The Hindu Business Line : Head in clouds

Milam and Martoli are minuscule habitations tucked in remote crannies of the Himalayas in Uttaranchal. Access to them is a good three days’ walk from Munsiyari, the last accessible town hidden in the lap of the mighty mountains, and I visited them on my trek to Milam Glacier.

Milam

Meera Joshi

The mighty Nanda Devi peak.

Walking along the Gori Ganga — its waters limestone white, flouncing over boulders, rushing through canyons — Milam comes upon me quite without notice. Its stone houses blend seamlessly into the rugged panorama. It’s an ancient village with ancient hill architecture. A maze of alleyways so narrow that in days gone by, children playing in their nooks were impossible to find. They were summoned home by the village crier sitting upon a high craggy perch. Stone homes — their rooms tiny, the doors and windows of carved woodwork — cluster around wide aangans washed over with mud and cowdung. Time has taken its toll and in places where just the walls remain the floor is vibrant with ashen-green tufts of jambu, a flavourful herb that was once brought across the hills by lamas from Tibet.

On the edge of the village is an interesting structure built by one of the kings aeons ago. Dark and labyrinthine with its warren-like spaces, it was here that the wayward were apparently confined. The stones used in its construction are humungous. A young lad ambling along with me says even the most powerful man in the village can’t lift one of those huge blocks. Rather rundown now, the structure still retains its mysterious aura.

It is late afternoon when I head to meet Moosa Ram, the unofficial chief of the village. Each day as the sun begins to set beyond the mountains, the villagers gather at Moosa Ram’s courtyard where he sits on a goatskin, warming his hands on his handcrafted chillum. He is a sprightly man of indeterminate age. He is a raconteur par excellence, telling tales of far-off times embellished with a host of asides. And the audience never fails him. This evening, I too sit cheering him, egged on by glasses of steaming adrak-laced tea that an enterprising chaiwala keeps endlessly supplying. Soon a bonfire is lit and a drum and cymbals announce it’s time to change tack. A mellifluous melody on a flute, and the singing and dancing begins. Many pahari ditties later we wind up. As I say my namastes, Moosa Ram beckons me. “Dhanyavad… thank you for being here,” he says. The stars glitter in the sky and the silence speaks a million words.

The next morning I walk over moraine and scree to the glacier, where across the mass of ice stands Trishul — magnificent in its cloak of dazzling white.

Martoli

To reach Martoli, I cross the fast-flowing Lhapsa stream over a slatted wooden bridge. It’s uphill then, right up the mountain on a narrow path to the top which, quite unexpectedly, opens to an emerald meadow. Its suddenness surprises me and I flop down as much to regain my breath as to gaze at a brilliant blue sky. The village, invisible from here, astounds in its beauty as I round the bend. It stands on a high plateau surrounded by immense mountains, craggy on one side, flanked by the stunning east face of Nanda Devi, and Jhandiadhar thick with deodars and its summit covered with snow.

I meet Munni Devi at the entrance. Out to get fodder she stands with her reed basket balanced on her hips, a beaming smile on her face. “Come, I’ll give some hot tea, you must be tired,” she says. I’m overwhelmed. We make our way along a path lined by low stonewalls to her home of mud and stone. The doors are wide open to let the sun stream in. We sit in its warmth and watch as it travels westwards between the cleft in the ranges, stationing itself in the centre. Soon it turns golden, bathing the white ranges in a final glow before descending and creating the shadows that turn into night.

Martoli is enchanting. Dawn arrives with the chattering of birds. The cool wind that blows all day turns into bluster now and then, the icy gust sending the flocks of ravens and mynahs into a louder prattle. The terraced fields are green with potatoes and rajma beans, the pastures a vibrant carpet of flowers, and I can smell the wild basil that grows among the grasses.

I walk to the village temple, which stands on a small hillock. It looks down upon the village, guarding it. It’s the temple of the local deity Nanda Devi, the goddess of these mountains, and it faces the mighty peak. I sit down soaking in the beauty and peace that surrounds me. So absorbed am I that I do not notice the mist creeping up. As I meander down, clouds envelope the village till it’s just the temple that remains, as though floating in the clouds.