Driving in the Shadow of Dhauladhars – A Himachal Holiday

For long psychologists denied human nature. Human behaviour, they believed, is the result of nurture, i.e., conditioned response to environmental stimuli. Pecking pigeons of Skinner and salivating dogs of Pavlov held the clue to the riddle of human behaviour, they opined. Growth of evolutionary psychology brought a tectonic shift in this understanding. Behaviour of an individual is a manifestation of their biology. Biology is shaped by evolution and endows a species with nature. Behaviour, the expression of this nature, emerges from interaction of nature with nurture, i.e., environment of the individual.

We Homo Sapiens, the modern humans, evolved about two hundred thousand years ago. We have been hunter-gatherers for most of our history. Agriculture was invented only about ten thousand years back. With it came settled lifestyle. For 95% of our time on earth we were wanderers.

I often wonder. Is our wanderlust rooted in our genes? Akin to the fear of our species for heights and love for sugar?

A teeny-weeny blob of proteins and nucleic acids, barely alive, held mankind captive in their homes for almost two years. Weariness of a work-a-day-life became unbearable. We longed for travel as a long-suffering invalid yearns for an elixir. We drove to – and through – Himachal Pradesh, early this month.

In anticipation of breakfast at a Murthal dhaba, we left early, after only a cup of tea. Delhi-Chandigarh highway has been in a state of constant repairs and alterations since I came to drive on it three decades back; not unlike an accursed property. It was no different this time. We stopped at Garam-Dharam dhaba in Murthal. Innumerable photographs, painted portraits, famous dialogues and posters of the films adorning dhaba walls, unambiguously proclaimed the proprietor – Dharmender Paji. Thick tandoor-paranthas, served with dollops of white butter and thick curd, were as delicious as the smiling handsome Dharmendra staring at us from every corner. It was all endearingly rustic; everywhere people were busy clicking selfies with models of trucks, mobike – perhaps a facsimile of Veeru’s vehicle in Sholay, and Lifesize Dharmendra portraits.

Garam Dharam Dhaba in Murthal

Chandigarh to Kasauli road was marvellous. Driving effortlessly on the four-lane highway, we reached an elevation of about five-thousand feet in no time. We halted for the night at a small village, Dharampur, near Kasauli. Place was a cluster of few multistorey apartments perched on the hill amid thick forest of pine. Our apartment was extravagantly huge for the two of us. Plain glass windows spanned the full length of bedroom and living room walls. View of the mountains through these was like painting on the glass.

Painted window glass?

Dharampur 

Next day we once again drove through Le Corbusier’s carefully planned city, situated at the foothills of Shivalik mountains. Roads were wide, surrounded by extensive green belts. It felt one was driving through an unending urban park. Straight roads crisscrossing each other at right angles, with precise regularity, spoke of the meticulous urban planning. But Corbusier couldn’t visualize the growth city would witness in seven decades. Each crossing was choked with vehicles. We took an hour to drive past the city.

I am directionally challenged, fortunately only in the physical sense of the word– though some close kins would say, also figuratively speaking, i.e., in life. I have read that this is a known malady of certain human minds, known as topographical agnosia. I was delighted to learn that one of my favourite science writers, Oliver Sacks, a neurophysician, suffered a severe form of this disorder. I may be lost on my way, but am in august company. Friends at Palampur, where we were headed, repeatedly sent us detailed instructions.  My car’s navigation, like me, seemed flummoxed by the winding hill roads. It took us through narrow roads, much the worse for wear, across many villages. It was evening when we reached our destination.

There is security in walking a rutted path in life – and also a deadening tedium of a commonplace existence. Longing to break free of the shackles that bind one to these shop-worn roads grows with age. But so does the sense of dread of an uncharted trail. Most people are forced to tread this course by the necessities of making a living. This yoke doesn’t permit the luxury of turning your head this way and that, to gaze at the trails diverting from your path. There are others, an infinitesimal fraction, who have the means, but most importantly the courage to follow the calling of their heart. Such break free of the routine.

Friends we were to meet in Palampur had lived and worked in Delhi for three decades. Their children were married and settled in their stations. Life in city would follow a stable and predictable pattern in the foreseeable future. They took a measure of their finances. And reckoned that their investments could guarantee a modest steady income. They had been visiting Himachal regularly for decades. Last year they decided to move to Palampur. They sold their house in Delhi and now live in a rented house in Saloh village near Palampur.

I was not prepared for the utter solitude of their place. A narrow road branched off the Palampur highway for Saloh. A narrower lane emanating from this will take us to their abode. Have they given correct directions? Yes, they had.

Their house was at the farthest corner of the village, at the edge of the slope on which is situated the Saloh village. Hinder lay the valley. And further away Dhauladhar peaks gleamed in a clear evening sky, sprayed with the early winter snow.

Friends' house at the edge of the hill

‘Do you want to see the sunset? Let’s rush.’ We hadn’t yet straightened our backs after the long ride but dashed outside. Behind their cottage ground fell to sprawling fields in the valley. Horizon was coloured in the light of setting sun. within minutes the orange sphere had disappeared.

Sun setting behind the cottage

Windows in the living and bed rooms of the cottage framed the view of the peaks. ‘Palampur is bigger, a couple of kilometres from here. But life there would be like living in a town. Hence we chose this village’. They had their feet on the ground, ‘After living here for a year, we now also understand the difficulties of settling here. But we want to enjoy for a few years, a slow, peaceful life, we often dreamed of, at least till health permits us to indulge this fancy.’

Dhauladhars seen from the cottage

I went for a walk in the village, early in the morning. Saloh is spread on a meadow on a hill, along a road, at a height of 3500 feet, and has a population of about 1800. Streets ware clean, there was no litter by the roadside, all houses were  pucca and had electricity; didn’t feel like an Indian village.

Saloh village

I was not aware that Kangra district in Himachal grows a superior variety of Orthodox Black tea. Hybrid Chinese shrubs were planted in Kangra by Britishers in late 19^th century. We visited a tea garden and saw the last batch of tea leaves of the season being packed in the factory. Owner and manager of the estate, Mr Rajeev Sood, is a fifth-generation tea cultivator. His great-great grandfather bought the tea garden from British. Garden lay uncared for decades. Sanjeev, a Singaporean citizen, came back to India twenty years back to revive the estate. He now owns one of the largest tea garden in Kangra that has consistently made profit for many years.

Kangra tea garden

In the evening we visited Bir, the landing ground for the famous Bir-Billing paragliding site. Bir situated at 5000 feet, is a Tibetan village. Billing 14 km off, is the launching site of paragliders, at 8000 feet. We sat on high chairs on the roof of a spunky café, drinking a brew of fine coffee, and watched sun set behind the Dhauladhars. In the foreground colourful paragliders hovered in the sky, bursting forth from Billing in the distance, as if the mountain was blowing coloured bubbles in our direction. As evening gathered, their numbers increased. It was a delightful sight. Archana decided she wanted to fly – or rather glide, one of these tomorrow. We booked for the ride with one of the agents.

Sunset at Bir

Sky riddled with paragliders

The Rooftop cafe

Hosts took us for cocktails to Infinitea club in Palampur. An employee showed us the property. The well-equipped gym was bustling with boys and girls sweating on machines. Clear water of the indoor heated pool glistened in the reflected lights. Palampur evidently offered a wholesome life, sans the noise, crowd, and pollution of an Indian city. Owner of the property was on the premises. ‘He sings beautifully.’ Our friend said. He was a jolly fat fellow. Within minutes his karaoke equipment appeared in the restaurant. He sang us many Jagjit Singh ghazals and parted only when his wife called him on his mobile.

Infinitea Club, Palampur

Paragliding was more exciting, viewed from the ground. Once airborne, I could not summon the thrill, I had supposed would overwhelm me.

In the afternoon we drove to Dharamshala. We stayed in Naddi, a small village in the shadow of Dhauladhar mountains, above Dharamshala. Roads were steep, but in excellent shape. Hills were thickly forested with Pine. Our hotel was on the highest piece of land in Naddi, at about 7000 feet. It was a small property and had been done tastefully. A turfed terrace abutted our room. View from here was astonishing. Massive Dhauladhars dominated the skyline in the north and seemed within arm’s reach. Hotel’s restaurant served fine meals on its terrace, overlooking the mountains.

Dhauladhars seen from the hotel terrace, Naddi

Naddi, and particularly our hotel, seemed a very agreeable place. Our plan was to stay here for a night. We now thought this too little and extended the stay by a night.

I jumped out of my bed at 5:45 next morning. I wanted to see sun rise from behind the eastern edge of the Dhauladhars. I climbed the small hill adjacent to the terrace. I stood there for an hour gazing east. Beyond the lights of Naddi hotels, sky was dark. It gradually turned pale. And then red. I looked intently, waiting for the red globe to rise. It never did. Slowly complete landscape was lit bright. Dhauladhar peaks now appeared discrete, but the red sphere was nowhere in sight.

Sunrise in Naddi

Back in room, I made tea, gave a cup to Archana and took mine to the terrace. Sun was high in the sky now. The hill-top hamlet was asleep. Nature’s splendour, laid extravagantly, appeared to be unfolding for my eyes only. I was breathless with joy.

Dhauladhar, a mountain range in mid-Himalayas, with peaks between 11000-19000 feet, spans the length of Himachal from Dalhousie to Kullu. It separates Kangra from Chamba district. I, and Devi – a friend, had trekked to Indrahar pass, at 14250 feet in these mountains, in the November of 2014. I remembered my harrowing climb through the knee-deep snow across the pass. The trek was a nightmare. It was only the mountaineering experience of Devi that saved us in those desolate mountains that winter. I asked a worker at the hotel, if the pass was visible from here. ‘There, in between two peaks, covered in snow.’ Yes, that’s it. I remembered the view. I clicked some snaps and shared these with Devi.

Indrahar pass seen from Naddi

Archana was a little indisposed and wanted to rest. I ate breakfast on the terrace, luxuriating in a warm sun. I sat on a chair in the sun, Dhauladhars watching me impassively, and read Maugham’s Moon and Six Pence. Streets were still calm. I found Naddi an accessible idyll of an unhurried holiday.

We drove to McLeod Ganj in the afternoon and roamed its bazaar lane teeming with curios shops. The main Gompa hadn’t yet opened after the Corona lockdown. Dharamshala was an old hill-town, its lanes narrow and crowded. In the afternoon I hiked to the Dal Lake in McLeod Ganj, situated picturesquely in the fold of a mountain, surrounded by pine-wooded mountains, isolated, and in need of cleaning. We bought Kullu shawls and woolen jackets from a shop in Naddi. Owner of the shop sat working on a handloom in a corner of the shop. I bought the Himachal fruit-wine: peach, apricot, pear, rhododendron.

Dal lake, McLeod Ganj

In the evening we watched the sun set behind the hills across the valley, from the secluded luxury of a small meadow, behind our room – a property of the hotel.

Sun sets in Naddi

 Dhauladhar catches the setting sun and peeps from behind the clouds

We seek travel to break the stupefying monotony of our daily lives. And then end up deriving succour from the ceaseless monotony of the natural phenomena; rotation of earth on its axis every twenty-four hours, its revolution around the sun on a tilted axis, the pull of the moon waxing and waning the oceans, the inexorably changing seasons.

Next day we drove back to Delhi, halting for a night at Dehradun.

Driving back, Dharamshala

Some say holidays rejuvenate mind. I return to work with a deeper longing for a life, I can experience only fleetingly.