TO THE LAND OF SNOW
A Walk to the Milam Glacier on the edge of Tibet.
By Ahtushi Deshpande
A 24 hour journey in a UP Roadways bus is not the most comfortable way to get to Munsiyari, I realize, as I count the numerous bumps on my head the morning after. I had been rudely awakened, several times during the journey – most notably around midnight, when the bus followed in hot pursuit of a rabbit, the passengers cheering on the driver. (The rabbit was eventually caught, put in a sack and locked up in the glove compartment.)
But when I step off the bus in Munsiyari, all memories of the bizarre journey vanish - the five mythological Pandavas stand proud before my eyes, their legend forever ensconced in the five majestic peaks of the panchchuli range. Situated in a remote corner of Kumaon bordering Tibet and Nepal, Munsiyari was once a bustling entrepot of trade. On a trekking trail north-west of Munsiyari is the Milam Glacier, one of the longest in the region. The four – day trek to the village of Milam at the end of this old trade route to
Tibet is dotted with abandoned Bhutia villages. In the wake of the India- China war of 1962, trade came to a halt and the hardy Bhutia traders migrated to the towns and cities below.
I am eager to set off on the trek to the glacier, Mr. Rare, the KMVN (Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nilgam) manager, is helpful and tells me that his father, Khem Nam, could act as guide on my trek. Khem nam turns out to be fully 65 years old, a veteran of these valleys. We make a list of provisions and set off shopping at the Munsiyari bazaar, a stronghold of the bhutia traders. As I make my purchases, the shop-owner proudly tells me that his daughter and son-in-law hold important IAS posts in Delhi. The bhutias, who once ruled the trade routes, may have lost their business, but they have retained their enterprise.
It is heartening to meet Laxmi, our porter, the following morning. He is a sturdy young man and seems likes just the support frail Khem Nam and I need. Rucksacks loaded, we head straight down to the Gori river.
For three days our path first takes us upstream along the goriganga, and them into the shrouded mailam valley where the narrow gorges afford few views. Abandoned bhutia villages dot our path and I increasingly get the feeling that we are traversing a long- forgotten route. On the fourth day we cross the ghost villages of Burfu and Bilju before we reach milam
It is now our sixth day on the trek; it has rained the whole night, and the morning brings even drearier weather. At over4000m, firewood is hard to come by. Keeping warms is tough, and distractions is the best recourse. The sun plays truant for most of the day, raising doubts about the feasibility of our venturing further up. Howling winds, clouds, bright sunshine and hailstorms chase each other through the skies, and I spend the day moseying in and out of our cave.
We are camped at Ragash kund, a little pond with a shepherd‘s cave on a grassy meadow above the glacier, where we sit out the bad weather for two days and nights. From milam village it has taken us a day to get to our current position, en route to suraj kund which(as I am later told) takes a detour via heaven because ―you gotta be dead first‖ before you get there. The rains of 1997 caused a lot of damage to the terrain and we are told that no one ventured beyond the snout of the glacier that year. But khem nam is not to be deterred. ―I know the glacier like the back of my hand, I will find us a way‖, he insists. His confidence is heartening –my map dose, after all, show a trekking trail, and I am fascinated with the idea of seeing this sacred laked lake nestled in a far nook of the glacier.
On the slop opposite our eamp is the fascinating summit of mandayo, which spirals up into the blue sky like a giant corkscrew.slapped with steep cliffs on all faces, it looks every inch an insurmountable peak. To my immediate right the nanda pal glacier slops down sharply. It could easily have been built up as a very challenging ski slope except, of course, for the fact that it ends in a cold and menacing snout with icy waters flowing beneath.
I feel as if I have trespassed on some hidden and forbidden world of beautiful peaks and ominous glaciers. For the locals the glaciated region is one to be feared – a land of demons and spirits writing to devour the unholy, but for the avid trekker, a journey into what is literally a no man‘s land can be the experience of a lifetime.
To see the cold snowy peaks coming to life with the first rays of the sun is simply magical. Getting to suraj kund is now the task at hand. Entire slopes have, well, slid down, taking with them the centuries –old path. to my untrained eye, the glacier looks impossible to walk on. Luckily, Khem Nam thinks otherwise – he has done a recce the previous evening and is now sure of our route.
After a big breakfast, we set off on the final leg of our pilgrimage to suraj kund. It is not an easy path – we hop over stones on landslides and delicately tread on the glacier rubble. The majestic mountains towering all around still look surreal, offering distraction from the fretful path. In all, nine smaller glaciers feed the Milam glacier system, each with its own set of peaks from which they emerge.
Crevasses dot our route as Khem Nam line it with dark stone markers to help us return. As we walk dead centre of the glacier, the 80m icefall starting from the best of the Hardeoli and Trishuli peaks comes into fuller view. The last leg is up a landslide. I turn a corner and there below, in a hidden nook sandwiched between two glaciers, stand the twin ponds of dudh and suraj kund with the stunning icefall forming a magnificent backdrop. I greedily bend down to drink some water from the holy pond – it is the sweetest I have ever tasted.
It is a long haul back and we reached our camp at Ragash kund only after nightfall.The following morning we return to Milam; by afternoon, the skies are showering down snowflakes the size of my palm. It snows continuously for the next three days and nights, leaving us stranded in the ‗civilisation‘ of Milam. Patience is an art well learnt when one is at the mercy of nature. Just when mine is beginning to wear thin, the skies clear. The autumn landscape is turning wintry.
I am out on the path by six – there is something I am keen to see. Three kilometers down from Milam lie the ruins of Bilju. Icicles hang from abandoned roofs, and fields of creamy snow line the tops. Facing the ghost village stand the twin peaks of Nanda Devi main and Nanda Devi east. I am transfixed. It is like the view you get from Binsar, but with an800mm zoom lens attached to your eyes!
I look deeply into its visage, trying to each in my mind every detail of the vast expanse of the valley and the forlorn abandoned village, blessed by a goddess no less then Nanda Devi herself. I pay my obeisance, Khem Nam and Laxmi arrive, and we head back towards Munsiyari – and traffic.
YAANAI MALAI
From THE MULTIPLE FACETS OF MY MADURI
By Manohar Devadoss
Sometimes, landscapes can speak to us. But they only talk if we are willing to listen to them.
Manohar Devadoss loves his hometown Madurai. A scientist by profession, the writer has produced some exquisite pen sketches of Maduri and its surroundings. One of his sketches of Madurai and its surroundings. One of his sketches of yaanai malai has been reproduced here for you. But what makes him extraordinary is not his versatility. It is his indomitable spirit.
For more than thirty years, Manohar Devadoss has had retinitis pigmentosa, an eye disorder that slowly but surely reduces vision. His wife Mahema, an immensely courageous person in her in own right, was paralyzed below the shoulders following a road accident 36 years ago. The love that they could bring to each other in the face of great tragedy has been a source of inspiration to all who have known them. Read and discover it!
The city of Madurai has been in existence for at least 2400 years. Throughout its history the city has nurtured Tamil literature. Over the centuries, Madurai has become famous for its temple complex. Rich in tradition, this ancient temple town has acquired its temple town has acquired itsnvey own mythologies, evolving own customs and festivals.
A dominant landmark of the north-eastern outskirts of Madurai is Yaanai malai, a solid rocky hill. When seen or approach from Madurai, this hill has a rather striking resemblance to a seated elephant – hence the name Yaanai Malai (Elephant Hill). Dotted with starkly beautiful palmyra trees, this part of rural Madurai has had a character all its own.
The paddy field here were nourished by monsoon rains, supplemented by water from large wells called Yettrams, which have all but vanished from the rural scene today. Yettrams were extensively used during my boyhood to draw water from these large, square, irrigation wells. A yettram well had long casuarinas poles tied together with a rope, a large bucket made of leather at one end and a counterpoise at the other, enabling a man to single – handedly draw large volumes of water.
On a cool in October, in the early 1950s, a school friend and I, on an impulse, decided to take a cross-country trek to Yaanai Malai, climb up the hill and stand on its head to look at Madurai and the surrounding country. At one stage the hill seemed close enough but as we walked on it seemed to move further away. Suddenly an idyllic rural scene presented itself. We saw watery field being ploughed. There was a large, square yettram well from which a wiry old man was drawing water. Yaanai Malai was an imposing and silent backdrop.
Monsoon clouds began to gather, darkening the upper sky and softening the light falling on the austere scene. The landscape was placid but the sky was in turmoil. And yet, there was perfect harmony between land and sky. The sky became darker and light played games on the hill. A large drop of water hit my head. Almost immediately, a heavy downpour tore open the sky and the sky and hill instantly disappeared behind curtains of water. As we walked back to Madurai thoroughly drenched, my friend complained with chattering teeth that rain had ruined our plan.
I thought that what we had witnessed moments earlier was a rare visual gift and that we could always climb Yaanai Malai some other day. But my destiny decreed that, in this life, I was to capture in ink on paper, the magic of the moment, of that distant afternoon, before lashing rains obliterated the serene landscape.
During my adolescence, Yaanai Malai inspired in me a sense of mystique. Though I gave a premium to rationalism then, I had difficulty thinking of Yaanai Malai as a nonliving, huge chunk of stone.
To me the hill seemed like a silent witness to all that was happening in Madurai, through its history. To this day, I dream of this hill in ways that relate to visual pleasure. In 2001, at a time when my vision – due to an incurable visual syndrome, Retinitis pingmentosa – had declined to a level when I was hardly able to see any details of a distant landscape, I dreamt that my wife, Mahema – who became paralysed below her shoulders, following a road accident in 1972 – was in her wheelchair and that I stood by her side on top of Yaanai Malai. In this vivid dream, I showed her some of the important landmarks of Madurai, the tower of the large Vandiyoor temple tank, the cupolas of the historic palace called the mahal, the great gateway towers of the temple and many his hills far and near. I told Mahema in my dream that had Thirumalai Nayak the ruler who had built the mahal three – and - a – half centuries earlier, climbed up the hill then, he would have had a view not vastly different from the one we were looking at.
The monolith, Yaanai Malai looks like an elephant only when it is viewed from the southwest. Happily, Madurai sits to the southwest of Yaanai Malai. What appears from Madurai to have a pyramidal shape is in actuality a very elongated hill. The Melur road from Madurai runs many miles parallel to the southeastern slope of the hill. When
from here, the hill has a different yet dominant appeal, as one can see from thisdrawing of the hill that I completed in june 2002 and have pleasure in presenting below. The broad band of paddy field ends not far from the hill and then the hill is enrichedby discrete downward steaks of rust – red stains.
During the cool winter months, before the emerald of the paddy field slowly turns into a wealth of gold, small flocks of lily – white egrets alight here to feast upon the tiny, silvery fish that stray into the shallow waters of the fields.
The egrets slow, flapping take –off and the gentle swoop of soft-landing - as they hop from one part of the field to another – are as graceful as the movements of ballerinas.
The borders of the paddy field are often lined with rows of palmyra trees. Small bushes grow wild rows of palmyra trees. Small bushes grow wild at the foot of the foot of the trees. During the winter season, these plants burst into thousands of yellow flames of flowers.
OUR HERITAGE – THE BRIHADEESVARAR TEMPLE
The Brihadeesvarar Temple or The Big Temple as it is commonly called by the natives of Thanjavur, is an architectural marvel of immense glory, that has astounded the world with its stupendous proportions and grandeur. Built in the year 1010 by King Raja Raja Chola, this monument of World Heritage has, for a thousand years, stood as a symbol of the flourishing sculptural expertise and rich culture of ancient India.
Thajavur, the Granary of Tamilnadu‘ is also the home of Carnatic music, dance and traditional handcrafts. Thanjavur was the ancient capital of the Chola kings, and the stylized bronze work for which the Chola period was famous, is still produced in this town.
Having overload myself with this and more information on thajavur, I reached the palace in search of all the glory of the old Chola capital. The 16th century palace complex was built by the Nayaks and later renovated by the Marathas. Situated close to the old bus stand, the first of the museums I visited here was the Royal Museum.Is this the might and valour of the Cholas I heard of? What am I seeing here? I wondered; a scantily lit room with drums, urns, perfume bottles, wooden boxes, manuscripts, gifts,
jewellary, weapons and other belongings of the Marathas.
A painting of a Maratha King welcomes you to the Durbar Hall. On the rear side of the painting an array of Pallava and Chola statues throws light on the craftsmanship of their era. The Art Gallery at the palace has an impressive line-up of granite and bronze monolithic statues, with details of excavation and the century of origin clearly displayed. The goddesses and other statues take you to a different era. The magnificent monolithic statues evince energy and life; the aura in their eyes beam a story of fine craftsmanship and effort. Vishnu, Ganesha or Nataraja look exactly the same as the look in today‘s images and statues. I also did notice a Buddha statue statue from the pallava era here.
From the palace, I moved to the Brihadeeswara Temple. The structure of the temple looks majestic. The temple occupies an area measuring about 750 feet by 400 feet, in a fort surrounded by a moat. It is a marvel of engineering, considering the technology of those ancient times. The towering vimanam is built up with stones with bonding and notching, without the use of mortar. The topmost stone, weighing about 80 tons, is still a matter of discussion for engineers who are baffled as to how the builders lifted it to that height without the help of modern contrivances. A charming tale is told about a ramp being built from a village – Sarapallam- four miles away, from where the giant stone was pulled up by elephants. The details of the stone work of this imposing vimanam are representative of the masterly craftsmanship of South Indian artisans. The Shilpi (sculptor) and the sathapathi (architect) came together to create their fanciful abode for
Shiva. Naturally, the shape had to echo the divine Mount Kailash. In its perfect geometry and distinct of lines, this tower is unbeatable.
The shrine for Lord Muruga is an integral part of the temple. It is a beautiful,
elaborately carved stone structure, a desingner‘s delight. To copy the unrepeated designs on each of the short pillars of this shrine would take an artist weeks if not months. One can just imagine how long the stone chiseller would have taken to complete each piece. I stood in awe, astonishment and reverence when I saw a walled fortrees inside – a standing testimony of the Cholas‘ opulence and vision. The enormity of the deities reflect the staunch reverence of the King to Lord Shiva. Rajaraja, his sister and queens donated their possessions of gold and silver to this temple. The gold the king donated came from his treasury.
The intricate carvings on the pillars and the inscriptions on the walls the temple a
delight for a historian‘s senses. The script used in the inscriptions resemble Tamil, Thai or some of the South East Asian languages. The huge (8.7 m height) Shiva Linga in the Sanctum Sanctorum and Nandhi Statue reflect the munificence of the Cholas. The pillared cloisters beside the main structure have a series of deities and Shiva lingas, worthy to be admired. The muralas narrate the story of Shiva‘s might.
Among the things visible are the interlocks of the granite stones. The rocks so perfectly fitted into one another at a height of 10 meters seems to share a harmonious bonding, not unnerved by the rains, winds and heat. Very well maintained, this structure will leave you with thoughts like, Was it actually built in the 11th century?
Unlike many temples, here the 58 m tall and 13-storeyed Vimanam makes the Gopuram. The inscriptions of the Vimanam talk about Raja Raja Chola‘s gifts to the temple. In its magnanimous idea, its grandiose vision, its display of the Herculean effort in construction, its portrayal of their glorious past of the Chola rgime and their patronage for arts and culture, this temples stands as testimony for all and ever.
One can spend a whole day in the Big temple, and still want to come back to marvel at every detail of its beauty. Many kings had built temples to Shiva on the banks of the kaveri. Many saints have sung in praise of these deities. But there is only one temple to Brihadeevarar , and it stands tall, a thousand years after a devotee-king climbed a ladder with a copper pot(kalasam) anointed with holy water from all the sacred rivers, to dedicated it to history. Our history...!!!
All the best.....
All the best.....
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