Vivek Sharma
Hindustan Times; 16th June 1996

My father often talked of the sugar sector; how grenadiers set up the first outposts at Nako, Chango etc. And often, in the drawing room of this old guard, over repeats of Chota rum pani, fellow veterans have exorcised the spirits of Kinnaur. They have often jibed at the misery of an officer, an erstwhile Maharaja, a rider of stallions; who refused to mount a Khachar (Pony), the only conceivable luxury in that inaccessible terrain, besides the big game hunts. This was post-1962 Chinese aggression.

The first time I came here in 1986, one needed an inner line permit from DC, Shimla or Rampur, Bushahar. The permit is not required any more, but tourist and other geographical maps dismiss the area as a mere green patch north of Shimla (200 km precisely). Due to its strategic location, it was veiled in a mystery, a la Shangri La. The last village in Sangla valley is a mere 30 km from the Tibet border.

I am on my fourth visit to Kinnaur. Now, as I drive my Maruti along the Sutlej, it is a black top that complements my delicate steed but for the odd bumps. My friend in Shimla (long live scribes) has arranged for my stay in the Sangla PWD Rest House. And to buttress my adventurous spirit he has suggested a camp near Sangla I could visit. I am carrying my own sleeping bag and tent for a day or two of camping. My co-traveller could not do with a bit of camping by the Baspa.

Eight hours from Shimla, climbing up to Narkanda and down Rampur amid short halts, and here we are. At Karcham comes the confluence of the Sutlej and Baspa rivers. We go along the Baspa and enter the Sangla Valley. Each time I have to Kinnaur, I have wondered if nature herself knows how pristine, how beautiful she is here. The bureaucracy surprisingly has made little gains from the area's potential.

For the inhabitants it is a tough life, difficult terrain and extreme climate. The valley is snow bound for nearly four to five months. Cash cropping and apple orchards have brought some prosperity and education, though. The Sangla resthouse in the middle of the town (or an extended village) is devoid of trappings, creaky cots, chairs, a dressing table and a geyser in the bath that takes aeons to warm.

Day one ought to be rest: that has been my travel paradigm. We decide to use our personal sleeping bags. The resthouse quilts seem vintage. The friendly caretaker lets loose a sugary syrup of tea, but can there be anything better? Remember we are already in our leather jackets (5pm in May). A bath would be the only comfort. But the blessed geyser.... I decide to show her the town market. Precisely three minutes of walk end-to-end. There are few grocery-cum-vegetable-cum-kerosene-cum-cigarette shops. Apart of these are few halwais and dhabas, a barber and a couple of clothiers-cum-tailors. Well, cigarettes and mints (with or without holes) are among the new additions in the wares. And of course, dish antennas like devil's horns sick out over the odd roof.

I enter my regular shop of earlier visits. "Namaskar, Negiji." Everybody is a Negi here. I won't go into the anthropology of it. He remembers me. "Saabji, how are you?"

A little inhibited to start with, the conversation begins. My uninitiated companion is not so impressed with my associates, she walks off. The shop is forgotten. Two dozen other join in. Tea arrives, small talk begins, about elections, Rao Sahab, Atalji, hawala et al. My companion is still testing out the waters when I return. No luck. She is getting a little nervy. Food is simple, Dal and potato curry, served with rotis is preceded by two chota rums. Early curfew. Imagine by 9 pm we are sleeping soundly. Day begins rather early in the hills. I am up by 5.30, and off I saunter along the street. The sun is still behind the hillock, right behind our resthouse. I am strolling on the road, when a Tata mobile passes by and screeches to a halt. "Hey, you."

I look back. It's Rajesh Ojha. How come? Surprise never cease to happen, do they?

He tells me he runs the Banjara Camp a little ahead of Sangla, the one my journalist friend talked of. Standing in a middle of the road, within two minutes of our meeting I get marching orders. You are staying with me, the genial giant orders. I resist, telling him I have my own camping equipment. No question of serious opposition. We are together in Punjab University and part of the same circle. It's just that we have been out of touch. The Rucksacks are packed again, the caretaker explained to, and we are on the way to the camp. The camp landscape is like a picture postcard. In a clearing between a thick forest of deodars, bang on the river Baspa and against the backdrop of the snowcapped mountains. Swiss cottage tents, running hot water, library, hammocks, great cuisine. Sangla is an exhilarating experience for me, with or without the comforts of the camp, I contend in the dinner, tent this bossman of a corporate entity, staying here for a week, contradicts saying it helps to be spoilt. My companion agrees. I withdraw.

Baspa offers abundant silver trout and the first one to take my bait is within 10 minutes of my dropping the line. An early nudge sends me pulling ecstatically. James, a fellow camper, jealously eyes my catch- a mild-sized beauty. The creature is dutifully returned to the Baspa. The rest of the evening is spent I expectant eagerness. Nothing comes my way, nor James'. He curses me for letting go my catch. They signal the flock if you let them go, he contends. Angler's myth. The next day James returns rich. Proves his point. The camp is treated to marinated skews.

Sangla offers short walks, day hikes and adventurous treks- a variety of gradients. Though the first two are spent sauntering in the woods along the river or just squatting by the deodars, on the third day I decide to climb to Sangla Kanda (meadows). It's a whole day's difficult trek and the lady gets pony to ride. It is a separate matter that she rides it only to rest in between and prefers to huff and puff in true contemporary competitive tradition. Not that it is a cakewalk for me. I realize Delhi's rat race and pollution and not to discount the daily packet of cigarettes, have collectively killed my stamina as well.

But the joy of reaching the meadows is beyond compare. The unlimited expanse of lush green meadows, brimming with flocks of yaks, churu (cross between Cow and yak), sheep and goat graze leisurely as small dongris (huts) below smoke from their chimneys. It is an arduous journey up to the meadows but it is worth all the sweat. For the meadows are an experience by themselves. It is early for the flora to blossom, yet every bush has myriad hues to offer. I meet some more old aquaintances. More tea, more gupshup and some locally distilled apple wine. I don't recommend this to everybody. It is pungent and is meant to be had neat and burns along the way before settling down in the belly. I definitely miss my earlier visits when I have got drunk on it along with the village folk and sang, danced and behaved silly all evening.

Night is spent in the dongri of our ponywallah. It is with a lot of insistence that he accepts a small token. Can you imagine a destination where the tourists are not ripped off? Well. Sangla is one. When I gave 10 bucks to the little boy who got me bhojpatra is the bark of a tree made of layers of fine paper-like fibre. Vedic scriptures were originally written on these. Kinnauris are a proud race. I recommend a lot of sensitivity to the locals by visitors to the valley. We walk down to Sangla. Another recommended must is a day trip to Chitkul, the last village before the Tibet border. Chitkul is at height of 11000 feet and a beautiful village. Small water channels, which criss-cross the village, are used for washing as well running small mills. The village Pradhan (headman) invites us over for tea. Hordes of little girls gather around my companion. Some touch her hair, other simply stare. One of them, a precocious one, asks if I am her father. My companion is mused. Replies, no am her husband. The uncontrolled laughter and the element of surprise. I am afraid. I cannot describe. It's time we left the valley.