As unprecedented rainfall wreaks havoc in Uttarakhand,V Shoba recalls her difficult trip to the region during a monsoon past By the narrow canyon at the mouth of the Valley of Flowers National Park in Uttarakhand,a forest department signboard bears a quote by the French Renaissance scholar Michel de Montaigne: Let us permit nature to have her way. She understands her business better than we do. A month from now,the valley will be in peak bloom,powdered all over with Himalayan aster,balsam,poppy and hundreds of other flowers,including the rare brahmakamal,a fragrant white beauty found at altitudes of 12,000 ft and higher. This year,however,few tourists will cross the Pushpawati,a tributary of the roaring Alaknanda river,to tackle the valleys trails. Nature has had her way with Uttarakhand,tipping it over the edge and into its raging rivers. The hamlets of Govindghat and Ghangharia,base camps for treks into the valley and to Gurudwara Hemkund Sahib,a Sikh shrine at an altitude of 15,000 ft,lie in ruins. Two years ago,when I was on a trip with my family to the land of the gods around this time,the valley was abuzz with activity and the clink of endless glasses of chai that keep travellers warm. Our journey began at the windswept foothills of Rishikesh and was fraught with the usual perils of monsoon travel in the Himalayas. We spent a night at a hotel in Karnaprayag with its balconies hanging low over the confluence of the Alaknanda and the Pindar rivers,and a temple dedicated to goddess Umadevi. While the morning was peaceful,the day that lay ahead was anything but. Ominous clouds gave us chase on the drive to Joshimath and rocks,big and small,hurtled down like imprecations down the hillside. The strip of road,strewn with these meteors of fate,was crumbling,ceding inch after inch to the abyss below. Repair work halted traffic for hours; a rickety bus carrying pilgrims turned around,their faith shaken. Amid a storm of mounting anxiety,we soldiered on through six landslides,hanging by our faith in the skills of our driver,Monu Singh. We arrived at Joshimath by lunchtime to find the town choked and all hotel rooms taken. Restaurants were fast running out of supplies. In the distance,the Nanda Devi peak poked at a torn sky. Every time the rain let up,people stood around parked cars,speculating about the weather. Most of them were stranded here en route to Badrinath,one of the holy char dhams,the road to which had turned treacherous after a spate of landslides. The next morning,Monu decided he wouldnt give up. Road aur building banate jao pahadon pe,aisa hi hoga (If you keep laying roads and constructing buildings in the mountains,this is bound to happen), he grumbled. Riding on sheer gumption,Monu swerved his way through falling rubble even as we looked up imploringly at the gashes of red earth in the mountain. We had just passed Govindghat when the ground gave way a few metres behind us. Monu didnt stop. Unflinching,as a rock landed with a thud on the side of the four-wheel drive,he paused for breath only after we had reached relatively stable ground Hanumanchatti. We would make it to Badrinath. In exultation,we hiked the eight km from Badrinath to Vasudhara Falls,through the mist-wrapped village of Mana,on the Tibet border. Tumbling down from a height of 400 ft,the torrential column is on the right bank of the Alaknanda. On a clear day,from a viewing point near the falls,one can see massive mountains mantled with snow and the glacial snouts of Alakapuri from where the river emerges. The foaming river that has now wreaked havoc across the state is at its glorious best between Govindghat and Ghangharia. Its deafening surge is a constant companion on this 15-km trail that climbs 5,000 ft,and thousands of pilgrims risk their lives every day to take a purifying dip in its frigid waters. A well-marked bridle path snakes up the mountain hooded at the top with vapours,with stirring views of the Kak Bhusundi valley to the side. The hike took six hours,with a tea break in between at a wayside shack where bottles of soda were left to chill in plastic buckets full of rainwater. Along the way,there was chanting,the clatter of mule-hooves,the flutter of disposable raincoats,the cry of children,stalls offering pilgrims glucose and biscuits,and the poignant silences in between. The air smelled like bruised leaves and spirits rose and fell with the rain. Ghangharia was an anticlimax in comparison,with its horse dung,mouldering garbage and crowded streets. Nestled among tall deodars,it was inhospitably cold,and the rugged lodges offered little respite. Men huddled around fires and a packet of biscuits cost Rs 100. Life here is not easy. We have to haul the food up all the way from Joshimath. Now that the road is blocked,we cant go there for a day or two, said Hariprasad,who served pakodas sprinkled with chat masala when we came into his shop,hungry and stiff from the rain. In winter,the town empties out to return to the warmth of the valley. Earning a livelihood has always been a struggle for people here,even before the floods washed away whatever little footing they had in the world. The mist rolled out slowly the following morning,dispelling fears of a storm. We left town to hike into the Valley of Flowers,a 10-km-long World Heritage Site with dramatic views,hundreds of species of endemic flora and gurgling streams. A day spent walking the valleys bedewed expanse was oddly calming. The rigour of our journey quickly forgotten,we returned to the safety of Joshimath that night,but without a visit to Hemkunt Sahib,among the worst affected by the cloudburst. The seven snow-covered peaks surrounding Hemkunt lake must now look upon the shrine,closed for the season,in silence as the Lakshman Ganga weeps,leaving sodden promises in its wake.
