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On a bright Himalayan morning we lugged our packs up the short path from our guesthouse. Waiting was our little Maruti car, which was to take us on our voyage of discovery in the Kumaon. Our driver Darshan stood smiling awkwardly, as his boss gave the car a final check, announcing “full tank” and patting the roof lovingly.
Soon Darshan was seated comfortably at the wheel of Arjun, the name we had given the little Maruti. In the hope that the name alone might light our path and overcome the obstacles we were sure to face.
Soon we were out of the Almora city limits and negotiating the twisted roads that followed the contours of the mountains.
The fir forests were bedecked in a rusty carpet of pines, burnt red by the intense mountain sun. Majestic firs burst from this carpet of red, reaching into the heavenly blue sky, Occasionally a plume of flowering bamboo rose from the earth like nature’s fireworks, Chestnut trees in full flower; their white flowers like decorations on a Christmas tree.
The air was fresh and the sun as it rose cast ever different hues on the landscape below, the shadows gradually fled the forests and the light gave contrast to the wealth of natural beauty on show.
The roads as usual were under repair, small drains and culverts that allow the water to flow under the roads had again suffered the onslaught of the rains and raggedy Nepalis were rebuilding them stone by stone. Sun blackened women heavy with child toil in the morning heat, their nose rings glinting in the sun. Tiredly they carried round flat pots of earth and deposit them where it was needed, all the while chiding the offspring of a season gone by. Gnarled swarthy men chipped resolutely at boulders, making on site ballast for concrete and drainage. These boulders were constantly replenished by yet more knotted laborers, dumping them unceremoniously from the back of a dilapidated old jeep, leaning crazily on its on good shock absorber.
This is a constant in the mountains, no matter how hard man pushes nature pushes right back, resulting in almost permanent work for this motley crew of laborers who keep the mountain arteries open for the local population.
We make good time through the tiny hamlets of Almora Province, the horn is a constant reminder that not everyone has made a pact with Arjun and every corner is treated with trepidation and several horn blasts that echo around the valleys. At one point Arjun decides that indiscretion is the better part of valor and the horn refuses to silence itself, much to the consternation of Darshan, who mutters something Kumaoni and no doubt uncomplimentary before fixing the problem.
The views all around are beautiful, terraces etched out of the surrounding hills, like uneven patchwork quilts done in golds and green, temples with fluttering flags and tinkling bells. Occasionally a pair of Sadhus wander past on their way to some mountain shrine or lonely forest. School children shoulder huge school bags and chatter as they navigate the roads unfazed by speeding traffic.
Traditional Kumaoni houses line the roads, their beautifully carved lintels and shutters painted bright blue, a sharp contrast to the graying whitewashed walls.
Buffalo and goats also crowd the roads, gently coaxed by their young tenders, in one surreal moment we passed a duck herder taking his flock to god knows where, the ducks seemed pleased to follow.
The road twists and turns, falls, then rapidly gains height again, water gushes down the mountain side, to join as one with the rivers in the valleys below.
In one flight of fancy I see the roads as a path to the future, it offers glimpses of what is to come, then tantalizingly it disappears behind a hill or copse of trees. Behind me life recedes and the road resides in the past, uncaring, unseen.
After a short drive we pull into a dark valley receding into the trees, the road gently leads us into the heart of this other world, A grey menacing shape appears out of the foreboding green trees, a rock temple, the first of many, we have reached Jageshwar and this temple offering is just an taste of what lies therein. We follow the small river gushing down the valley and finally burst out of the trees the sight before us is quite magical. A Tolkien inspired dream………….
The little hamlet of Jageshwar is little more than a few flag stoned alleyways, some small chai shops and a few tented stalls selling religious paraphernalia like small stone lingams, brass ohm signs and mala beads.
Built deep in a fir forest, it nestles on the bend of a river surrounded by steep hills and has an other worldly feel.
The undoubted highlight of this atmospheric place in the hills are the ancient grey temples, the shrines big and small are scattered within a small compound like some astral chess set, even the river makes way for this holiest of places as it gurgles past the carved stone shrines, all overlooked by magnificent tall trees that look at least as ancient as the temples themselves.
Jageshwar was once the centre of Lakulish Shaivism. There is no definite proof about the construction of Jageshwar group of temples but these are stated to belong post-Gupta and pre-medieval era and are estimated to be about 2500 yrs old.These temples range in the period from 8th century (early Katyuri Dynasty to 18th century (Chand Dynasty).
The templees rank alongside their more well known counterparts at Badrinath and Kedernath
The shrines are each dedicated to one deity or another, Shiva and his consort Parvati being just some of the deities worshipped.
The villagers, as in so many of the religious towns and villages, we’ve visited, have a quiet certitude, as they live their lives as one with the gods. No matter what their tough lives may bring, it is shared and dissipated with the energy of holiness that resides in this place.
The tiny village has a timeless sleepy feel to it, nothing hurried here, chores get done as and when, will and conditions allow. People gently move around their familiar surrounding at an ethereal pace and time always allows for pleasantries to be exchanged and the odd joke. Occasionally a Tata sumo fresh from the plains bellows its arrival with a shrill klaxon. But the stillness and peace quickly swallows this intrusion and the peaceful ambiance is quickly restored.
From the village a myriad of paths and goat tracks lead you into small hidden valleys, cold clear rock pools and waterfalls, Children run to meet you and greet you with clasped hands a smile as big as a rainbow and muffled namaste. Small farms grow wheat, lentils and potatoes, goats tethered to the roof bleat to one another across the terraces and dogs growl then quickly skit away to safer ground before once more defending their territory.
The squat houses litter the surrounding hillsides, the flat roof space is used for drying clothes, sorting wheat and lentils and if the season is right for rubbing the local herbs for charas, an ancient tradition here.
As we wander the spellbinding countryside my mind is constantly drawn back to Tolkien’s shires, the land of the hobbit. Certainly the idyllic setting is very similar to the place created in one man’s imagination.
The sunlight plays on the hills as we explore, the shadow of the clouds flutter across the green expanses like furtive shadow puppets.
Swallows swoop and bank as they persue their prey, from the forest a Minivet screeches and our aptly named ‘woo woo bird’ gently calls out to it’s partner. Occasionally the green is interrupted by a splash of vivid lilac, as the Blue Jacaranda Tree lights a beacon upon this green canvas.
The air is thick with the perfume of fir and hibiscus, and wood fires send plumes of smoke into the air.
As walk back to Jageshwar proper we agree this is indeed one of those little gems you only happen across very occasionally. Parched from out hilly exertions we quaff chai with the locals, tough men, who know only hard work and few luxuries, eye us warily, as we order chai, one hawks and spit into the gutter, before again weighing us up. Soon one ventures "which country sir"?
Scotland I reply, a discussion erupts before one silences the rest and announces “best police force,. Scotland Yard” I nod weakly, too happy to disagree. He turns and proudly gives the gathered men an knowing look, he is indeed a man of the world.
Our whistle wetted we slowly amble along the road to Taras Guesthouse, a dread locked dog decides he loves me, a fondly rubs himself against me as we walk, much to the amusement of the many pavement dwellers, idly watching the world go by.
As we enter the small alley to the hotel, school kids dressed in pressed uniforms approach yelling namaste at us, each trying to better the other in decibel level, we smile and shout namaste, they roll off down the stony path giggling loudly. Ahead we hear the phsst phsst of a pressure cooker and aromatic flavors waft on the mountain breeze, a sure sign that Dinesh has dinner on the hob……
The light around Jageshwar dims, and slowly the birds stop their chirping. From the chair outside my room I gaze across the village, squat houses, burdened under their flagstone tiles seem to sink into the ground, straining to keep the weight of the sturdy roof afloat. Perched atop, a solitary cactus to ward off lightening strikes.
The newer houses have flat roof, public meeting places for the villagers, as I watch a couple of youths idly kick a plastic Bisleri bottle around the roof perimeter, bare footed they punt and tackle, push and shove until finally the bottle flies from the roof leaving the youths again at a loose end, they drop their heads and arms behind their backs contemplate the surrounding forests and the now rain laden clouds swirling around the valley.
Suddenly a shrill beautiful voice rings out from the terraces above, we strain or necks trying to locate this lovely sound. From the bushes a small figure emerges, dressed in a raggedy woolen Jersey and grease stained pants, he skips barefoot around the terrace, filling the village with kumaoni love songs, As he prances he stops and plays to his silent audience, hands grasped to his heart the winsome sounds are hardly believable from such a young boy. He spies us watching the show and goes into theatrical over drive, bounding down the terraces, he stands squarely in front of our viewpoint and adds an impressive display of body theatre to the words cutting through the gloomy half dusk, His arms upraised in yearning to a lover from another time, Promises of endless love illustrated with both hands grasped to the heart.
From the terraces a second voice breaks into song, it seems the younger sibling also likes to sing, he scoots across the higher terraces offering song to all below, often popping his head into dwellings and belting out some broken lyrics before being chased by Mata Ji, too busy for such frivolity. His voice disappears amongst he fields. Below his brother stands watching him. A small boy appears above, surely no more than five, his broken voice utters a few lines, then he jumps, bounces, somersaults and as he reaches his brother they both finish what he had begun, The youngster’s small lungs straining to match those of his more accomplished brother. It would seem this whole family loves to sing!
The show gradually peters out and the boys head further up the hill but every now and then we hear snippets ringing out.
All around the village is coming alive for the evening chores, and various family dramas being played out in full view of the neighbors. On a terrace across the way a wizened old woman chastises and young girl, chasing her around the terraces, throwing carefully aimed rocks at her, and screaming abuse, The unfortunate girl has planted the mooli in the wrong spot. Tired of the chase the old witch disdainfully pulls out all the seedlings and begins replanting them in the right spot, all the time lecturing the gathered extended family, on how things need to be done right. The gathered group nods balefully, muted by her obvious fury.
The animals are brought to safety for the night, carefully locked away in small rooms below the main living space, goats, buffalo and chickens are locked up to spare them from prowling leopards prevalent in the area.
A mule herder coaxes the mule’s home, offering curses and a hand loaded with rocks to encourage the errant idlers.
From all around the sound of pressure cookers emanate from the orange light of dwellings, young girls scrub blackened pots with water and sand, ready for tomorrow or the next course in this evening’s meal.
Men gaze at the sky and smoke beedis, whist exchanging small talk on the day’s events, heads bowed and feet shuffling they look as though they spend every night chewing the fat waiting for dinner to appear.
The forest across the valley fades to an impenetrable, black and the last light dangles in the cool air. We shift restlessly, the show is almost done, we too need to bathe and get ready to eat. We stand ready to call it a night, when the low tortured moan stops us in our tracks. Our entertainer from above is blowing a note out of a conch shell, farewell to the last shreds of the day, The note booms around the valleys and as if by magic we hear an answering call from the temple some 1.5 kilometers away, slowly several others join this beautiful way to end a day, soon the night air is punctuated with these eerie sounds, billowing in the night air, we look at each other beaming as we wallow in this special moment.
Soon a dark calm descends the orange lights of candles dance amongst the cottages. It’s time for dinner. Tomorrow we leave for Chakuori……………….
Soon Darshan was seated comfortably at the wheel of Arjun, the name we had given the little Maruti. In the hope that the name alone might light our path and overcome the obstacles we were sure to face.
Soon we were out of the Almora city limits and negotiating the twisted roads that followed the contours of the mountains.
The fir forests were bedecked in a rusty carpet of pines, burnt red by the intense mountain sun. Majestic firs burst from this carpet of red, reaching into the heavenly blue sky, Occasionally a plume of flowering bamboo rose from the earth like nature’s fireworks, Chestnut trees in full flower; their white flowers like decorations on a Christmas tree.
The air was fresh and the sun as it rose cast ever different hues on the landscape below, the shadows gradually fled the forests and the light gave contrast to the wealth of natural beauty on show.
The roads as usual were under repair, small drains and culverts that allow the water to flow under the roads had again suffered the onslaught of the rains and raggedy Nepalis were rebuilding them stone by stone. Sun blackened women heavy with child toil in the morning heat, their nose rings glinting in the sun. Tiredly they carried round flat pots of earth and deposit them where it was needed, all the while chiding the offspring of a season gone by. Gnarled swarthy men chipped resolutely at boulders, making on site ballast for concrete and drainage. These boulders were constantly replenished by yet more knotted laborers, dumping them unceremoniously from the back of a dilapidated old jeep, leaning crazily on its on good shock absorber.
This is a constant in the mountains, no matter how hard man pushes nature pushes right back, resulting in almost permanent work for this motley crew of laborers who keep the mountain arteries open for the local population.
We make good time through the tiny hamlets of Almora Province, the horn is a constant reminder that not everyone has made a pact with Arjun and every corner is treated with trepidation and several horn blasts that echo around the valleys. At one point Arjun decides that indiscretion is the better part of valor and the horn refuses to silence itself, much to the consternation of Darshan, who mutters something Kumaoni and no doubt uncomplimentary before fixing the problem.
The views all around are beautiful, terraces etched out of the surrounding hills, like uneven patchwork quilts done in golds and green, temples with fluttering flags and tinkling bells. Occasionally a pair of Sadhus wander past on their way to some mountain shrine or lonely forest. School children shoulder huge school bags and chatter as they navigate the roads unfazed by speeding traffic.
Traditional Kumaoni houses line the roads, their beautifully carved lintels and shutters painted bright blue, a sharp contrast to the graying whitewashed walls.
Buffalo and goats also crowd the roads, gently coaxed by their young tenders, in one surreal moment we passed a duck herder taking his flock to god knows where, the ducks seemed pleased to follow.
The road twists and turns, falls, then rapidly gains height again, water gushes down the mountain side, to join as one with the rivers in the valleys below.
In one flight of fancy I see the roads as a path to the future, it offers glimpses of what is to come, then tantalizingly it disappears behind a hill or copse of trees. Behind me life recedes and the road resides in the past, uncaring, unseen.
After a short drive we pull into a dark valley receding into the trees, the road gently leads us into the heart of this other world, A grey menacing shape appears out of the foreboding green trees, a rock temple, the first of many, we have reached Jageshwar and this temple offering is just an taste of what lies therein. We follow the small river gushing down the valley and finally burst out of the trees the sight before us is quite magical. A Tolkien inspired dream………….
Jageshwar
The little hamlet of Jageshwar is little more than a few flag stoned alleyways, some small chai shops and a few tented stalls selling religious paraphernalia like small stone lingams, brass ohm signs and mala beads.
Built deep in a fir forest, it nestles on the bend of a river surrounded by steep hills and has an other worldly feel.
The undoubted highlight of this atmospheric place in the hills are the ancient grey temples, the shrines big and small are scattered within a small compound like some astral chess set, even the river makes way for this holiest of places as it gurgles past the carved stone shrines, all overlooked by magnificent tall trees that look at least as ancient as the temples themselves.
Jageshwar was once the centre of Lakulish Shaivism. There is no definite proof about the construction of Jageshwar group of temples but these are stated to belong post-Gupta and pre-medieval era and are estimated to be about 2500 yrs old.These temples range in the period from 8th century (early Katyuri Dynasty to 18th century (Chand Dynasty).
The templees rank alongside their more well known counterparts at Badrinath and Kedernath
The shrines are each dedicated to one deity or another, Shiva and his consort Parvati being just some of the deities worshipped.
The villagers, as in so many of the religious towns and villages, we’ve visited, have a quiet certitude, as they live their lives as one with the gods. No matter what their tough lives may bring, it is shared and dissipated with the energy of holiness that resides in this place.
The tiny village has a timeless sleepy feel to it, nothing hurried here, chores get done as and when, will and conditions allow. People gently move around their familiar surrounding at an ethereal pace and time always allows for pleasantries to be exchanged and the odd joke. Occasionally a Tata sumo fresh from the plains bellows its arrival with a shrill klaxon. But the stillness and peace quickly swallows this intrusion and the peaceful ambiance is quickly restored.
From the village a myriad of paths and goat tracks lead you into small hidden valleys, cold clear rock pools and waterfalls, Children run to meet you and greet you with clasped hands a smile as big as a rainbow and muffled namaste. Small farms grow wheat, lentils and potatoes, goats tethered to the roof bleat to one another across the terraces and dogs growl then quickly skit away to safer ground before once more defending their territory.
The squat houses litter the surrounding hillsides, the flat roof space is used for drying clothes, sorting wheat and lentils and if the season is right for rubbing the local herbs for charas, an ancient tradition here.
As we wander the spellbinding countryside my mind is constantly drawn back to Tolkien’s shires, the land of the hobbit. Certainly the idyllic setting is very similar to the place created in one man’s imagination.
The sunlight plays on the hills as we explore, the shadow of the clouds flutter across the green expanses like furtive shadow puppets.
Swallows swoop and bank as they persue their prey, from the forest a Minivet screeches and our aptly named ‘woo woo bird’ gently calls out to it’s partner. Occasionally the green is interrupted by a splash of vivid lilac, as the Blue Jacaranda Tree lights a beacon upon this green canvas.
The air is thick with the perfume of fir and hibiscus, and wood fires send plumes of smoke into the air.
As walk back to Jageshwar proper we agree this is indeed one of those little gems you only happen across very occasionally. Parched from out hilly exertions we quaff chai with the locals, tough men, who know only hard work and few luxuries, eye us warily, as we order chai, one hawks and spit into the gutter, before again weighing us up. Soon one ventures "which country sir"?
Scotland I reply, a discussion erupts before one silences the rest and announces “best police force,. Scotland Yard” I nod weakly, too happy to disagree. He turns and proudly gives the gathered men an knowing look, he is indeed a man of the world.
Our whistle wetted we slowly amble along the road to Taras Guesthouse, a dread locked dog decides he loves me, a fondly rubs himself against me as we walk, much to the amusement of the many pavement dwellers, idly watching the world go by.
As we enter the small alley to the hotel, school kids dressed in pressed uniforms approach yelling namaste at us, each trying to better the other in decibel level, we smile and shout namaste, they roll off down the stony path giggling loudly. Ahead we hear the phsst phsst of a pressure cooker and aromatic flavors waft on the mountain breeze, a sure sign that Dinesh has dinner on the hob……
From My Balcony
The light around Jageshwar dims, and slowly the birds stop their chirping. From the chair outside my room I gaze across the village, squat houses, burdened under their flagstone tiles seem to sink into the ground, straining to keep the weight of the sturdy roof afloat. Perched atop, a solitary cactus to ward off lightening strikes.
The newer houses have flat roof, public meeting places for the villagers, as I watch a couple of youths idly kick a plastic Bisleri bottle around the roof perimeter, bare footed they punt and tackle, push and shove until finally the bottle flies from the roof leaving the youths again at a loose end, they drop their heads and arms behind their backs contemplate the surrounding forests and the now rain laden clouds swirling around the valley.
Suddenly a shrill beautiful voice rings out from the terraces above, we strain or necks trying to locate this lovely sound. From the bushes a small figure emerges, dressed in a raggedy woolen Jersey and grease stained pants, he skips barefoot around the terrace, filling the village with kumaoni love songs, As he prances he stops and plays to his silent audience, hands grasped to his heart the winsome sounds are hardly believable from such a young boy. He spies us watching the show and goes into theatrical over drive, bounding down the terraces, he stands squarely in front of our viewpoint and adds an impressive display of body theatre to the words cutting through the gloomy half dusk, His arms upraised in yearning to a lover from another time, Promises of endless love illustrated with both hands grasped to the heart.
From the terraces a second voice breaks into song, it seems the younger sibling also likes to sing, he scoots across the higher terraces offering song to all below, often popping his head into dwellings and belting out some broken lyrics before being chased by Mata Ji, too busy for such frivolity. His voice disappears amongst he fields. Below his brother stands watching him. A small boy appears above, surely no more than five, his broken voice utters a few lines, then he jumps, bounces, somersaults and as he reaches his brother they both finish what he had begun, The youngster’s small lungs straining to match those of his more accomplished brother. It would seem this whole family loves to sing!
The show gradually peters out and the boys head further up the hill but every now and then we hear snippets ringing out.
All around the village is coming alive for the evening chores, and various family dramas being played out in full view of the neighbors. On a terrace across the way a wizened old woman chastises and young girl, chasing her around the terraces, throwing carefully aimed rocks at her, and screaming abuse, The unfortunate girl has planted the mooli in the wrong spot. Tired of the chase the old witch disdainfully pulls out all the seedlings and begins replanting them in the right spot, all the time lecturing the gathered extended family, on how things need to be done right. The gathered group nods balefully, muted by her obvious fury.
The animals are brought to safety for the night, carefully locked away in small rooms below the main living space, goats, buffalo and chickens are locked up to spare them from prowling leopards prevalent in the area.
A mule herder coaxes the mule’s home, offering curses and a hand loaded with rocks to encourage the errant idlers.
From all around the sound of pressure cookers emanate from the orange light of dwellings, young girls scrub blackened pots with water and sand, ready for tomorrow or the next course in this evening’s meal.
Men gaze at the sky and smoke beedis, whist exchanging small talk on the day’s events, heads bowed and feet shuffling they look as though they spend every night chewing the fat waiting for dinner to appear.
The forest across the valley fades to an impenetrable, black and the last light dangles in the cool air. We shift restlessly, the show is almost done, we too need to bathe and get ready to eat. We stand ready to call it a night, when the low tortured moan stops us in our tracks. Our entertainer from above is blowing a note out of a conch shell, farewell to the last shreds of the day, The note booms around the valleys and as if by magic we hear an answering call from the temple some 1.5 kilometers away, slowly several others join this beautiful way to end a day, soon the night air is punctuated with these eerie sounds, billowing in the night air, we look at each other beaming as we wallow in this special moment.
Soon a dark calm descends the orange lights of candles dance amongst the cottages. It’s time for dinner. Tomorrow we leave for Chakuori……………….
