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I imagine myself standing in front of this narrow yet vast ocean and take a deep breath. The waters here smell of a certain legend (apart from sea food of course!) No wait. Actually several legends.
For these waters are no less in significance to the Silk routes, or the Grand Trunk roads of the world. These are the waters that once connected the greatest civilizations of the world. India with China, the near east of Arabia & Persia to the far east that lay beyond.
It was here, in Melaka, in front of the very same waters of the Malacca Strait that a Hindu king from Sumatra made friends with a Muslim king from China , to create a city that became a living embodiment of vibrant and bustling cultural mix of the Malay land. This is Melaka and I can’t help but wonder what a treasure chest of culture this would be. But this, alas, is just a dream. For I’m still here, in my room, with nothing but a laptop at me, forget the treasure chests.
But then, what’s a fantasy without a flight, what are wings without some wind? So I lent some wings to my fantasies for a dreamy flight to Malaysia to figure out those five experiences that these folks at Blogadda seem so keen to know about. Let me take you through a tour of the flight here –
1. Welcome to Tioman. An island once rated as the best in the world. It’d be perfect to just laze around in the peace of Tioman, sit at the beach, and give the mind & body a perfect detox from our city lives here. Tioman is like that quiet paradise that just quietly got forgotten somewhere. (Just like those aisle seats that thankfully no one chose in front of the window ones!)
An evening at an island in Malaysia
2. The Window Seat – Known for its unparalleled views! Melaka. For a view into the Malaysian society and its tenets. Into the religions, ethnicities, cultures that make up this society. And for a view into its rich and absolutely unmatched history. To take a peek into the stories of the traders who came generations back all the way from Gujarat & Arabia to Malaysia and further. And the spices that flew through the Straits of Melaka.
3. The Middle Seat – Known for, simply put, being surrounded all around! For a middle seat experience, my dream takes me to Taman Negara, one of the oldest Tropical forests around on earth. For spending a few days ensconced by greenery all around and spotting some of the rarest mammals & avifauna around. Imagine waking up to a different sound each time you do. (Middle seats are known for that though!) And much like a middle seat, you’d need to take permission to get in the forest!
4. The In-flight food – Known for its assortment of multiple cuisines for everyone. Penang! The city that wins the hearts of all foodies. With a food culture that boasts of Indian, Chinese & Malay influences all at the same time, I wonder if it’ll be as much a lesson in history as in gastronomy. Food for heart and food for thought both!
5. And last but not the least, the oxygen mask – Known for giving goose bumps & adrenalin jumps. A dive in Sipadan! Yes, the fact that Sipadan is one of the best diving sites in the world keep luring me. Imagine being surrounded mid-water by a school of Barracuda! And then topping off the day with a good time with the folks at the stilt huts over the clear waters of Mabul. Bliss!
And now that this list of experiences gets over, I realise that it’s almost midnight on 24th March and the ETA of the flight is close. Cabin crew at Malaysia Tourism, please prepare for landing and friends, fasten your seat belts. We may soon be landing in Malaysia!
Who am I? I wonder. A pearl perhaps, in a necklace of history, woven by the oldies around me, who cease not, to boast of their past. Who am I, but just a tear drop, in an ocean of identities, of claims, of conflicts. But a dream, in a sea of confused realities. They called me ‘Serendib’, that which was discovered by chance! And I wonder, again. You could have been lost, traveler, but I have always been here.
Forever, in temples that store a tooth of the Buddha, in the folklore of the tears of Sita, in the spirit of a legendary Ashoka’s Dhamma. I was always here, as a thought, a belief, a land in the legend of your legends, the pearl of an island, the keeper of a stories thousand.
Did you forget me traveler?
For I was here when you brought the Dharma to my fortress, dressed as Mahindra. I was still here till so late when those waves struck us together..
But did you forget me traveler? For I waited for you in those green hills..
Waited to shower you with smiles, when all you wanted was just a glimpse
I stood here, while you painted my walls with colors of thee, Dutch somewhere, somewhere else Portuguese.
And colors I did have of my own, those splendid hues of blue, which men & fish alike, would day after day cling to.
I was there In the taste of the cinnamon, sweet and savoury both, akin to that of a conversation with the family that grew this ‘kurundu’
I was there, in the sheer astonishment of my folks so humble at anything new..
In those headlines of a newspaper that’d soak the occasional morning dew.
And also among those lines that divided my children..
But even today my friend, I continue to remain in those cricket-loving roars of “I AM KUMARA SANGAKARRA!” that unite them!
Yet, I wonder, did you forget me traveler?
A barren land stretches to eternity on both sides of this empty road. Pale and lifeless, like the sands we just left behind, to the extent that the only semblance of life seem to be the tufts of the dead grass, rendered a golden hue by the Sun which refuses to relent even in the winter months.
Remorseless. And as we have crossed Jaisalmer on our way to Jodhpur, the horizon is marked not by sand dunes but by several windmills, in all directions. My friend from Mumbai has taken a liking to the cool morning breeze and is off to sleep. And so I’m left with little more than these windmills and the music of 90s Bollywood movies to give me company. Above The ubiquituous Ravanhattha of Rajasthan.
From the foothills of the Himalayas to the desert in Rajasthan, 90s Bollywood music is the all- time favourite of bus drivers in the Indian countryside. And I must concede here that it’s not always soothing. For instance, the driver in this bus is playing, ‘Teri yaad satati hai.. milne ko bulati hai’. My friend’s lucky he’s off to sleep.
As the bus stops at a ‘phatak’ – a railway crossing, (and there is no stopping the painful music), my thoughts wander back to the other music that I’ve heard in Rajasthan, far more mellifluous. Coming from a boy in Mandore, the ancient fortress, where he played a sonorous rendition of ‘Ud ja kale kawa’ on an instrument he called ‘Ravanhattha’.
Divide this word into two and you’ll have a legend of music dating back not hundreds but thousands of years. To the times when once the legendary Ravan lost his veena & cut his own forearm (hattha), to turn his fingers into tuners, his veins into strings and his elbow into a resonator!
Ah! The sacrifice for that one strain of music that today resounds through every street and gully of Rajasthan, from Jaipur & Jaisalmer to Udaipur, at the entrance to every fort and in the courtyard of every palace. Yes! The land of palaces has more than its share of native musical instruments than you’d have thought.
Meanwhile, the bus stops at a village where local women board, bangles all over their hands, and veils all over their faces. Behind them, a group of army-men enters. Yes, the border with Pakistan and the historical town of Pokharan are both close by. The bus restarts and with it, another rendition of excruciating songs – ‘Tumse o hasina kabhi mohabbat na humko karni thi’. And with this I switch again to the ‘other’ music.
This time the music in my mind takes me back to a concert in the Mehrangarh fort of Jodhpur, where classical and folk came together one melodious evening. A team of talented musicians with Nawab Khan on Santoor joined another equally talented one, of the Langas, with their Sarangis and Khartals. And what began with a devotional recital in Arabic, gradually turned into an immaculate performance by Nawab Khan on the Santoor. But the greatest symphonies were to be created when the Langas would join in. The Langas, with their vocals, brought about a geniality that only the rusticity of folk music could, their Khartals at one instant, rattling their way to find an expression above the percussions of the dhol, and at the very next, losing themselves in the pulsating voices of the singers, akin to the applause of the enraptured audience. A Sindhi Sarangi played behind, lending serenity to the ensemble and the falling evening, much like its player, the other Khan sahib, probably the eldest in the group. The Sarangi, as he later told us, was his grandfather’s. Music survives way beyond us mortals do.
And, as I remember those songs, with a mix of Urdu and Rajasthani thrown in, I see the land outside my window turning greener, the grass being replaced by shrubs, the dunes with the first sights of leveled lands. And soon, the bus halts at Pokharan. The army-men alight and we follow, to be greeted by signs of the ‘Famous Cham-Cham of Pokharan’ at eateries all around us. Excited by the prospect of another culinary discovery, we try it, and it turns out disappointing, its taste embittered further by the lame ‘radio-active cham-cham‘ joke from my friend. He is clearly better off sleeping.
We now board the bus for the last leg of the journey to Jodhpur(& hopefully of the painful music). I remember the narrow approach with which I had come here, for attending the World Sufi Music Festival. The only musicians I intended to listen to were those from outside India. And so I had skipped the Manganiyar concert. Only now, after listening to the Langas and reading about both communities in Jaisalmer, I rue my earlier decision.
The Maganiyars are musicians from villages around Jaisalmer & Barmer and embody a tradition of music centuries old, where they, Sunni Muslims, would sing for their Hindu patrons. They still continue to sing in several parts of Rajasthan. It’s still not difficult to spot an old Manganiyar with an even older Kamaycha in his hands singing ‘Moomal’ somewhere around the mud houses of the desert.
Meanwhile, the view from the window turns more vivid as I now spot a few cranes flying outside. The area is close to Khichan, which witnesses annual migration of Demoiselle cranes during this time. The music in the bus has stopped.
Soon I’d be reaching Jodhpur & it’d be time to leave. But I will go back with more fertile ears than ever before. I take with me the music of the deserts, at once plangent, at once buoyant, of longing and belonging alike. I hope that the next time you come here, you don’t just stare at these palaces, but listen to them too. Don’t merely hear the legends of the royals, but also hear the echo of those who sang for them.
Don’t just pass by the next Ravanhatta player beside you, but sit with him & ask him to play your favourite song, or may be join along, a ‘moomal’ or a ‘ghorband’ perhaps ( & it doesn’t matter if your singing is hit only in the bathroom). This is music that has lasted centuries, may be millennia, not the Bollywood music that you’d run way from in a few years!
This post was earlier published with Yahoo India Lifestyle Travel blog.
Serendipity. That’s the word. That’s what keeps bringing me back to Goa. In all probability, even you’ve been there, done that. And each time you went, you decided not to come back. Enough of beaches, shacks and casinos, you told yourself. All in vain though. Next season, you’re back. If you live in Mumbai, Pune, Bangalore or have simply visited it multiple times, you know I’m talking about Goa on the coast of India.
Frankly, I don’t even know why I have been to Goa as many times, each time deciding not to come back. The only reason that I can think of, as I write this, trying hard to look for one, is this whole ‘Serendipity’ thing. You know, when you go to a place and find something altogether unexpected ? Something awesome, which perhaps makes the entire trip & its experience come alive. Even after decades of wooing Indian (& of course Russian) tourists, Goa retains the ability to deliver this ‘thing’ each time you visit it. Goa, my friend, is only as old as the traveller in you.
And so, here I list down some of the more interesting (or delicious) ways of experiencing Goa that I came across on some of my last visits. Let’s see if these have featured in your umpteen trips to Goa. :)
A.) Woke up Where? – How about waking up with a Breakfast at Cafe Inn?
By all means, my favourite beach in Goa remains Palolem, even after all these visits. Apart from the secluded location, scenic vistas, and clean waters, it is the presence of some really good eateries in the vicinity that draws me back. Most of all, Cafe Inn, just after the final left turn to the beach, serves a wonderful breakfast. I’ve been visiting them ever since they were a modest establishment and even now, when the cafe has expanded into far larger seating area, they continue serve one thing best – their Peanut butter croissant, the freshest I’ve ever had.
Where? – Palolem Beach Main Road. Go straight instead of taking the left for the beach.
- Wake up to a surreal view at Palolem!
B.) Shopped in Anjuna?? – How about spending an evening at the Arpora Flea Market?
I haven’t understood this. People have talked so much about the Anjuna flea market. Truth is, the Arpora flea market is the big daddy of all flea markets I’ve seen. It’s full of – I don’t have a word to describe it – lets just say, arbitrary stuff. From absolute junk, that’d force you to invent a use for it before buying, to musical instruments, to cuisines of the world ranging from Bulgarian to Belgian to Punjabi, the market has almost everything to ensure that you’d rather party here than at an expensive club elsewhere. And, there are live music performances too. It’s probably the one place where local tribes and the firang hippies of Goa come together as an enterprise. You have to be there to know it.
What – The Saturday Night Flea Market
Where – Arpora, North Goa. Be prepared for traffic jams on the road. (& in Goa, they happen after midnight!)
- The wide range of food available at Arpora Flea Market.
C.) Ate there? – How about eating at La Plage?
The La Plage at Aswem is like going to a good friend’s big fat wedding. It has all the ingredients, a huge setting in vivid colours, an exotic menu, a caring crew, the peace to sit around & have a wonderful conversation with friends.
A hearty meal at La Plage followed by a walk on the clean beach just beyond the restaurant is one of the most pleasant experiences I have ever had in Goa.
- The wonderful setting at La Plage, Aswem
Follow this up with a dessert at Cafe Nu in Mandrem. Though the menu has a lot of gastronomic delights to offer, but I can vouch for at least the Chocolate Ganache that I had. Their gooey chocolate filled in extremely thin phyllo dough rolls served with scoops of ice-cream will simply melt in your mouth.
- The most amazing Chocolate Ganache at Cafe Nu
La Plage in Aswem
Café Nu, Mandrem. Keep an eye out for the sign boards for Café Nu on the road to Mandrem beach.
D.) Swam there? – How about swimming in a lake & paragliding at Arambol?
Yes & no, respectively. Yup, I tried the paragliding and came back with a close to surreal experience. But only later did I realise that I hadn’t asked my pilot if he had any certification, not even for experience for that matter. Was it a registered company? I don’t know. Frankly, I’d suggest against it. Unless you’ve ensured that the company you are flying with has convincing credentials & you are willing to risk it. Do go around the ghetto-esque setting of Arambol though, towards the north, to discover a tiny fresh water lake behind its hills & maybe take a dip or two. Goa is all about discoveries anyways. Isn’t it?
- Freshwater lake at Arambol
Happy Rediscovering! What are your Goa Secrets?
- A Surya Namaskar to end the day at Aswem
Over the past few days, I have been obsessed with Mumbai. It’s the city I have been living in for quite a few years now and at time, I have hated it. And at those times, when I’ve been away from it, I have missed it. I have cursed it. And those times, when I’ve roamed around carefree at odd hours in the night & still managed to find something to eat, I’ve thanked it.
Quite frankly, it’s an enigma, the more you try to understand it, the more it puzzles you. It’s an illusion, the moment you think you have made it in Mumbai, it brings back to ground with a crash & a thud. It’s a confusion, of people and their ambitions, of cultures and their religions, of emotions and their manifestations. Perhaps the only place that gives an Irani and a Bihari equal opportunities to aspire for and realize their dreams.
It’s a deluge on the senses. More than 18 million voices to be heard, faces to be seen, their minds to be understood and their hearts to be felt, their cuisines to be devoured, smelled, and relished. 18 Million! It is with this objective that I set out starting this section of the blog. To bring to you a picture, every now and then, of the many faces of Mumbai, its people and its places, and everything around, that they find their expression in.
Today, we start with the iconic Haji Ali Dargah in Mumbai, a belief for several, and an inspirer for several others, including the Oscar award winning music composer, A.R. Rahman and his songs! The title of the pic, ‘The wait for Thee‘ tries to capture the spirit of the Sufis that this landmark signifies.
Kashmir. It is here that I decide to be a Lens. Just the lens of a camera. Period. But I secretly wish I was a human here, in this princess of lands, that an emperor once called ‘Firdaus’ – Persian for paradise.
How I envy the splendour of the valleys that these locals dwell in, the silent opulence of their lakes and the exquisiteness of their cuisine, the wazwan. But there’s hardly ever a thing called a free lunch. Being a human has its own costs, especially in a land that evokes the strongest of pathos, from the natural beauty of a landscape & equally from the unnatural ugliness of a conflict and as much as I may yearn for it, I can’t afford to be a human here. I’m glad being just the lens, that doesn’t belong to any human, not even an eye, for even then I may end up taking sides!
I’m glad being just a lens, I’d hardly ever have to face winds as fierce in a terrain as tough..
I’m glad being a lens for all I captured with this nomadic Bakarwal kid was his horse, and not the herculean effort of his family climbing the Himalayan passes up every summer and then down to Jammu every winter.
I’m pleased that I could pretend to just glare incessantly into the eyes of ‘chacha‘ and not listen to his woes of insufficient payments and insensitive trekkers & inefficient travel unions.
I’m glad that I could stare at the faces of these school boys but not at the uncertainty of their future
Oh and being a lens has its perks too, for I’m the only one an army would allow in its camps to capture whatever I want!
But then that’s all that a lens can gather from a scene. And it saddens me. A land like Kashmir deserves far more than my mechanical visions.
I’m sad because I could only capture the innocent look of little Ashfaq but could hardly zoom into his dreams of growing up and becoming a soldier..
I could take in the mountains and the pastures but not the delight of having a chai in the lap of the very same mountains
I’m angry that I could only watch with wariness when these eyes approached me, I wish I had emphasized more on the excitement in them while they recalled their travels to other parts of India
And I’m disappointed that even though I focussed on the eyes of the other ‘Chacha’ , I was barely capable of focussing on his pride of climbing those numerous passes and mountains as a Kashmiri
Truth is, it’s tough even being just this lens in Kashmir. I’v already been happy, glad, sad, angry and disappointed as I narrated this to you. May be, being an eye wouldn’t have been that tough. May be then I would have seen beyond the smoke that lies between me and them. Perhaps even as a lens, I was taking sides. May be if I had been an eye, I’d have known the better of it!
I turn this dripping sweet upside down and place it in my mouth. With a sound of crunch, as the top of the pastry crumbles over my teeth, the heavenly baklava melts in the palate. An invincible mixture of its butter and sugar syrup takes over and it seems like I’m experiencing the whole of Turkey and its Ottoman cuisine all over again, albeit sitting miles away in Mumbai, in this single piece of Baklava sourced from Istanbul.
I have a great urge to start this food trip description with Gaziantep, for it is from there, that the greatest of Turkish baklava makers originated, even those who are today known as the best in Istanbul, and still reside. However, I must resist, for good food has the power to sway our senses far far away. And so, I’d rather stick to tradition here and start where we should, breakfast.
Fly to the far East in Turkey, stopping only miles short of the border with Iran. Van, the beautiful city situated besides a lake of the same name, has distinguished itself, not just in being the center of the Kurdish populace but also in having a breakfast culture of its own. Choose the Kahvalti Salonu (breakfast salon) in the morning and leave exploring the vistas of the city to the day. And with that, dawns the realization that breakfast, in Turkey is an elaborate affair, more like an occasion for the family to sit together and eat. With different varieties of cheese, including ‘peynir‘, olives (both black and green), kaymak (Turkish version of clotted cream), cacik (similar to Indian raita) with bread, honey, salads, fruits and even dry fruits, the Turkish breakfast ensures a wonderful start to a day of exploration of the old towns; needless to mention the ubiquitous ‘cay‘ (tea) to lend further zest to the morning.
Turkish breakfast by Pocket Cultures
A quick thought for vegetarians though, Kahvalti may typically consist of a few meat items as well. In that case you can try telling them ‘Ben bir vejetaryen’ which translates to ‘I am vegetarian’ or also try ‘Tavuk, et ve balik yemem’. (Tavuk, Et, and balik are Turkish for chicken, meat & fish respectively, ‘yemem’ for ‘I do not eat’. Beware though, saying ‘yemek’ instead of yemem can mean ‘I eat’!)
Goreme from a hot air balloon flight
From the far east, head to the interiors, and probe the heart of Turkey a little. Land at Kayseri and change some buses to reach Goreme, where the valleys and caves have preserved more than just a landscape. And while you move from one cave city to another within Goreme, step into one of the restaurants to have the humongous lentil burger. A scrumptious one with a patty of lentils at its core, adorned with some onions and other leafy vegetables, it is a perfect meal to bring your craving for ‘local’ vegetarian food to a halt. And the Lentil soup, as the name suggests, is vegetarian to the extent of being almost identical to the Indian Dal. At those times when you really can’t think of much at a Turkish eat out, just order a bowl of this soup and some rice, and you’ll be alive and kicking again to explore the next cave city (Yes, there are more than one of them). At night, get drunk on some Cappadocian wine, unless you have a hot air balloon flight the next morning, in which case you really wouldn’t want to be hung-over (literally!).
Red lentil and bulgur soup by LWY
The lagoon at Oludeniz
A trip to Turkey would be rather incomplete without a visit to one of its several pristine beaches, the colour of whose waters gave modern vocabulary the word ‘Turquoise’. From Goreme, head west in a bus to Oludeniz. But break in between. For it’s in Anatolia that some wonderful Turkish foods are to be found. To believe me, try the Testi kebabs – cracker of a dish from central Anatolia. The vegetables are slow cooked in a sealed clay pot to prepare a hot stew, which is then eaten with rice and some salad. But the delight of the dish lies in the way it’s served – cracked open with a hammer in front of the eater! Definitely calls for an experience. Doesn’t it?
Pottery kebabs by albertjyi
And meanwhile, at all those places your bus stops, feast your way to some Gozleme, Turkish handmade pastry, much akin to the Indian ‘Paratha‘ and have it with Ayran, thick butter milk with lots of froth dangling over your glass. There are Gozleme varieties galore for vegetarians, Spinach Gozleme, Peynir Gozleme, Spinach & Peynir Gozleme, Potato Gozleme (yes that almost amounts to saying Aloo Paratha) or all of them. But decide soon among them because, my friend, there’s a bus to hop back on to! Did warn you, good food can sway your senses away.
Step into one of the quaint alleys in Selcuk
Once you have soaked into the sun on the most fabulous beaches in Oludeniz, near Fethiye, head a little north along the coast. Cross over from Aydin to Selcuk. You are closer to Greece than ever before, geographically and may be, just maybe, culturally. And so, even though these may not be a Selcuk speciality per se, try the Yaprak Dolma – Stuffed grape leaves, which have been signature Mediterranean food for years. Annia Ciezaldo in her book ‘Day of Honey’ calls the dolma, a narrative dish, like short stories, where each ingredient speaks as the package unfolds. The good part is, dolmas are usually vegetarian, with a stuffing of rice inside grape leaves (their non-vegetarian cousin is usually called ‘Sarma‘). There are other dolmas as well, basically stuffed vegetables. They’ll make for a good change in taste, and a good conversation, as you open each leaf and devour the stuffing inside. After all, they are a narrative dish :)
Dolma by Vegan Feast Catering
Now, I want to you to take several steps back, closer to the border with Syria. Fret not; it’ll be worth the effort since we are talking about the most important part of the meal, the dessert. And for that we’re heading to the birth place of the Turkish Baklava, Gaziantep (or just Antep). It’s said that the baklava of Gaziantep is impossible to make anywhere else owing to the weather conditions and the nuts found there. Layers of filo pastry with multiple layers of nuts in between, dripping with syrup, ready to melt in your mouth, the moment you eat. Baklava, for any food lover, is a journey in time and space alike, with its varieties (Turkish, Syrian, Iranian, Lebanese and even Greek!), its origins, and the claims laid by different Middle Eastern countries to its origin. (Yes, it is that important a thing!). Though there are several chains in Istanbul selling them, one would do good to eat Baklava from one of the smaller outlets in the other Turkish towns. They are equally lovely and cheaper! (Heck, everything is, outside Istanbul).
Turkish Baklava by Alaskan Dude
And finally, arrive in Istanbul, where the culinary greatness of the entire Turkey flows through the waters of a certain Bosphorus. It is here that the kebaps of Anatolia, its pilaf and its lentil soup, the baklavas of Antep and the legends of its Ustas, the leaves of Dolmas and the tales of the Mediterranean that they behold, the Turkish coffee and the fortunes of the future, the coffee houses and the stories of the past, the Dondurma ice cream of Maras and the tantrums of its sellers, the breakfast salons of Van and their inherent diversity, all come together to make Turk Mutfagi what it is today!
The Bosphorus from the walls of the Topkapi Palace
Have you been to Turkey? Share your impressions of the food there.
One needs to have a 3D card in his head to figure this place out, or may be a 3D GPS in the car. Clearly, there’s no other way to find out that 18 kms up the very mountain at the foothills of which one stood a while back, lies a superbly nested tiny village called ‘Sarahan’.
Sarahan is small town in Himachal Pradesh of India and also the site of famous Bhimakali temple, dedicated to the mother goddess Bhimakali, presiding deity of the rulers of the former Bushahr State. The temple is situated about 180 kilometers from Shimla and is one of 51 Shakti Peethas. The town is known as the gateway of Kinnaur.
The way to the village winds round and round, much like the traveller’s physical & mental state. To the uninitiated, it will seem a little crazy, to go through the torture of travelling all the way so high, and for what, after all? A view? But the truth, is a bit farther. Conquering a mountain, whether by foot, on a bike, a motorbike, or even in a car, has been about figuring that little something more about yourself (perhaps about the car as well) and not just the mountain.
About figuring out how life can be as difficult as climbing the mountain and as simple as the view at the top, ooth at the same time. In some of the views that strike the climber, he discovers that one bit in himself that he never thought existed. Much like the settlements & the villages on the way. Like this one, ‘Sarahan’. One couldn’t have known it was here. Or the fact that it would conjure up such majestic views as one approached it. Above: a bit of energy across the mountains.
The hamlet of Sarahan lies in Himachal, half way through to the Kinnaur valley from Simla. It’s one of its kind. Perched high up on a mountain, giving the most serene views of the Himalayas, yet known by very few. I’m not sure how may buses ply to this place, and at what frequency. But there’s a settlement here. And a life in the hills that’d charm any traveller without trying one bit. That of locals going about their chores in the hills, of ladies making chai and pakodas in a cold evening, of men lighting fire on gathered wood. Fat, grubby dogs, lazing around the streets and little kids with burnt cheeks and monkey caps, chasing around the same fat dogs, a (eco-friendly) traffic jam, caused not by cars, but by flocks of sheep, where even the most monstrous of SUVs would be rendered helpless.
Below: The view as one approaches Sarahan.
There aren’t many hotels to interfere with this idyllic life or with the view either. There is, however, a Himachal Tourism Guest House, which apart from providing good facilities, has the perfect location. It’ll take a while for anyone to remove his eyes from the view that they behold at the guest house.
A little further from here, an ancient Bhimakali temple adorns the heart of the village. And if the sight of several mountains moving in & out of clouds is not enough, there’s another view point, further higher, for you to stare at the mountains endlessly.
It’s a place to build memories, to wonder at the greatness of the mountains, or sit alongside one of the houses built in a traditional architecture, or in a silent moment, to simply pause & listen to the sound of the Satluj gushing past in the valley several kilometres below. Come to think of it, Sarahan is just a simple village in the hills. Just that I still can’t figure out why I keep wanting to go back ever since I returned. Why don’t you go too & help me figure out?