Losing My Religion: Chapter 4 - Adventure Begins in the Himalayas!

In this week's article of #LosingMyReligion series, I am posting the entire Chapter 4, where Rishi & Alex start their roller-coaster of an adventure! They decide to trek to the mysterious Malana Valley, hidden deep in the Himalayas, and known for it's unique culture. Many believe, this tiny hamlet is inhibited by the descendants of Greek emperor Alexander The Great! That's not it! It's also known for the infamous Malana Cream!

This is how the great adventure starts! Hold tight and enjoy the ride!

CHAPTER 4

February 2

1:00 p.m.

Manali, Himachal Pradesh

‘There have been two avalanches in the last few weeks. The rains are frequent and it’s too dangerous. I would advise you to not hike to Malana right now,’ said Surendar Ranta, a Himachali who owned an adventure sports company in Manali called Snow Dog Adventures. The man earned his bread, butter, and jam by arranging for treks, skiing, and guided mountaineering tours in the Himalayas. His was not the only such shop on this stretch of the market, but it was the largest.

‘When do you think would be a good time?’ the man with the dark, black beard asked. He stood at around six feet and sported a lean frame. His face, the only thing that could be seen of him, appeared weather-beaten; the rest was covered in woollens. He wore a deep green jacket with jeans and shoes that seemed to have seen better days. But who was Ranta to comment; he was himself wearing weathered boots.

Another man stood next to him, wearing binoculars around his neck. Of medium height and frame, he was looking at the lofty snow-covered mountains kiss the clouds with awe in his eyes. The only distinguishing feature about him was his arms, which seemed to be inked till the elbows, and maybe even beyond—Ranta couldn’t be sure because a cardigan covered the rest of his arms. That and the fact that he was Caucasian.

‘Maybe in a month or two. The weather will be clear and the pass will be safer,’ Ranta replied in a wavering voice, once he was done surreptitiously sizing up the two men who had burst into his office during lunch time, demanding to see whoever the owner was.

The bearded man took his time thinking about something before saying in his deep, cold voice, ‘A month or two . . . Well, you know what? I don’t think we can wait that long. We have to make the trip. Now. Please arrange for it.’ And offered him a wad of notes. Universal language for expediting processes.

Ranta offered him an oily smile and came ahead to take the money. But the look of suspicion didn’t leave his face. He was unable to make out for the life of him why these two people needed to visit Malana so urgently.

Must be the Cream, he finally reasoned as they left, and began making arrangements for the trek. Who was he to stop them, after all. He was just wondering that who would be willing to take them in such crazy weather. The otherwise medium-difficulty level trek till Malana was going to be extremely tough now. Drumming his fingers on the fat wad he had just been given, his eyes fell on Ram Singh, and all his worries cleared. ‘Where there is Cream, there is Ram,’ he thought to himself with a smile, and called out to the guide.

***

As the two men stepped out into the biting cold, they wore smiles of satisfaction.

‘Told you I would do it,’ the taller one stated, a sliver of laughter ringing in his voice. It was Rishi.

‘Your tone was so serious that the man is probably crappin’ his pants right now. But dude, respect,’ said the tattooed man and saluted him. It was Alex.

‘We have an hour til—,’ began Rishi, feeling for his cell phone in his jacket to find out the correct time, but stopped when he realized he didn’t carry that piece of bondage any more. He allowed himself a rare grin at that. It was a significant move and he was glad he had made it.

‘Missin’ your ol’ friend, it seems,’ teased Alex, juggling his eyebrows. Rishi’s grin became wider listening to him and he shrugged in a devil-may-care attitude. He began moving in the direction of the nearby shops to buy a few essentials for their trip.

This is how they had survived till now in the last few weeks of travelling. They journeyed with basic amenities and replenished or added on as per the next segment of their adventure. They didn’t keep a set agenda but rolled with the roads as per what caught their fancy that particular day.

But Malana was different. It was as planned as it was impromptu. From the first time Rishi had heard Alex mention this mysterious village, which was believed to be inhabited by the descendants of King Alexander’s army, he had been hooked. There was something so unreal about it . . . so fantastical that he had been drawn to it time and again. It intrigued and beckoned him. No matter where he and Alex went, the first free minute he got, he would spend that in a cyber café searching on Malana. The search results left him dumbstruck, excited, incredulous, and oh so hypnotised.

The place existed undeniably and various travellers had even written about their amazing experiences trekking to it. Some had also warned that the journey might not be a pleasant one, but that excited Rishi further. No other place till now had made him forget his worries as just the mention of Malana had. He was game for some real adventure in the Indian Shangri-la, and a two thousand-year-old village that had its own rules, claimed to be Greek, and was unpretentiously snooty seemed to be just the ticket.

That’s what made him decide to chuck their trip to Rohtang pass and beyond and come to Malana.

Even before reaching Manali, Rishi had planned everything. Since the time he had left Bangalore, he had seen the beginning of changes coming in him. It was slow, the process, but just the fact that it had started, made him happy. There was something about Malana that had charged him and he was raring to go.

After some discussion with Alex, he had decided on taking the beautiful twelve-thousand-feet-high Chandrakhani pass to reach this mystery of a village. It wasn’t the shortest distance to their destination, but it was the most scenic one, and that had settled it.

They were going to travel in a car till Naggar, which was a very short distance away from Manali, and then begin the first leg of their trek to Rumsu, which was sure to take them around three hours or so. The next day they would trek to Chandrakhani pass and from there to Malana. The land of mystique and . . . Malana Cream.

Going by their calculation they would reach Malana in little over two days’ time. A Himachali guide named Ram Singh and a Nepalese porter named Laxman Thakur were the only two people who had been willing to accompany them on this “very dangerous” trek, as Ranta said. These men had agreed to not only take them to the village and back, but also stick around for the entire duration of the stay. Rishi had parted with a hefty sum, after all.

They rented a taxi and travelled to Naggar and after a brief halt there, began their trek to Rumsu. Once they reached the village, they had their dinner and soon after slept off.

The weather had not been that bad up till now, but on the horizon dull grey skies could be seen, hinting that the next day’s trek might just prove to be a bitch.

***

And a bitch it was.

The day dawned dull and rainy. It was so cold that it seemed to have seeped into everyone’s bones. Nevertheless, Rishi and Alex, along with the porter and guide, took swigs of rum from Rishi and Alex’s steel containers and set forth on their trek to the base of Chandrakhani pass. It was an eight-kilometre trek that promised to take them through green meadows and thick forests. Rishi and Alex were kicked about it, but Ram Singh and Laxman Thakur looked worried. If the rain didn’t let up, it would take them more than the expected eight hours to reach their destination. To say nothing of how potentially dangerous the terrain would become.

But fortunately the rain became intermittent after a while, and though all four of them slipped and skidded their way through—Rishi and Alex much more than the porter and the guide—they still managed to hold their own against the elements.

As the day progressed and they gained more altitude, the scenery became all the more enticing. The air was bitingly crisp and pure. The sun, when it did come out, was piercing and hot. And the greenery was a deep shade of green. The beauty that lay casually strewn at every bend left Rishi speechless. At some moments he forgot about his life back in Bangalore. Heck, he even forgot his present company. He was just with himself, and the depth of that fleeting thought left him awestruck.

Sometime late in the evening they reached the base of the pass and decided to call it a day. Ram Singh located a perfect camping place and began erecting the tent with no help from others. When Rishi and Alex offered, he plain refused. Laxman, the porter, who had carried what seemed like a ton of baggage on his head and shoulders, however, pitched in.

‘Your name should have been Hanuman not Laxman,’ joked Rishi, coming to sit around the small fire that had been lit. Laxman blushed. Where the guide was a non-stop chatter box, the porter was a shy, quiet fellow, happy in keeping to himself. They were quite a contrast and hilariously entertaining.

Soon, Ram Singh served maggi and Laxman served tea. They had carried a kerosene stove and stuff like atta, fresh vegetables along with them from Rumsu. But the only thing all of them were having now was the two-minute stuff.

Once they were done with food, Alex rolled out four joints, one for each of them, using hash he had bought earlier in Manali. Everyone except Rishi took the proffered joint. He was happy smoking his usual cigarettes. They seemed wonderful on the cold mountain—warming his lungs and, eventually, his entire body.

‘This stuff ain’t great. I’m waitin’ for the real deal. Malana Cream,’ Alex said after a while.

Cocking his ears at the name of the manna from Malana, Ram Singh, emboldened after smoking up one joint, said, ‘You get plenty there, sirji.’ His face had broken into a wide smile, showing all of his red, gutka-stained teeth.

Alex nodded and continued chuffing hard on his joint. Seeing that Ram Singh hadn’t taken his eyes off of him, he gave the guide the joint which Rishi had refused. Ram Singh beamed and forgetting all else lost himself to the pleasures of charas. Alex shook his head, caught Rishi’s eye, and shared a smile.

After a while the guide, well into smoking up his second joint, and undoubtedly high on it, cautioned Alex. ‘This area . . . full of bears. Big Bears. High chance . . . bears, fox come to tent. Don’t fear, they go. But be alert always.’

‘Alert? Good luck with that!’ said Alex, and chuckled at his attempt to speak in English for his benefit. Since the time they had started yesterday, the guide had done his best to speak in English. But the result was a broken, highly disjointed way of talking that took Alex a while to decipher. But he didn’t want to complain. The fact that two people had been willing to come along with them was huge. English be damned. Moreover, today’s trek had proved that Ram Singh was a clever, reliable person, one who thankfully knew the routes like the back of his hand.

‘Maraaz, no laugh. You see. Animal, I no afraid. But joginis . . .’ Ram Singh whispered and shuddered.

‘Why did you even mention the “joginis”, Ram Singhji?’ questioned Laxman immediately in Hindi. One could sense fear on his face . . . as if the guide had uttered what should have remained unspoken.

‘What are the joginis?’ asked Rishi, wondering what could instil such fright in his fellow trekkers.

‘Maraaz,’ began Ram Singh, reverting to the Himachali dialect, ‘Kullu and Malana mens and womens, boys and girls believes female spirits stay in mountains. When they do rituals in mountains to make spirits happy, then everything okay. But joginis on every mountains. Even this.’ His face looked pale all of a sudden.

‘You have certainly spooked our night,’ said Rishi in a serious tone but his eyes twinkled with repressed mirth. After a beat he asked, ‘Do you really believe in this?’

‘Yes, Rishiji. I see with these eyes. All pahadis believes it, by god se.’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ came Alex’s instant reply.

‘Me neither,’ said Rishi, then added, ‘by god se.’

‘These goddesses, Rishiji. No ghosts, no ghosts. Don’t speak bad about joginis. I see with my own eyes jogini entering people. One getting possessed. Even you tourists going to Malana. One day also hear spirit come in foreign lady. One minute, all okay. Next minute, not okay. Jogini refuse to leave. Goats kill, blood fall, then only jogini calm down. Please say no bad. Else no reach Malana,’ informed a bewildered-looking Ram Singh, the scare of the joginis effortlessly removing the ecstasy of charas.

Rishi and Alex looked at each other in disbelief and controlled their laughter. Ram Singh and Laxman were as pale as sheets. Their eyes had lost their glazed look and were now focussed. Sharp. Alert. As if expecting to see the joginis around them. Not wanting to hurt their sentiments, especially Ram Singh’s, Rishi and Alex didn’t probe any further.

‘We sacrifice goat in Jamlu Temple when reach Malana,’ said Ram Singh after a while and uttered a prayer. Laxman followed suit.

‘And if we don’t get a goat, we’ll sacrifice Laxman’s goatee! What say, man?’ teased Alex, cracking everyone up but Laxman. The porter looked more scared than ever before.

***

Strange noises woke Rishi up. It sounded like a dog was barking somewhere, and it seemed to be getting louder by the minute. He saw flashlights streaming through his tent wall soon after. What the hell! He got up instantly and searched for his knife and pepper spray, secretly glad that he had agreed to keep the spray his mother had given him when he was leaving town. Might just prove to be a life-saver.

The flashlights became brighter and loud voices could now be heard. A man’s distinctively loud voice bellowed, ‘Bahar aao. Come out. How many are there? Come out.’

Rishi could make out that it was a group of people, all of whom were standing in front of his tent. Shit! Who are they? Police or smugglers? The pass was notorious for smuggling, he had been told. But, why would the police wake up tourists? And the dog? Only police have dogs . . . But Ram Singh had said that even smugglers used dogs these days. He was confused. He waited, holding the pepper spray in hand. The voice spoke up again, insisting that he come out. He hasn’t said that he is police. I can’t take chances.

Hating this stage of indecision, he chose to act on impulse, and leaping out of the tent, ferociously sprayed pepper spray all around. All those people got a severe dose of pepper right in their eyes. Rishi heard them scream in pain—‘Stop! Stop!’—and saw them running in mindless circles.

He looked at the other tents. Alex and Ram Singh had just gotten up and were looking confused. Damn the charas.

The men—police? smugglers?—came back. In the dim light of their torches, Rishi realized they were wearing khaki uniforms. Crap! They are policemen. What have I done!

‘I-I’m sorry. I thought you were robbers or smugglers,’ he began.

‘I would have shot you! How can you attack a policeman?’ spluttered the cop who looked like the leader of the troop. He seemed to be in terrible pain and looked angry. Not without reason. Rishi looked about his person carefully but didn’t see any gun. Thank god.

‘Saab, aap ka revolver de doon?’ the man behind him asked.

‘Chauhan. How many times have I asked you not to interrupt when I’m talking to someone? Now, give me the gun,’ ordered the cop, rubbing his eyes.

Rishi’s heart skipped a beat. The others were still looking from a distance. Cowards. ‘Don’t misunderstand me but we are in a jungle and I had to protect myself. Also, I didn’t hear you say you were the police. It was self-defence, pure and simple. I hope you understand,’ he reasoned, very alarmed.

‘But you have eyes! Better watch out next time. You could have put everyone here in danger. We could have opened fire.’

Laxman finally got up and gave the policemen water to wash their faces with.

‘Saab, revolver mein goli bhar doon?’ asked Chauhan, the constable.

The cop stared at him. Chauhan disappeared.

‘I am Inspector Kuldeep Dogra. We are patrolling the area. We got a tip-off that smugglers were moving some charas tonight.’

‘Saab. Why would smugglers sleep in a tent?’ asked Chauhan, and chuckled.

‘Koi isko pahad se dhakel do, yaar. Leke jao ise,’ yelled Dogra. Chauhan disappeared again, as everyone tried to control their laughter. This was fast turning into a fun night.

‘Do you have any charas on you? That white man looks drugged. Chauhan, check the bags,’ ordered Dogra. Chauhan reappeared and started searching the tents.

‘Are you two travelling together?’ the cop asked, continuing with his line of questioning.

‘Yes, we are together. We came from Bangalore,’ replied Rishi. Luckily the constable didn’t find any charas; they had smoked everything.

‘Okay. We will go now. But I will be watching you. What’s your name?’

‘Rishi, sir.’

‘Rishi . . . We will meet again.’

The troop vanished into the jungle.

Rishi and Alex looked at each other and barely controlled their smiles. Since the time they had hit the road, they had had nothing else but craziness. Tonight was nothing but a cherry on top.

Laxman was asked to make tea again.

‘You gave them a good dose of pepper. They’ll hate spices for the rest of their lives,’ said Alex, sipping on piping hot tea. And they all burst into guffaws.

*** [End of Chapter 4]

Read the previous parts of this series here:

• Prologue of 'Losing My Religion.'
• Losing My Religion: Chapter 1 - Broken Entrepreneur
• Losing My Religion: Chapter 2 - Show me a way forward
• Losing My Religion: Chapter 3 - Enter Alex

If you want to get a copy of the book, here are some quick links

• Amazon - Buy paperback in India
• Flipkart - Buy paperback in India
• Amazon eBook - Global

 You can also learn more about the book on my website - VishwasMudagal.com