A personal account of a day in the Parvati Valley, Himachal Pradesh, June 2012.
Keval squats beside the fire hearth, gently adjusting the position of the wooden branches and the glowing charcoal beneath it. The fire crackles and moans on being disturbed. Even in this small stance it seems like a beaming child, singing its own tunes and showing its graceful dance, unaware of its audience. Its energy is enchanting and we bathe in it, for today we need it.
I shift my glance from the fire to my new friend, Keval. He picks up a piece of coal and lights his bidi, takes a deep breath and exhales. A quiet satisfaction is visible on his face.
Keval is a shepherd, which means that his summers are spent taking his sheep, goats and horses — which he calls “goods” — to higher meadows where fresh grass has just begun to grow. With the progress of summer the snow melts and he moves to even higher altitudes, the final destination on this particular route being Mantalai, nestled at 4,100 m. By the end of the summer season he would have traversed almost all of the Parvati Valley and come back. Afterwards, he sells some of his animals in small cities and towns before moving to the state of Punjab to spend his winters away from the mountains, where the cattle can graze again. For a very short duration he goes back to his native village to meet his family.
Since I am writing this well after the trip, I have had the good opportunity to listen to numerous shepherds recite their annual migrations. For now, I sit beside Keval as he takes out another bidi from his packet and lights it up.
I look at his dark, hollow, wrinkled face with protruding cheekbones. The lips have turned dry from the cold and their ashen colour is an indicator of years of abuse from nicotine. Below his cap — a hallmark for all shepherds — I can partly see the grey and white hair. I consider this cap a useless apparel since it covers neither the forehead nor the ears against the cold, but for them it represents an identity. His hands have been cooked black from the outside by the sun and from the inside by the charcoal. They have become thin and hard, and sometimes I doubt they feel pain — I have seen him lift a hot container straight from the fire with little discomfort. His legs and bare feet are in a similar state.
The feet, I repeat, are bare. He does not wear socks.
“Socks are bad habits, we stay away from them,” he replies when I ask. I look down at my ankle-length hiking boots and then at his simple plastic shoes kept neatly in the corner. I can’t help but feel ashamed. Though I rebuke myself for not asking further, I presume they avoid socks for the risk of getting burnt — they spend a considerable time in front of the fire.
Keval is 60 years old, and anyone who might consider him too weak and frail is in for a big surprise. His agility and speed on the mountains is stupendous. His feet glide on irregular rocks and his knowledge of the region is so vast that he claims he can find his way even in the dark.
A chilly gust of wind finds me and I am quickly drawn closer to the fire. A sudden smile breaks Keval’s otherwise expressionless face and he quietly utters, “These are the mountains, anything can happen here” — partly to me and partly to himself. I give a respectful nod. For the past days I have witnessed the mood swings of the weather, and if I come to think of it, it was something I always knew. It seems that as the land grows higher and higher and forms these formidable mountains, forces fight for supremacy. The clouds press for cover, the sun for heat, the wind is a speedy chariot and the rain just wants to wash everything down.
I look back and watch in awe as the clouds engulf our campsite and the rain picks up speed, falling at an angle that makes the overhead shed of little use. Keval now puts water in a pot for tea. The best part, for me, is the goat milk. I have really come to enjoy it. The shepherds consider it very healthy and use it as a remedy for many diseases. It is just after noon but it looks as if night is fast approaching.
After what seems like an unfathomable length of time, the last rays of the sun finally leave us. The mountains disappear into oblivion, but you can still feel them — like a sleeping giant exhaling in hollow tones. Keval gets busy making dinner of rice and dal, which will take its time to cook at this altitude.
Everyone who has written songs and poems about the beauty of the mountains perhaps forgot to mention the sheer contrast that arises at night. A few might have mentioned it here and there, but for the most part what happens in the mountains at night is unseen and unheard of. I have witnessed how the same expanse of grand and majestic land, saturated with colour and endowed with a million delightful things that raptures every observer, turns ghastly at night. This is especially true on cloudy days when the light of the moon or the stars is not there to befriend you. There is just total darkness — pitch black — and I will go further and say that a dark dungeon is better. The dungeon at least offers the comfort of closure, but on the mountains every unseen step looks like an abyss, and in this disorientation deep fear takes root inside you. In the stillness of the silence, the meekest of sounds resonates like thunder. You can feel your heart thumping and the mind going crazy.
My generally voracious appetite has been tamed by the mountains and I find it difficult to gulp food. Soon enough I take leave from Keval. I have been so consumed by the dullness of the day that I feel I am being dragged to my warm tent. Still, a thought lingers. As I spend the night in the comfort of my sleeping bag, Keval will sleep out there in the cold. At night, ravenous black bears roam these mountains, and they would have been in excellent luck with all the food accumulated at one place if it were not for these fearless shepherds and their ferocious dogs who keep the enemy at bay. What can be more heart-churning than chasing hungry, grunting black bears in pitch-black surroundings? These 125 kg beasts have 4 cm long claws and can snatch three goats in quick succession. With sticks in hand and cries like a warning horn, Keval claims he chases the animal away.
Half asleep, as I unzip the tent I am suddenly engulfed in a furor of activity — like a cork thrown open from a champagne bottle. The dogs are barking madly, goats are crying in silent agony and Keval is searching for something, his tiny silhouette visible in the beam of his flashlight. Then he is running somewhere, banging the ground with his stick and uttering voluminous curses. I stumble for my own flashlight.
And suddenly Keval’s gasping calls to me, and the louder sound of the barking dog, become all too clear. Out there somewhere, a black Himalayan bear is heading in my direction — and I don’t know what to do.