Bhawna recounts her visit to Sangla
Hindustan Times; June 30, 1996

The dream is still young. I have slept and woken up to the imperial, star-spangled night of Kinnaur. Only the breeze breaks the silence here filtering through leaves and fanning the waterfalls.

I have trained to hear once again the sweet sounds of "machi machi" in a Loghut in Kupa as a Kinner woman beckons to her flock of sheep and goats.

I have heard stories about sporty gods reverberating in the hills of Sangla from the quietly flowing springs, some sadly nodding flowers, the trees tall and grave, and the heavy footsteps of men and women.

I have felt the Karchem sun shining benevolently over the magical confluence of the serene Sutlej and the bubbly Baspa.

I amble my way up and the dream seems to go on forever. My eyes now pan what was 50,000 years ago the scene of a major glacial advance.

Here at 10,000 feet is the landlocked valley of Sangla the jewel in the crown of Kinnaur district two hundred km off Shimla and only 30 km from the Tibetan border. This sugar sector of the days gone by is now the highland chiseled into a deep trough by the Baspa.

Isolated for millennia. Pristine and beautiful with its exotic wildlife and fragrant fruits and flowers, intoxicating with its rare herbs and spices. Proud and sensitive with its people the Kinnauris who trace back their roots to the Kinners, the Hindu gods, rich with a cultural blend of the Hindu, Buddhist and old mountain cults.

Sangla god's own abode. Now open to man. To tread its virgin lands and touch its laughing skies above.

The valley was tucked away between the high mountain girdles till in 1992, the mysterious, almost monastic, life of Sangla was opened to the occasional traveler.

And even now, it is only eight months in a year from April to November that the regions of Kinnaur and Lahaul and Spiti are accessible.

Come winter, the high mountain passes start closing. And the people of the valley withdraw into their seluded, snowy dwellings.

But that's later. The beauty pageant in Sangla has only begun. The spring air in the valley is still cold. The boughs still hesitant in their flowering memories of the winter gone by still linger in the Sangla valley in May. Ideal time to escape from the heat and dust of the plains into the cool climes of the valley.

But there are more sunrise days ahead. I dream on. Of the golden sunrises and the glorious sunsets. The lazy afternoons, the birds filling the mountain air with their unknown song, a passing shower and a harvest of flowers.

Ahead of Sangla, is a small Kinnauri village called Batseri and nestled 2 km across the Baspa from here are the Banjara Camps. In a place singularly devoid of any infrastructure, the signpost down the Sangla is a welcome sight. Also unusual.

From a distance I see friendly, comfy tents pegged to mother earth. And a whiff of the mountain air fills my nostrils with some delicious aroma. Something is cooking inside one of these tents, my nose tells me. Appetite whipped up, I go closer to see a swaying hammock by the side of a singing brook.

In a jiffy, I am at home singing with the brook, feasting in the dark forests by the campsite. The setting is picture perfect. There are treks and walks to look forward to. A quaint library to share its treasures with me when I am not hitting the bull's eye or cycling on an all-terrain bike all courtesy my camp hosts who have taken upon themselves to spoil their guests with hospitality.

Smug in my happiness, I am still angling for more. Not so much for the teeming mountain trout in the Baspa but the sumptuous goodies spread out generously on the table.

It's all so laidback, I wonder. For my young hosts, one a former army officer and the other a student of philosophy, there is more adventure in walking the unchartered mountain alleys than the army. And more wisdom in stones, running brooks and even spple orchards than in philosophic texts.

They tell me of hitkul the last village on the old trade route to Tibet and the piece de resistance of the valley. And as I drive deeper inside the valley, the view is breathtaking. The Baspa is as noisy here as ever, but no less glorious.

I park myself on a rock to see molten gold meandering the serpentine route below. Nature is benevolent here, if a little vain.

But her benevolence goes beyond the trees that are laden with fruit ripe and sweet like the smiles of the Negi women. Apples here blossom also in the cheeks of little boys and girls.

They wave their chubby little hands at me as I drive past them. It is downhill for me now. As the cold wind hits my face, my heart warms up to the bagful of many little memories I carry with me. That special plate of Rajmah-chawal at the Negi household, a string of chilgozas, loads of juicy apples, the bhojpatra in my diary the now rare bark of a tree used as paper in the vedic times, the kindness of my hoasts...all this and more.

I am back on that confluence the Baspa and Sutlej still weaving magic as they collude together to lure many a traveler. But I am out of that web, a little sad in my release. The road along the mighty Sutlej will take me to Delhi. And to everything that Sangla is not.

My dream is coming to an end. But then I know I will go back to it. To my dream that is Sangla.