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Encounter with the Runner – A Journey to Chenap Valley by Asis Mukherjee

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When I first read the poem of Sukanta Bhattacharya “Runner” and later listened to the famous song of the great Hemanta Mukhopadhyay the same lyrics composed by the great musician Salil Chowdhury some time in the early seventies decade, I was a young boy. The image and the struggle of the postman who used to collect and deliver the letters and other postal documents from the district post office to the remote post offices of the far off villages where motorable roads were not available by that time, were perfectly depicted in the poem as well as sympathetically expressed in the song. The listeners can visualise the runner on duty through the song especially. But with the development of science and technology the communication system has undergone a sea change. Today we can not imagine that era. Not only that, even around twenty five years back we could not think of either that time or that professional man. Despite that I had an occasion which brought me back through time-machine to that hoary past.

 

In the middle of October,1998, when I put up in the tourist lodge at Joshimath, there was no crowd or tourists thronged over there. So I could spend a day leisurely. There I saw a trek route map of the local area displayed on a board where I noticed a place named “Chenap Valley” which was not known to me. But I came here with an eye to visit the famous “Kagbhusandi Tal” , a notable place in Hindu mythology. So next day morning as usual I left for Govindghat by a Badrinath bound bus, which was also the starting point for the “Valley of Flowers” and the “Hemkund Sahib” trek. I got down from the bus and put up in the dharamshala of Govindghat which was also as desolate as Joshimath tourist lodge because the trekking season was almost over due to the onslaught of the winter. I tried my best to contact a porter who could accompany me on my trek to Kagbhusandi Tal, but in vain. So next day I had to change my mind and decided to head for “Chenap Valley” which was vividly present in the niche of my mind since I noticed the name at Joshimath. Being a solitary trekker, this time I had the opportunity to alter my trekking schedule according to my choice and convenience. So after spending one day at Govindghat,  the Hrishikesh bound bus from Badrinath lifted me from Govindghat and dropped me at the new  bridge over the river Alakananda before Joshimath where from my new trek route started as per the direction of the map that I noticed at Joshimath. As soon as the bus left me I found myself in a deserted land. I noticed a foot track leading on the slope of the opposite hill. I took that trail without any hesitation and began to push up the slope. As I gained some height on the slope of the hill gradually the river Alakananda and the town of Joshimath on the opposite bank of the river became visible. I had no idea of the place nor much information except the name of Bagicha Singh, the village chief of the first village, Chang, en route to Chenap Valley. After two hours of continuous trek I came across the first house of the village which incidentally belonged to Bagicha Singh. As I approached for the night’s shelter, I was welcomed by the young wife and daughter of the landlord who was incidentally not at home by that time. After having my lunch I had enough time to take rest sitting in the courtyard watching the Alakananda flowing below glittering in the sunshine. Thoughts thronged in my mind and I was trying to dismantle them gently. But what moved me most was the hospitality and simplicity of the local people. How could a young lady receive a stranger like this? I could not get any logical explanation because perhaps I tried to explain the situation with the mind of a city dweller which was obviously filled with doubts and distrust. So it was beyond my perception and ability to read the normal behaviour of the landlady. In the late evening Bagicha Singh, a stout hillman of fifty-plus  came home and again surprising me he took me off from my bed and greeted me so cordially as if I was one of his old friends who came to meet him after a long time. All my hesitation was thawed in that warmth.

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Next day morning when again I set out on my way for the next and the last village in this route popularly known as Thang alias Rampur, I was well enriched with a lot of information about the route as well as my next halt. So I walked gaily and ceaselessly for my destination. I didn’t come across any passerby on my way. The lonely foot track was filled with the only sound of chirping of birds as sign of life. All of a sudden I could hear the jingling sound of bells in that desolate land amidst the jungle which made me scared because I couldn’t find its source. I stood perplexed aside and began to watch back the trail from where the sound was coming. Suddenly a man appeared from the bend of the foot track with a spear in his hand and a sack on his back. A bunch of bells were tagged to his spear which produced the sound with his every step. He was running even at this altitude and uphill. When he came to me he paused for some time and with a smile on his face he told me that the village ‘’Rampur” was nearby. He further told me that he was carrying the postal documents from Joshimath to deliver those at Rampur post office and again he would go back to Joshimath collecting the postal documents from Rampur. I was so confused at the unexpected situation that I couldn’t react to him instantly. He perhaps realised me in that situation and told me that within one hour I also could reach Rampur. Wishing me to see again he started his run with a jingling sound and soon disappeared at the turn of the track. I stood overwhelmed with astonishment for some time to realise the entire scenario which brought me back to some hoary past. 

Featured Image – Chenap Valley

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Straight From the Heart by Asis Mukherjee

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As I panted and sweated my way up, the rucksack on my back felt heavy as a rock. The mild October sunshine lent, however a soothing touch. The view of the bridge over the river Alakananda came into focus and the town of Joshimath appeared on the opposite bank, as I gained altitude. A two hour trek brought me to a village. The first house I approached belonged to the village chief tain and his absence made no difference to the warmth of the welcome accorded by his young wife and daughter by a perfect stranger like me.

Relaxing in their courtyard after lunch , I gazed at the Alakananda flowing past , the ripples on its surface glittering in the sun. And I recalled how I had set out for Kagbhusundi Tal near Ratban Peak in the Garhwal region, putting up at the gurdwara in Govindghat, the starting point of the valley of Flowers and Hemkund Sahib. The place had been as disolate as a haunted house, with nary a visitor in sight. The residents of the upper settlement , I was told, had already moved to lower altitudes for the winter. Getting a porter to accompany me would, I realised, be next to impossible. The only option I had was to change my route.

The following morning, I was on the new to the Chenup Valley. A Rishikesh– bound bus, starting from Badrinath, had taken me from Govindghat to the new bridge over the Alakananda, the starting point of my trek to the largely unexplored valley.

Here I now was, in this unknown village, with little information about the place apart from the name of my absent host, Bagicha Singh who soon turned up and greeted me as though we were old friends. It was here that the positive side of human nature acquired for me, the cynical city dweller, a whole new dimension.

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Equipped with a great deal of useful information, I set off, the next day, for Rampur (popularly known as Thang), the last village on this route, lying at the end of a three- hour trek. And a picturesque little place it was too, clinging to the green slope of a mountain. Accustomed by now to the hospitality of hill people, I did not hesitate to make myself comfortable at the home of Bagicha’s brother.

The later was out, but soon returned with a bundle of wood he had been out collecting. The robust young fellow made me a cup of tea and gladly accepted the biscuits I offered him from my stock of rations. We took a stroll around the village in the evening and during dinner which he prepared and served, we chalked out our plans for the following day.

We set off right after breakfast, carrying only the bag containing my camera and walking at a brisk pace, because we planned to cover in a day a distance that usually took trekkers 48 hours to traverse. The main reason for our haste was to avoid a night’s halt in the valley, not the most desirable of experiences in late autumn.

As we gained height, the village fell away, looking like a picture postcard in the distance. To the east emerged the twin peaks – Hati and Ghori – the aptly named after the animals they resembled in shape. The Nandadevi towered over the other peaks in the famous circle of mountains to the south-east.

A trek of three hours brought us to the shoulder of the ridge we were heading for and we stopped for a well-deserved break. Lingering over our packed lunch, we drank tea prepared by my friend and allowed ourselves a leasurely smoke.

Which was just as well. For the last leg of ascent was so tough that I could not only had to hand over my camera bag to my companion, but was forced to take his help in scaling the bare surface of the sharp gradient. Hands and feet scrabbling for a hold, I finally managed to make it to a spot where I could stand erect and play the monarch of all I surveyed.

From this point, the valley stretched away to the north , from where a stream lay frozen in motion. Looking down, I was overcome by vertigo. Ahead, beyond Joshimath, stood the “beastly” duo, Hati and Ghori. Both the east and west summits of the Nandadevi were clearly visible in the distance.

The prelude to winter had turned grass and the juniper bushes a reddish brown. The trail to Sonasinker, a local pilgrimage spot, stretched to the north. My carefree explorations of the area were nipped in the bud by my companion’s warning that we were encroaching on the habitat of wild bears. I stopped in my tracks, noticing, for the first time, the large scythe he was carrying, ovbiously for self-defense. Within an hour, we were on our way back, spurred on, no doubt, by the need to avoid close encounters of the wild kind!

Within 24 hours, I was bidding goodbye to my friend, host and guide who had managed, within a brief span of time, to carve for himself a permanent niche in my heart. As I reached the bridge over the Alakananda and boarded a Haridwar- bound bus heading for the foothills, my thoughts continues to dwell on the people of this region who lent the concept of human kindness a new dimension and made every journey into the unknown an enriching experience.

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