The spiritual tourist

Time out or time warp? Macleodganj trips out Renuka NarayananTime out or time warp? Macleodganj trips out Renuka Narayanan

Bhima’s Snowslide

Bhim-ghasutri atop the Dhauladhar;

If gangs of kar-sewaks were sent on trekking holidays to the mountains, there’s a reasonable chance that they’ll rethink testosterone as a lifestyle, sweat off the ghee and sugar and build some muscles to employ in real SUPW. It’s entirely likely that they’ll experience a paradigm shift in notions of what makes a place ‘sacred’.

They might no longer see manifest Divinity as a maximum-security zoo-cage in a bloodstained town in the hot and dusty plains. Instead they might redefine God as snow peaks, pine forests, rushing springs and the wind in the cedars, as terraced hillsides yellow with mustard, as rhododendron trees blooming red (the flowers taste tart and make seasonal chutneys and sherbets).

This yatra would not involve yelling and shrieking in mobs, armed with petrol bombs and crowbars, but lonely, lung-pumping treks with a bottle of water and roti-rolls — in the Kangra Valley in Himachal Pradesh.

Out here, sacred geography is hauling a corpse up a mountainside to the shamshan below Chamunda Devi’s temple (at least three funerals happen there every day). It is three stones assembled at the edge of a perilous mountain curve, confidently daubed with protective orange.
It is a lofty, snow-crowned range of the Dhauladhar (‘white mountains’) that overlooks our little lives with compassion. It’s a large snowfield atop the mountains called ‘Bhim-ghasutri’ (Bhima’s slide). His derriere must have been of truly epic proportions — at least three kilometres wide. But local tradition insists that when the Pandavas were in exile, they came to Kangra too.

Valley of the Dolls

Mustard fields in spring; a Kangra miniature

The foreign presence in Macleodganj is old history. It is named for a former Governor of the Punjab, Allen Macleod. Lord Elgin, the late 19th century British Viceroy, wanted to be buried here in the graveyard of the church of St John in the Wilderness, because the region reminded him of his native Scotland. But the Raj is a dim entity here. It is Tibet that flavours the aab-o-hawa, with the Dalai Lama’s presence, with the huge, bright eyes of rose-cheeked children, with sprite young women in bakus and terrifyingly trendy young men surfing at cybercafes or roaring around in leathers. The goras here wear a permanently kind expression. I’m not sure I could endure that for long, though the west’s support is important to the cause. Where the Bhagsu Road starts off from the main Macleodganj chowk, there’s a chaikhana called Sunrise Cafe. An iron bench is propped across the narrow strip of tar. It leans against a wall plastered with Tibetan cause posters which are seriously read by passers-by. The emotive word is ‘rangzen’, freedom. Meanwhile, a derelict Irishman and a villainous-looking babaji in orange adorn the Sunrise bench. My friend, a television producer who believes in the beauty of every individual soul, adores New Age music and talks to me severely about my cynical ways, begins to chat with this pair. Paddy wants to be friends. ‘‘The British colonised you for 200 years, they colonised US for 800!’’ he says with a brave quiver, before spinning us a fine yarn.

He is a spiritual seeker who lives on donations, teaches summer courses in (Hindu) philosophy and chills out in icy mountain caves (he says). Both he and the babaji, who hails from Amritsar and has buried two German wives (he says) are like a rewind to the Manali of the ’70s when the freaks hung out and got stoned with the happy hillies. But the old lot was somehow more likeable in its innocence. When I choke back a giggle at one of Paddy’s claims, my friend, a better person than I, frowns repressively. But I can’t help it! I, and a whole generation of fun-loving city kids in Indian colleges, were inoculated early against the spiritual tourist virus by Gita Mehta’s wonderful book Karma Cola (1979). I think we owe Gita a big one. She gave us terrific perspective, propped up our Upanishadic spine and wrote with such hauteur and wit that she saved the pack of us from perdition, or at least from a nasty rash. Listening to Paddy’s blarney, idly noting the holier-than-thou faces of wayfarers, I want to fling out my arms, throw hand-kisses and declare, Oscar-style: ‘‘Thanks, Gita! (nod, nod, gulp) I love you, Gita!’’

At this critical point a bunch of Tibetan leathermen with ear-rings close in on us. Paddy does a vajra-velo switch to Hindi, which demonstrates the lasting influence of English ‘divide-and-rule’ on the innocent Irish: ‘‘Hindu dharam bahut extreme hai! Baudha dharam sab se achha hai!’’ he declaims for their benefit, sounding exactly like Mark Tully. My friend blinks and I’m desperate to laugh aloud. To cover up, I walk across and pay for everyone’s tea. The Pahari chaiwala and I grin evilly with Hindoo cunning at each other. Before it can get any more Kiplingesque, my friend and I rush away to buy a wedge of walnut-coffee cake and a foil bag of mushroom gnocchi from Nick’s.

Love in a Mist

Shiva describes the benefits of pilgrimage 1800-1825

‘Discoverer’ Ananda K. Coomar-aswamy said of miniature paintings in general that they conjure a magic world in which the men are always heroic and the women always beautiful. The Miniature Gallery at New Delhi’s National Museum is a favourite. But surely it’s special to see Kangra miniatures in Kangra, after feasting the eyes on the original landscape and faces, some of which actually look like Raja Sansar Chand has stepped out with beard, tilak and turban, to catch a bus!
With great hopes, I trot up from Kotwali Bazaar in Dharamshala to the museum and skip eagerly into the miniature gallery. My face falls instantly. It’s all so dark and dingy. I stomp out and ask the chowkidar pathetically for a torch to shine at the paintings. He points out a babu, a Mr Vashisht, who is instantly sweet and helpful. He organises new light bulbs. Turns out there’s a wiring problem which burns out bulbs fast and the museum is waiting for funds to re-wire with. HP sarkar, won’t you hurry, please, so everyone can get to admire Shiva on Nandi (18th century, Guler) and Young Woman Charming Snakes (ditto) like I could?

Photos: Anu Malhotra