Village in the Himalayas - India Gods and Mountains
By
Roadjunky, Posted Nov 12, 2006
In 1998 I found myself in India with no visa and just $200 to my name. Summer had unleashed itself on the plains of Indiaand the Himalayas were the only place where a traveller could retain any kind of sanity. It was cooler up here and with monsoon on the way it was necessary to find shelter. I found myself a little clay and wooden house and figured that if I cooked for myself I could probably make my money last the four months of the rainy season.
In 1998 I found myself in India with no visa and just $200 to my name. Summer had unleashed itself on the plains of India and the Himalayas were the only place where a traveller could retain any kind of sanity. It was cooler up here and with monsoon on the way it was necessary to find shelter. I found myself a little clay and wooden house and figured that if I cooked for myself I could probably make my money last the four months of the rainy season.
The village I had chosen was one I had passed through several times over the years and it changed for the worse each time I came. It had grown popular with the freaks and the backpackers and it shaped itself to fulfil their needs. When I had first arrived in 1995 the main street was lined with beautiful wooden houses and temples but these had now been torn down to make way for new concrete shops. These all stocked handicrafts, gems and camera film – things that no local could afford to buy. There were no less than five bakeries within 50 metres to cater to the munchies of the stoned Westerners.
Seen from afar the village seemed like a small Las Vegas on the mountainside with its sprawling concrete construction. Once you entered the heart of the village though you could leave all that behind. Dewy-eyed calves stood about in the stone courtyards and chickens hopped about between their legs. The houses themselves were beautiful affairs with long wooden balconies, winding staircases and stone tiled roofs on which they dried their corn in the autumn.
The air was crisp and laced with wood smoke, cow dung and the scent of the pine trees further up the slopes. At either end of the North-South valley there were stunning glacier views and travellers took their breakfasts on café rooftops to make the most of the view. On the opposite slope your gaze could wander for hours over the scattered forests, waterfalls like silver threads and distant villages with smoke rising above their chimneys.
Old ladies shepherded their cows up and down the mountain paths and knitted woollen jerseys as they walked. Whilst I struggled on the not to slip on the muddy parts these tough old birds never missed a stitch. The cow they herded had sharp horns that could pierce you in a moment’s swing and you took care to give way.
Nepalese porters lugged 70 kilos of wood or, in season time, apples down the slopes and you watched them in awe as these short, stout men filled the straw containers they carried on their backs. A picture of these guys would be the final proof in a Western health food store of the value of eating rice and lentils.
The women here didn’t wear the ostentatious bright colours of the plains Indians; their long dresses and layers of blouses were more in tune with the earthy browns, reds and yellows of the mountain. The men wore brown suits with waistcoats, woollen jerseys and the traditional round caps with a band of bright colours. Some of the younger men preferred to don jeans and shirts though to stress their modern aspirations.
One of the best reasons for living in this village was that it was blessed with hot sulphur spring water. This had been piped into a central courtyard in the village where the women washed clothes and caught up on all the latest gossip. It also filled communal baths in the village temple, a wall separating the men and women’s sections. . At dawn and sunset the waters filled up with the gregarious locals but you could go in the middle of the night and gaze at the stars while you bathed. During the day Indian tourists from the plains brought their wives into the men’s baths to snap photos of them standing next to the gods carved into the walls.
In the main courtyard of the temple a dhuni fire smouldered and the resident sadhus invited the tourists to come and share a chillum. Most of them were more vagabonds than holy men, muttering mantras, getting stoned and vaguely hoping one of the female tourists might come looking for a guru.
The gods are alive and well in the Himalayas. You see them every few weeks when they go walking in the street. They never go alone of course and are accompanied but are accompanied by a modest troupe of drummers and trumpets that announce their presence for miles in every direction.
Most villages in the mountains have their own god and is invariably carried around on stretchers by around 8 men who are supposedly steered by its will. Like fingers on a ouiji board. The gods dress up in wood and cloth and many ignorant Westerners take them to be mere effigies.
When a family wants to gain the grace of the gods (and perhaps the other villagers too) they hold a feast in the village where more than 5 courses of lentils are served. All day teams of sturdy Brahmins (the highest caste who would never be allowed to cook for a living) shove logs under giant cauldrons of rice and dal. Everyone from far and wide turns up for the free food and fill their tiffin cans for the old folks who weren’t able to make it.
The feasts are almost always a big success except when occasionally there’s a slip up and two gods show up that don’t get along well. Some ancient dispute as old as a hillbilly feud, the cause of which no one can quite recall. Then the gods huff and puff on their trumpets nervously and everyone scans the sky for thunderbolts.
Faith and superstition are alive and well in India, perhaps because that’s all they have. After all, if you never learn about the existence of things like genes, bacteria and atoms then you’re likely to require a fair bit of magic to explain your world. Why did Rajiv get warts on his hand? Oh, he drank milk in someone else’s house. Stupid.
Not for nothing did prime minister Vajpayee quote the Bhagavad Gita when India tested its nuclear bomb in 1998.
“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”
The average Indian is going to have trouble understanding the splitting of atoms but Lord Krishna revealing himself in his most awesome aspect? Sure, they’ve been hearing those tales since they were kids.
