It was on a cold April morning, at the predawn hour of 4 am, when we huddled ourselves into the vehicle that would take us to the base of the Tungnath trek from Chopta, in Uttarakhand. Tungnath is reputed to be the highest Shiva temple among the five “Panch Kedar” temples and is believed to be almost 1,000 years old. We were, however, not on a pilgrimage, but on the track of some spectacular Himalayan birds.
The first breath I took upon reaching the base of the trek almost knocked me out. The air was chillier than what I had imagined while ensconced in the warm comfort of the vehicle. The high altitude numbed my senses and for a few minutes I remained immobile, taking in deep breaths.
“You can ride up to the temple on Ustaad – my horse,” a pony-wala sidled up to me, observing my discomfiture. An unkempt, white pony by his side gave a tremendous sniffle and a vigorous nod. Our guides had joined us for the trek, their sturdy frames carrying all our bags and photography gear. They agreed that the children, and us – the two madams, might have trouble keeping pace with the gentlemen. Horses, then. Heigh ho.
With April marking the onset of the spring season, the trail becomes accessible once again as the winter snow clears from the cobbled path. The deity of Tungnath, however, was still residing at the winter seat of Makkumath. Like the deity at Kedarnath, Tungnath, too, is shifted to the lower regions , leaving the temple locked in the winter months. Although this was the highest Shiva temple in the world, at a height of 12,070 feet, everyone assured us that the trek was an easy one, at a distance of just 4 km from the base to the temple. I now realise that everyone has their own definition of ‘easy’.
As my horse started to trot up the hill, I was struck by the reality of something I had read long time back in a Feluda novel written by Satyajit Ray. “It’s the nature of horses to walk on the edge of the precipice and not stick to the middle of the road,” he had noted. How very true that observation was! My heart leapt up to my mouth every time we had to navigate a curve and the animal veered dangerously close to the edge. My eyes were pinned on my son’s pony ahead. All I could do was to keep praying to the deity of Tungnath to keep us safe on that journey.
Gradually, I started to get over my fear and began enjoying the scene unfolding before me. In my anxiety to mount the horse, I had left my phone and my camera in the custody of our guide, so that it wasn’t burdened with any extra grams of weight, mine being a formidable one. While I missed out on capturing some really beautiful images, all my senses were heightened in the absence of any gadget. As the sun’s rays broke through the gloomy dawn, we rode through some of the most picturesque regions I had come across.
Flanked by dense oak forest and brilliant rhododendron blooms, in hues of red, pink and white, the path looked no less magical than that of a fairyland. Beautiful emerald glades appeared by the side of the trail, wildflowers and grass beginning to grow afresh. Shifting my gaze upward, I would occasionally catch sight of distant, snow-covered Himalayan peaks, their magnificence reflected in the early morning sun.
The path was made of stone and some parts were steeply inclined, so much so that I thought I might be hurled against the mountainside anytime soon. The poor creature carrying me was starting to complain and had to be calmed down from time to time. I heard his owner pacifying him that we are nearly there and that ‘this madam will feed you jaggery’. I was a bit perplexed as the journey seemed too short to be reaching the top that early. Till then we would have had around 45 mins of ascent.
In another 10 mins or so, we came upon a tea shop and our platoon halted. That, we learnt, was the halfway mark to the top, and the horses were led away for some rest. The sun was playing hide and seek above, and a strong mountain breeze arose, piercing through my jacket. April, in Bangalore, was a far cry from April in the Himalayas at 12,000 feet, and in my sheer ignorance and overconfidence, I had packed light woollens for the trip. I always took pride in my endurance level towards the cold, but all that pride flew out of the window as I stood shivering in the cold wind halfway up to Tungnath. Like a complete idiot I had left my wallet with the guide, and I had no pretext to go inside the tea shop, where I could see a fire being lit, its warmth enticing and inviting.
Thankfully, my friend had some bits of cash with her, and we entered the shop to sit by the fireside, ordering cups of hot, sweet chai. As I write this, I can see the small, dark interior of the tea shop, the gnarly, old shopkeeper heating his saucepan over the fire fuelled by wood, and tendrils of smoke rising towards the roof. It was an amazing moment in time, and I only wish I could have one image of that memory, of the warmth that revived us on that biting cold morning.
Meanwhile, our husbands were having a field day with the birds on the trail and soon we could hear them from the verandah of the tea shop. Although they were at a distance, the clear mountain air carried their voices far and we could make out their excitement. Standing on that elevated point, I could see Himalayan monal and koklass pheasants roam around nonchalantly as the men stealthily sneaked upon them to take pictures. Flocks of accentors, coal tits and other smaller birds took off in a nervous flight as a giant Himalayan griffon flew past overheard.
“Madam, Ustaad is ready,” I nearly jumped as my pony-wala broke my reverie. “But he is a stubborn fellow. Won’t budge till he gets some jaggery.” He looked at me expectantly. My friend parted with the last of her cash and the horses were fed their favourite snack of jaggery mixed with some millets.
Finally, we were ready for the final leg of the journey to Tungnath.
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