. It is God’s gift. Thank you Volta, thank you Faraday, thank you Lord God, but we don’t want to pay. We don’t mind pilfering it, but we don’t like to pay for it. Who in their right mind would want to pay extra for solar power, this daily benediction of Sun god, this manna from the sky; it should be free, free, free like freeware. Hey, can’t some geek crack the code and supply it for free, we like it FREE….

Only the air conditioner manufacturers seem to have a correct vision of the future. Off late they have begun rating the a/c’s to work at 60 deg C. If that is any indication, we are gonna have it, full and square. In the face, right hook, left hook, full punch. Knock Out!!! And we are gonna be sizzled, fried, charred!! And return to Carbon!!! BELCH ON, WORLD!!!

Read the previous post - Carbon – The Kernel of Life

Part II, Chitkul – Final Frontier

So we bade goodbye to Sarahan and wound our way downhill past apple orchards, past slate roofed brightly painted houses, past fields of paddy – the lush green giving way to olive and finally dull brown as we descended. At Badhal, 4 km from Jeori, Kakuji stopped at Gyan Chand Ki Dhaba for grub. Though we had already had breakfast, we couldn’t help bolting mouthfuls of scrumptious Kadhi Chawal and Rajma Rice mixed with fiery red chilies. A short stop at Tarandamata Mandir for the mandatory divine benediction (Public toilets a short way from the Mandir was an even greater blessing) and we were bouncing along the road hewn through cliff faces that looked like bared fangs of a demon.

At Bhabanagar, our search for the PWD office where we could get a permit to stay at their guesthouse in Chitkul proved futile (We located the place during our return lap). Further down, we plodded through rubble and suffocating dust trails of  trucks and tipper lorries near the Karcham dam site over an NH-22 that had disintegrated into potholes interspersed with short, relatively painless stretches of asphalt. The tossing and turning and jangling and rattling ceased only after Tapri. Breathtaking scenery unfurled – tiny hamlets precariously poised on mountain flanks, snow covered summits far and beyond, mountain goats tumbling down steep slopes… At the tiny Sharda Mandir that seemed attached to the cliff edge with an adhesive, an English speaking Pujari applied vermillion streaks on our foreheads and distributed delicious “Prasad” of dry fruits and sugar balls. Down below, a ferocious and frothy Baspa river gushed over enormous boulders, in a menacingly deep gorge.

Beyond Kuppa, Sangla valley lay threadbare under a vaulting silver blue sky, gashed in the middle by the silver streak of Baspa river, encircled by snow clad mountain peaks and dribbling glaciers. The town was fairly big with quite a few hotels and boarding houses around. Several camps could be seen beside the river. As we climbed up from the valley, the road narrowed, barely wide enough to accommodate two cars at some sections. Ragged, steel grey rock faces rose up like gothic cathedrals to our left, at once disturbing and fascinating. Colossal boulders, fissured massifs and twisted trees bordered the pulverized road evoking images of a celestial battle, an Armageddon that wrecked the landscape.  Pale pink flowers of Chuli trees that dotted the scene were the sole aesthetic relief in this rugged terrain.

Sangla Valley

As we drove further, the snow crept silently closer; muddy and slushy, it reposed under stones, over thorny bushes, near tree roots. We passed Rakcham, a small village of wood, stone and shale houses that lined the road. The mountains suddenly gave out revealing a vast mauve coloured steppe, piled with boulders and partitioned haphazardly by stone walls. An old man, bent double over a gigantic stack of firewood teetered beside the road. We turned a corner and came to an sudden halt. Chitkul!!! The abruptness of the arrival left us disoriented. For a while we did not know where to go, what to do. There was the PWD guesthouse on our left. On the right, in a ditch was the famous “Hindustan Ka Aakhiri Dhaba”. A rabble of concrete buildings still under construction furnished the front view against a backdrop of majestic snow cloaked mountains. On to the right, across the river, pines drooped under the weight of accumulated snow.

It was knuckle whitening cold. Having eaten nothing for the past four hours, we were terribly hungry. We also needed a place to pee. A ragged crowd that wandered about ignored us pointedly. The PWD guesthouse caretaker agreed to put us up, but later changed tack. But he allowed us to use the washroom for which we had to fetch water for ourselves in a bucket. Later he served us the most repulsive Dal-Rice we ever had – coagulated, glutinous rice generously sprinkled with human hair and sand grains. I still wonder if these ingredients were added for taste or to avenge a vendetta of some former incarnation.

The snowfall of the previous day had frozen up pipelines and running water was not available. None of the guesthouses were therefore willing to put us up. Finally, to our immense relief, Rani Guesthouse agreed to accommodate us in a dingy room. We bought some biscuits and snacks at the lone general store in the village, run by a sweet lady with a baby saddled to her back, and went for a walk near the river. A thick blanket of snow covered the river bank. The water was clear as crystal but freezing cold. I dipped my hand inside and spent the next half an hour furiously rubbing my numb fingers and palm. Really scary.

There was no motor able road beyond Chitkul. It was a true frontier village. A narrow dust trail escaped the village and threaded its way across the lunarscape into the white desolation of snow clad mountains, bound for the police post three kilometer ahead. We walked along the trail and wandered about a bit before returning to the village. Snot-nosed children accosted us peering over the camera and occasionally posing. A few village women greeted us with smiles that transformed brilliantly their deeply furrowed, ascetic faces.

We retired to bed early after dinner. The village lay enveloped in darkness with a handful of incandescent lights glowing like fireflies here and there. Through the window the faint iridescence of snow on the mountains was visible as we lay in bed. The blankets were fetid and musty, making  me afraid of catching some skin disease. But we felt really thankful to our generous hosts for the shelter and were soon immersed in deep, dreamless sleep.

It had snowed during the night. When we woke early next morning, the landscape had taken on an ethereal aspect -  snow lay everywhere, on the roof, over tables, on chairs, softening everything, obliterating all features in an all encompassing whiteness. The sun came out, torching the smoking peaks in orange flames. With sun came a freezing wind that blew snow flakes from branches and howled through the streets. It made us shiver and clutch our jackets tight as we walked about.

Snow clung adamantly on firewood, thorny bushes and barbed wire fences. People were sweeping it off their roofs. Snow melt dripped from gables. A shaggy dog took a fancy on us and followed us around taking considerable pleasure in the occasional cuddles and strokes that we bestowed. The fields were being prepared for sowing. In the months after winter the people cultivated Aloo, Matar, Joh, Bhapra and Olga and stored the harvested grains in Kuthars (storage houses) for winter.

Our hosts were unpretentious as they were gracious. We wandered into the kitchen and watched them prepare breakfast and tea. The language they spoke was Kinnauri, but we could easily get by with Hindi. Very few people stayed in the village during winter. Those who stayed back in the wooden houses lined inside with mud hardly ventured out. One could easily catch pneumonia and die. Life was not as idyllic as we made out. But tourism was picking up providing much needed money and some alleviation to hardship.
Taking leave of Chitkul was extremely hard. There it was; recumbent in splendid isolation, cocooned from outside world untill recently; an island in the stream. But change was coming and coming fast. I looked back one last time, sweeping hungry eyes over the mountains, the valley, the wooden houses and a shabby brown donkey that rambled about and hoped against hope that change didn’t inflict irreparable damages to the land and the people; that Chitkul will forever remain stranded in time, retaining its innocence and Spartan charm.

Note: The road beyond Bhabanagar, from Natpha Dam site to Wangtoo, Karcham till a few miles beyond Tapri is in pretty bad condition due to the Karcham-Wangtoo Hydroelectric project construction.

Part I – Sarahan: Click Here, PART III – Kalpa: Click Here, Part IV – Shimla: Click Here
 

Grubbing En-Route : Gyand Chand Ki Dhaba, Badhal, 4 Km from Jeori
Enjoy unlimited Kadhi-Chawal, Rajma-Chawal for Rs.30.00 unly. Taste – Absolutely YUMMY!!. Ambience – Well, you don’t notice it much once you get going…
CHITKUL ACCOMODATION
Rani Guest HouseContact: Ravi Negi (01786-244307)
4 Rooms. Hot Water. Rent Rs.400 per night

Thakur Guest House
Tariff: Rs.400.00 per night off season. Rs.600.00 per night during season
Total 8 rooms. 4 rooms with attached bathrooms. Hot water available.

HPPWD Guest House
Booking to be done at PWD Office, 3 KM before Bhabanagar (See the snaps below showing location)
Contact: Shri Uday Singh

 

 

 

HPPWD Guest House Chitkul - Booking Office

Photo Courtesy: SV

Part I – Black Goddess, Pink Blossoms, Yogurt Mountain!!!

The best things in life mostly occur by chance. Take the case of having a child. You never intended it, but it just happened so and you are so much happier for it. At least, for a while. I was never a great believer in chance. Always used to plan, plan and plan. But this journey undertaken solely on the whim; this journey without maps; it made me a lifelong admirer of chance.

We had booked train tickets to Jammu which didn’t get confirmed till the last moment. The prospect of spending 3 idle days in Gurgaon was horrifying. The situation had to be salvaged, somehow. And the route to salvation, as always was Google. We found a blog (www.bushahrtimes.com) which described Chitkul as this outlandish, mesmerizing outpost, somewhere on the Indo-Tibetan border. That was it. That was exactly where we wanted to go. So we packed our bags and through a friend managed two seats on the Delhi-Shimla Volvo bus run by HPTDC. A chance meeting with Dharmender, our bus conductor, at HPTDC office in Janpath Road helped to fix our transport from Shimla to Chitkul. It was as if a benevolent God had ordained it. Verily, Divinum Mysterium.

Well, once we got going, Chitkul became just another destination on the itinerary. Our journey assumed a life of its own and took us to places we had never heard about. It would be overwhelmingly tedious if I narrated it all at one go. So let me divide the post into four parts, based on the four places we spent the night – Sarahan, Chitkul, Kalpa and Shimla.

Sarahan…

6 AM, the bus deposited us at Shimla. Our laconic driver, Kakuji alias Suresh was already waiting at the bus stop with his rickety Tata Sumo. For the next couple of hours we rattled through winding roads criss crossed with shadows of deodar and pine trees, shafted in the eye by a mercilessly bright sun. We passed several quaint towns perched on the hillsides – Sanjoli, Kufri, Fagu, Theog, Matiana -  before reaching Narkanda where we halted for breakfast. An impromptu discussion over Aloo Parantha and hot tea produced sort of a sketchy itinerary. We would halt for the night at Sarahan, midway between Shimla and Chitkul; proceed the next day to Sangla valley and Chitkul, stay overnight; go on to Kalpa the day after, spend the night there and return to Shimla the next day. On paper, it all looked fine. But we had no reservations and little clue as to where we were heading. Achtung Baby? Nope. Blow caution to winds, go with the flow. Give chance a chance!!!

Beyond Narkanda we followed the silted waters of Satluj till Rampur, capital of the erstwhile princely state of Bushahr. This was the last place on the circuit where we would find functional ATMs of most major banks. It was hot, humid, sweaty. As soon as we withdrew cash, we were back on the road. At Jeori we doubled back and began the steep climb towards Sarahan. Along the road were numerous apple orchards in full bloom. Snow covered peaks towered over the turquoise green landscape dappled with pinkish white apple blossoms.

At the HPTDC resort at Sarahan we got a room with a balcony overlooking the Srikhand mountain range. There was a pleasant nip in the air when we went out in the evening. Bhimakali Ji temple dominated the scenery with its intricate woodwork typical of Kinnaur. Inside, we were stripped of camera, watch and all leather (belt, wallet, shoes) before being allowed into the sanctum sanctorum. Thankfully, they allowed us to keep our own skin. A drunkard teetered over the temple entrance; an old lady with an impassive face lost in wrinkles demanded alms and walked away nodding her head when we requested her to pose for a photograph.

The Tragopan pheasantry was closed, so we decided to trek to the monastery in the valley.  The steep trail that sliced through apple orchards beside a gurgling stream ended near a culvert. An old man, intoxicated, hardly able to support himself, asked us for directions to somewhere. We mumbled an apology and excused ourselves. It was getting dark and we were anxious to get back to the hotel. On the way back, the Mouni Baba (“speechless saint?!!!) at the small saffron coloured shrine of a local deity greeted us with a dazzling smile. This sense of complete unquestioned acceptance was something, as city slickers, we were not familiar with. There was no trace of suspicion or distrust. We were there, he was there, the crimson hued snow peaks were there, there was the gradually advancing night sky, and the apple blossoms, falling, falling, at our feet like snow, and the clean, refreshing air.  As the dusk settled over the town a feeling of eternal peace and contentment descended on us.

Morning, we woke to the sound of temple chants mingled with the ruckus set up by ravens. They glided, somersaulted and performed a variety of aerial acrobatics over the valley that spread out and beyond our balcony. Across the valley the mountain sides were still under shadow. Wisps of smoke rose from chimneys down below. A handful of people pottered about. Our dinner had been miserable (Chowmein and Thukpa in a filthy Tibetan shack). We made up for it with a sumptuous breakfast of Poori-Sabzi. 8 AM, as sunlight flooded the valley, we took leave of Sarahan and hit the road to Sangla and Chitkul.

Part II – Chitkul: Click Here, Part III – Kalpa: Click Here, Part IV – Shimla: Click Here

HPTDC
Chanderlok Building
36, Janpath, New Delhi – 110001
Contact: 91-11-23325320, 23324764
Email: newdelhi@hptdc.in
Web: www.hptdc.gov.in
HPTDC Volvo bus booking can be done from this website 12 hours prior to departure.
Ticket to Shimla – Rs.700 (off season), Rs.760 (season)

HPTDC Hotel Srikhand

Be sure to check out Himachli specialties at the restaurant: Kheroo, Himachli Pulao and the Chef’s special (a wholesome concoction made of mashed potato, corn flakes, fresh milk, coconut and dry fruits).

Koya Ram, the restaurant attendant is especially helpful.

New Himalaya Dhaba (Negi Ka Dhaba)
V P O Narkanda District
Shimla, H.P
Contact: 91-9418042466, 91-1782 – 242426

The Little Chef Restaurant and Hotel
Chuhabagh P.O, Khaneri Tehsil, Rampur Bushahr
Shimal Dist, H.P – 172001
Contact: 91-9882206844, 91-1782-233944
Email: sharmaumesh_simplicity@rediffmail.com
Web: www.thelittlechef.com
Nice stop over for tea, quick snack and good rest rooms
Rooms are also available

Dharmender, HPTDC Bus Conductor
Contact: 91-9418673290
Amicable, but have great affinity for money. Need to grease his palm for every service rendered.
Handle with care!!

Kakuji AKA Suresh
Contact: 91-9817155355, 9459094355
Monosyllabic, conscientious. Occasionally prone to irritability.
A man you can trust.

HPTDC Brochure – Sarahan

Photo courtesy: Subha Varma

Hornbill on the Ridge

Went to Kamla Nehru Ridge Park on Saturday. Had to keep car outside the gate and walk. Notorious place. Epicentre of crime. Didn’t appear so in the late afternoon sun. All serene. Inside, the colonial structures are decrepit, entrance barred. Protected monuments. Relics of time. Adrift in memory. Asphalt promenade lined with trees. New road being laid, blood red brick powder against dark green vegetation. Sun light filter through tamarind and Neem tree leaves. The place is relatively clean.

Afternoon lethargy. People slouch in park benches. Dogs are fast asleep in moist grass. Monkey families rest and groom under trees. Monkey adults bare teeth in ancestral benediction!  Monkey kids scamper for cover as we approach.  Dragonflies hover overhead. Butterflies flit past. Fruit chaat wala’s, gardeners, rubbish gatherers. Amorous couples near secluded spots. Heads welded together. Awkward. Not them. Us. They smooch, we blush. Ironic.

Birds, many! Bulbul, wild pigeon, mynah, parrot, wagtail, magpie, sparrow, HORN BILL!!!! An Indian Grey Hornbill, engrossed in open mouthed contemplation of the universe! Never seen one before. Beautiful bird. It flies past us. Lands on a branch nearby. We watch, intently. Let us freeze he, she, it in pixels; for time immemorial. Let us not leave the task to volatile memory. Lights, Camera, Action! CLICK!!! The bird is gone, leaving no digital trace! No, all is not lost! It will live on, a grey smudge in our synapses, axons, dendrites; the biochemical image of  a fleeting reality. To be remembered, ruminated, recalled, regurgitated – not visually, orally. Hornbills inspire open mouthed philosophy. Wake Up! Time to Stop!

Something sure smells FISHY here…

As usual, finding a place for dinner that suited everyone’s preferences was a dilemma. After trawling through Foodiebay we finally decided upon Swagath. It wasn’t too far from home and fairly out of way of rush hour traffic. When we reached around 7.15 PM parking was still available in the small space in front. Most tables were occupied by late evening office party crowd interspersed by a scattering of families. The restaurant was quite spacious; more than 100 covers for sure. Dark brown slats segmented the space while modern art, large and small, relieved the uniform beige decor that shrouded the walls, tables and chairs and even sneaked into the uniform of waiters.

Our table which stood bang in front of the bar offered a clear view through a swing door to the restaurant innards. The serving brigade comprising captains in black suits, waiters and busboys in beige n white and cleaning staff in green bustled about us. A procession of dishes piled with interesting stuff (that made me drool, needless to say) issued forth from the kitchen and made their way to various tables; to be scrutinized, commented upon, piled into plates, scooped into mouths, smelled, tasted, chewed, swallowed and eventually digested. From the bar came the clink of countless bottles of Kingfisher beer. The parade of tall glasses filled with enticing pink and green liquid topped with lemon and cocktail umbrella commenced their journey from the bar counter, meandered among the tables, caught the attention, elicited the admiration and excited desire of many before finally disappearing down thirsty gullets clamoring to be quenched.

The menu offered umpteen choice of vernacular cuisine – Manglorean, Malabari, Sawantwadi, Konkan, Chettinad – most of which featured fish, prawns and lobster; a dream come true for a fish  fanatic like me. The trouble was matching the menu to our budget. We pondered a bit and finally placed an order for Tomato Soup, Surmai Fry, Fish Biriyani, Neer Dosa and Veg Gassi.

Soup didn’t take long in coming and was drained in fraction of a second. We watched expectantly each time the swing door opened and a waiter emerged carrying yet another pile of mouthwatering food. The passive act of observing this kaleidoscopic tableau of food and drinks actively worked up our appetite. Our stomachs were screaming at the top of their voice by the time the food arrived. Surmai fry had a large centre portion of fish almost occupying the entire plate; succulent pieces of fish buried under a substantial heap of orange and brown Basmati rice constituted the Fish Biriyani. Infusion of turmeric and red chilly marinade gave the fish fry a distinctive taste as we chewed though the white fibrous flesh. The taste and odour of fish dominated the Biriyani, overpowering the flavour of spices. The plate of Neer Dosa had four tender rice n coconut milk Dosa’s that went wonderfully with the thick brown gravy of Veg Gassi.

Our collective sigh of satisfaction as we scraped the last bit of Biriyani and Neer Dosa out of the plate was proof of a thoroughly enjoyed evening (to be soon spoilt by a whopping bill).

Swagath
Plot No. 16-17, Sector – 29, Gurgaon
Contact: 0124-4760600, 4760601
Website: http://www.swagath.in/
Cuisine: Mughlai, Chinese, South Indian
Free home delivery available

Gastronomics
Cream of Tomato soup - Rs.105.00
Surmai Fry – Rs.275.00
Fish Biriyani - Rs.405.00
Veg Gassi - Rs.155.00
Plate of Neer Dosa – Rs.100.00 (4 Dosa’s per plate)
The tax guillotine: VAT – 12.5%, Service Charge – 10%, Service Tax – 12.5%, Surcharge – 5%, SCH – 5% (god knows what this one is!!)
BORN FREE, TAXED TO DEATH!!! (so goes my Tantra T-shirt logo!!!)

Rating
Ambience - 7/10, No great shakes. The place is roomy and clean
Service – 7/10, Considering the rush, a few lapses here and there are pardonable.
Food - 8/10, Taste is better than average. I really appreciate the variety on offer.
Overall - 7/10, Pretty good. Worth a visit.

Swagath Menu at Foodiebay: Click Here

Braving the Harmattan

I have built a formidable collection of travel books over the years. Many of them still lie on the shelf awaiting their turn. Sometimes, driven by pangs of guilt at having accumulated so many, yet read so few, I take them out, flip through fondly and return to their place. I realize that it is another form of addiction or obsessive compulsion. Step into a book store and all of a sudden I’m seized by this uncontrollable urge to buy, buy and buy! If there is a sale, then I’m on rampage. Off late I have been able to reign in this impulse somewhat. Still my brain cells buzz every time I pass by Landmark, Om Books, Reliance Time Out and Crossword.

To return to where we started, my affinity for travel books began with Bruce Chatwin‘s “In Patagonia”. Once the ball got rolling, I went on to read Paul Theroux followed by Eric Newby, Michael Palin, Tim McIntosh Smith, Colin Thubron, V S Naipaul, Wifred Thesiger, Robert Byron, Peter Mathiessen, Pico Iyer, the list goes on and on. Jeffrey Tayler’s “The Lost Kingdoms of Africa” was the last one I read. I had never heard of the author before. He did not figure in the travel writer’s hall of fame. I had picked the book during a discount sale at Landmark. But, once started, I was hooked. “Lost Kingdoms” is one of the most empathetic travelogues I have ever read. It is shorn of the high brow, sardonic spectator attitude easily discernible in Paul Theroux and V S Naipaul.

The book is a fervent account of Tayler’s journey through Sahel, the Harmattan ravaged shrub land south of Sahara desert. He covers over 2500 miles of utter desolation, travelling through countries (Chad, Niger, Nigeria, Mali, Senegal) plagued by drought, abject poverty, disease, various forms of extremism and religious and ethnic wars. The terrain is dangerous and inhospitable, circumstances exiguous. Yet Africans are generous, affectionate and welcoming, willing to share their meager supply of food and shelter with him. Tayler is understanding and non judgmental in his views except when he encounters arcane traditions of slavery and infibulations, and rightly so. His language is evocative, almost poetic when it comes to describing nature.

The book reaffirms our impression of an Africa in dire straits with little hope of improvement in the years ahead. The billions spent in aid are siphoned off by corrupt dictators and their cohorts with little of it reaching the needy. Since most governments are propped up by western aid money rather than tax from the people, they do precious little to improve the lot of the citizens. Tayler places the historical responsibility of Africa’s current predicament squarely on Western colonial interests who carved nations and borders according to own administrative and military convenience without regard to the continent’s complex ethnic, religious and tribal identities. Predominantly Muslim, harbouring a sense of humiliation and nurturing strong anti-western sentiments, Africa, according to Tayler, is poised to erupt in terrorist violence.

Fascinating and poignant, the book is a must read for those who really wish for an honest, forthright and realistic perspective of the Dark Continent.

On the Sambar Trail…

 

Are you pining for yellowish brown lacy pancakes, puffed white elliptical flying saucers or crunchy toroids served with coconut dip. And your mind is whirling, whirling.. Where do you, where do you go? Like a stuck CD your mind is playing this infernal music while flashing hot, humid, raunchy flashes of crisp Dosa’s, voluptuous Idlis and sizzling Vadas. To escape this vortex of temporary amnesia you check out gastronomique. Voila… There you are…

The infinite wisdom of tailrace coughed up the following. Gurgaon has restaurants galore that serve South Indian… Sanskriti, Naivedyam, Coco Palm – these are the specialists. Then there are the generalists that serve everything under the sun from sweets to Kulcha to Dosa to Manchurian to Dhokla to Vada Pav - Om Sweets, Shyam Sweets, Haldirams, Bikanerwala, they fall in this omnifarious category. Of course none can beat, in price or in taste, the mouthwatering fare served at the nameless South Indian restaurant/ takeaway located next to Maruti Vihar “OUT” gate. This not just an opinion, it is a fact, an axiom, a divine decree. Are you scratching you head and cursing tailrace for throwing this multiplicity of choice at you, already. Sorry, can’t help it. Facts are facts.

There is an easier way out. Check out Tripti. It may be a long way or a short way from you. I do not know. Depends on where you are. At least you have to be in Gurgaon. And you need to know where Qutub Plaza is. If you are still in doubt refer the attached map. If you are lucky the terrain will match it. Can’t say these days. Construction, you know, morbid, rampant construction. Reminds me of the movie, Dark City. Anyways, You can’t miss Tripti with that violent green neon sign announcing its presence. You might be a little addled, but you are not blind, are you? Then you shouldn’t be reading this any further. Full Stop, Period. Sorry, the sign is not written in Braille. Hey, I didn’t mean to disparage you or anything. Just stating the facts. Bored? Are you bored? Goddammit, I have this incorrigible habit of being too verbose. Carried away by words, you see. Dangerous, The habit is. Need to learn to keep my mouth shut. 

Well, so you have reached the restaurant! Wow, Am glad. Now you are standing under the glare of its massive, fluorescent green lettering and gazing through the glass door at the yellow walls (assuming you don’t have x-ray vision like superman in which case you would be seeing through it into the next door hair dresser? well I don’t remember), snake skin chairs, fibre tables on steel legs, the large illuminated framed picture of Sai Baba, the ceiling, the split A/c, Deepak – the restaurant manager, …. Blink, blink, blink. I say you have a keen eye for detail. You have pushed through the door; kicked the fly frying machine with an ultraviolent gleam; that whines constantly and sputters occasionally as it incinerates a desperate flying insect whose departing soul haunts your imagination for a Pico-second. Eh, you have sat down already! Deepak is at your elbow with the menu. What does it have, let me have a look? Oh, you are going for Vada Sambar, too traditional, I would say; and what else? Paper Butter Masala Dosa and Onion Rawa Masala Dosa. Hey, it’s gonna be too much for you, I’m warning you. What? Get Lost? Leave you ALONE? You want to eat in PEACE!!! Dammit, this is how you treat me for showing you this new place. Is this gratitude? O Tempora! O Mores!

The gracious gastronomique’s comments:

Vada/ Sambar: Three crisp Medhu Vadas served on a steel plate overlaid with plantain leaf, accompanied by large bowl of Sambar and tiny cups of tomato n coconut chutney. Delicioooous… Slurrrp…Emptying the Sambar Katori…

Paper Butter Masala Dosa: Same serving pattern as Vada/ Sambar. The paper roast is jutting out like a torpedo on either side of the plate. I attack it from one end while my wife burrow from the other heading for a collision around the middle of the Dosa. After an eternity, with Dosa bits stuck around our mouth, we are surprised to see each other. An MGR hit song bursts into our collective consciousness, we entwine our Masala encrusted fingers and croon. This Dosa is perfect for the romantically inclined. Follow the same modus operandi and you’ll be surprised at the end result. I want to add this recipe to the 10 best ways to rekindle your love life list.

Onion Rawa Masala Dosa: Well, didn’t really have a stomach for this one. But you don’t argue with your tongue or tummy. That’s a cardinal sin. Will haunt you to the wrong side of the coffin.  Never, never commit it. Promise? This Dosa remained within the confines of the plate. Same potato Masala. Same Sambar, same chutney. Only it looked different, all perforated like crochet. Yummy, all the same.

Gastronomics:
Vada – Sambar: Rs. 50.00
Paper Butter Masala dosa: Rs.70.00
Onion Rawa Masala Dosa: Rs.65.00
Yo, Ho! It’s less than 200 bucks. Hey, I would call that a bargain in this city of diminishing returns.
The delectable’s: No VAT, No Service Charge, Prices all inclusive. That is justice for once.

Rating: 7/10.
Ambience is nothing to talk about. Food is good. Service is prompt. 
Worth the money.
JEEZ!!!

Tripti South Indian Food
N-11, Qutub Plaza Market, DLF City – I, Gurgaon
Contact: 0124-4221992/ 3/ 4/ 5
Free Home Delivery within 3 KM radius. Minimum Order – Rs.150.00
 
Tripti menu on Foodiebay: Click Here (Sorry, Not Yet Featured on Foodiebay!!!)