Rushh

Enroute to Khimser,we drive towards Khichan,on the Jodhpur road. Over lunch at jaisalmer,I was told of the large number of demoiselle crane that inhabit Khichan…a one horse town-off the main track.”What? Make a detour and lose time?I murmured. You will  not be sorry,reiterated a local. My driver,sullen-faced,stopped many times for directions. On reaching a small sleepy town,we saw a broken placard that said Khuraj and pointed left towards a dirt track,driwing along which we came across two large ponds.

On reaching , all we could see was a peacock that sat on edge preening its feathers… there was no much else. Disappointedly we turned to leave,when a strangel loud whirring sound accompanied by a continuous calling “krok-krok”filled the air. All of a sudden, thousand of demoiselle cranes flew in,from the direction of village,led by a single crane,forming a V cross the sky; they settled down to intermingle with the other birds already there. It was an unbelievable sight. I learnt that earlier only a few dozen would migrate here from their original habitat,the plains and steppes of Eurasia and Mongolia. But now because of the loving care and food provided by the human population here,about six thousand descend every year by post monsoon. I also learnt that the flight,a female leads the flock of birds,followed closely by two adults and then it is brought up by the rest of the clan.

Kuraj(their local name) are revered by the population and all donate to provide 500 quintals of grain per day to the splendid seasonal guests. I ventured close to photograph them, but they took off in a noisy flurry of their dark wings fluttering in unison. I was totally mesmerised by their awesome beauty. They have captured the attention of bird lovers far and wide and Khichan,I realise,will become one of the landmarks of this region, in times to come.

Driving from Khichan to Khimser,on the scenic Jodhpur highway wee got to see Rajasthan. Perched on the edge of the great Thar Desert,lies a unique 16th century fort,buit by Rao Karamsi-the eighth prince of Jodha-the founder Maharaja of Jodhpur,who began the royal dynasty of Khimser. It has housed royalty since the 18th century,who recently opened its doors to visitors,to share their regal hospitality with them. One section still carries scars from previous battles and makes for a charming dining experience,with candlelight flickering on the ancient walls. This fort is in close proximity to the villages of the Bishnois,the custodian of the black buck, an endangered species and an awesome and captivating animal.

The decision to tour Kinnaur on motorcycles in winter,mid-January, was spontaneous. It couldn’t have been made any other way. Logic proscribes purposely pitting body against harsh conditions. But the wantonness of passion foments it. The only logic being that snow weas late this winter and we could change it. So,we found ourselves on the Grand Trunk Road heading for the distant hills. The chill of a foggy pre-dawn ride in the plains was a precursor of what was to follow in the freezing mountains in days to come. The fog burned off with the rising sun. We stopped for an early breakfast a little beyond the industrial town of Karnal. Squatting cross-legged on Jute cots in the bright warm sunshine,we feasted on hot tandoori parathas with dollops of butter.Satiated appetites,a bright clear day and a smooth road heading for the horizon spurred us towards the hills at a fair clip.

By noon, we reached the mountains.The road beganits curvaceous journey uphill,hugging th contours of the mountains it winds across. The Kalka to Simla road,being smooth and wide,allowed us to make good time. Near Kandaghat,the narrow-gauge train chugged alongside us for a fleeting moment before being devoured by a tunnel where the track goes through it. We parted ways,wheels and motion in common, but different routes. Simla(altitude 7000 ft),the bustling and crowded capital of Himachal Pradesh,was bypassed as we were headed farther up. By early afternoon,we had made it to Dalli,a small hamlet that draws sustenance from the highway speeding through it. With the usual route to Rampur via Narkanda(altitude 9800 ft)iced over,we took the alternate through Basantpur and Sunni. This road follows the Sutlaj river and being at a low altitude,it never experiences snow or frost. The road between Sunni and Luhri is a motorcyclist’s dream come true. It stretches beside the Sutlej River,a winding ribbon of smooth black tarmac that demands the most in concentration and is indubitably exhilarating to ride on as well. We stopped to eat at a roadside shack and filled p on scrambled eggs and buns washed down by hot sweet tea. By the time we reached Rampur,the sky was an orange bedspread across the horizon,lacquered scarlet by the setting sun. We were on the famed Hindustan Tibet Road now-Kinnaur’s lifeline. With the departing sunshine went the warmth,and the chill of sub-zero temperatures crept in. After re-fuelling at Jeori,we rode up the narrow ascending road to Sarahan. Some 14 hours on the road and we had family arrived at the ‘Gateway of Kinnaur’. We checked into a hotel for the night,the fatigue of those long hours on the saddle acting as a sweet sedative,and slept warm with a couple of blankets draped over the heavy quilts.

A match grated noisily and exploded into flame, and soon a kerosene hurricane lantern cast a reassuring pool of light on the pitch darkness of the wintry November night. A toothy grin identified itself as belonging to Azad, one of the affable orderlies from the Snow Leopard Tented Camp at  Shivpuri,16 km from Rishikesh. He effortlessly hoisted our luggage onto seasoned shoulders and let us down a steep path. We follow him gingerly in a single file through the moonless night, muttering to ourselves that our adventure seemed to have started prematurely.

We landed on a vast expancse of shimmering silverly sand,soft as silk cotton,and lit by innumerable oil lamps whose light reflected off the rippling waters of the mighty Ganges. The entire scene seemed surreal,as if part of some psychedelic seance,till Azad whispered,”Happy Diwali,sir”.

What better way to celebrate the festival of light,we mused. A lanky figure clad in military fatigues detached itself from the darkness,and thrust out a strong hand to welcome us. Suresh Rana looked the quintessential sergerant,and to him we must have seemed like slothful civilians venturing into the battlefield. In crip tones,he briefed us about the camp,its facilities and our itinerary. He urged us to take a dip in the river during the next days’ rafting trip,and the suggestions sent shivers down our spines.As if on cue,steaming bowls of soup emerged from the efficient kitchen to bring succour to our tremulous souls. Only when the tremours had subsided could we sink into our cane chairs and Rana’s anecdotes about the rafting camp.

The campsite is set in a forest of seal(shorea robusta)trees,and we learnt that barking deer and macaques are local residents,and that an occasional leopard may put in an appearance to add a zing to the proceedings. As Biru,a Nepales rafting guide escorted us to our tents after a superlative dinner,we peered into the shadows to check if any predators were lurking around for a midnight snack-nothing stirred,presumably dismissing us as urban junk food!