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In Praise of River Yamuna
Like the Ganga, the
Yamuna is a sacred river of northern India. It flows past Delhi,
Mathura and Agra, and joins the Ganga at Allahabad in Uttar Pradesh.
We planned a visit to Yamunotri, in the Garhwal Himalayas, where
Yamuna descends from the peaks of Bunderpunch and Shrikantha and
where there is a temple dedicated to the river Goddess. The route
followed by pilgrims is from Rishikesh or Dehradun to Hanuman Chatti
by bus, from where they walk. But we wanted to add adventure to our
pilgrimage. So we reached Uttarkashi, the district headquarters of
Garhwal in the Ganga Valley by bus, and then crossed the great Ridge
that separates the systems of the rivers Ganga and Yamuna, on foot,
and walked down to Hanuman Chatti, taking four days.
In Uttarkashi, Garhwal
Mandal Vikas Nigam has built a comfortable rest house but many other
hotels, big and small take care of the travelers. It is a fairly big
town on the pilgrim route to the source of the Ganga. Members of
trekking and climbing expeditions assemble here for last minute
purchases and to hire porters. The Nehru Institute of Mountaineering
is located here. The porter we hired was to carry our luggage, be
our guide and to cook food for us. We spent the evening seeing
temples – the ancient Vishwanath temple is especially worth a
visit. It has a four metre high trident made of ashtdhatu (eight
metals) with inscriptions that date several centuries.
Early next day we bade
good bye to the highway and were on the bridle path. The path
follows the river Asi, which coming from Dodital Lake, joins the
Ganga at Uttarkashi. On the first day, our destination was a small
village Agoda, 12 kilometres away and we took it easy. A little
before midday we took a break for a bath and lunch. We took a dip in
the cool waters of the Asi and sat on boulders watching the river,
the birds and butterflies. We had come to nature to rid ourselves of
our tensions and the process had begun. The meal our porter cooked
was simple but satisfying. Around two o’clock we were overtaken
by a thunderstorm. And before we cold run to a nearby hut for
shelter, we were completely drenched. A villager had lit a fire
inside his hut. We sat by it to dry our clothes. The rain poured
heavily outside washing clear the mountains. Everything looked
brighter and sharper. Another two hours walk brought us to Agoda.
Women were out to fetch water from the spring, the children assembled
to stare at us and our cameras as we took photographs. The village
has temple dedicated to Nag Devata – the snake god – on the
outer walls of which devotees had nailed coins in thanksgiving for
the god having fulfilled their wishes. As we reached the Forest Rest
House and sat in the verandah sipping tea, a rainbow appeared across
the valley. Night was cool, but the warmth of the sleeping bag was
satisfying.
Next day’s walk was
a stiff climb of 16 kilometres but the beauty of the valleys and the
woods compensated for the trouble. Wee had walked for three hours
when we heard drum beats and shrill notes of pipes. A procession of
a local god was approaching us, after a ritual bath and worship at
Dodital. The god, a beautiful mask of metal draped in brilliant
colours and tied on two poles was being carried by the villagers on
their shoulders. In the procession were five men who personified the
five Pandav brother, and a woman as their common wife Draupadi. They
wielded swords, bows and arrows, and a mace. The Pandavas, the
heroes of the Indian epic Mahabharatha re held in great reverence in
the Himalayas and polyandry which is still practiced by some tribes
seems to have come down from them. We also came across a settlement
of Gujjars, the nomads who rear buffaloes. In summer they move up to
pastures at high altitudes with their families and herds. They
prepare ghee form buffalo’s milk which they sell in the plains
when they come down in winter when the higher pastures become
snowbound. They are an ancient people who came to India from Central
Asia wielding swords but settled down in the Himalayas to rear
buffaloes. They are a pleasant and hospitable people. Their
womenfolk are beautiful, re fond of colourful embroidered dresses and
adorn themselves with silver jewellery.
We reached Dodital in the
evening and settled down in the forest rest house. It was very cold
at 3050 metres. As the sunset, and the stars in the clear sky shone
brilliant, we ate dinner by the light of a kerosene lamp and slipped
into our sleeping bags. It was very silent except for an occasional
bark of the sheep dogs. We decided to stay on for a day at Dodital.
It was so enchanting a place that to leave it without enjoying its
beauty would have been sad. We went around the small lake many
times. Each time it was in a different mood and the clear waters of
the lake reflected the moods faithfully. The mountain slopes were
clad in the green of the trees and luxuriant growth of shrubs. We
were particularly attracted by a plant which looked like a hooded
snake.
We rose at 4a.m. the next
day, had a chapatti and a cup of tea each and began the climb to the
Bakri Khal, which is a pass situated around 4268 metres. The bridle
path rises parallel to the stream which feeds the lake. It is a
tough climb from the very start. Halfway when the sun rose, it
became warmer and pleasanter. We stopped every now and then to
regain breath. We were at the top of the pass at 8a.m. In the
brilliant sun, we saw Bunderpunch and Shrikantha peaks and a panorama
of the Garhwal Himalayas beyond. It was exhilarating. On the
ground where snow had melted grew flowers of many hues. By noon the
treeless slopes were behind us. Ahead was dense forest of birches.
It was time for lunch. We wanted to stop for rest and to cook food.
But it became cloudy in no time and the drizzle soon changed into a
heavy downpour.
There was no shelter
around. So we kept walking and slipped many a time on the bridle
path turned muddy by the train. It was around 4 o’clock, after
26 kilometres of walking that we sighted shepherd huts, entered one
and dashed for the warmth of the fire. We were hungry, wet and tired
and gratefully accepted the tea which the shepherd gave us, and ate
biscuits that we carried in our rucksacks. Meanwhile rain had
stopped but the path was as slippery as ever and the walking no
easier. Around 7 p.m. light began to fade but we had by then reached
a village called Nishni, and requested a villager to give us shelter.
In the morning we reached
Hanuman Chatti in an hour, where pilgrims were arriving in great
numbers by bus. The hangover of yesterday’s fatigue was still
upon us. So we decided to take things easy that dy. We had
breakfast at one of the many eating shops that abound along pilgrim
routes, and walked eight kilometres to Janki Chatti by lunch time.
In the afternoon we went to Kharsali village across the river Yamuna,
which can be crossed on boulders. Kharsali is the p lace where
Yamunotri temple shifts during winter and is inhabited by the temple
priests. It is an ancient village with temples decorated with wood
carvings.
Next day’s walk was
stiff six kilometres climb to the temple of Yamunotri. We had
company of the pilgrims who chanted ‘Yamuna Mai Ki Jai’ as
they walked, refreshing themselves every now and then over cups of
tea at the wayside shops. It was a walk over a narrow path that
clung to the mountainside, through forests of ancient conifers. Deep
down in the gorge the Yamuna flows in a thin streak. The depth was
awe-inspiring. Clouds moved through the mountains creating effects
as in Chinese paintings. At Yamunotri there is a bazaar of shacks
where pilgrims buy offerings for the river goddess. We had a bath in
the hot water springs where the water is almost boiling. In yet
another one, pilgrims tie rice in cloth and hang it in the boiling
water of the spring to cook. This they carry back as ‘prasad’.
In the temple is the
image of goddess Yamuna and her brother Yama, the god of death.
There are very few dharamsalas at Yamunotri. Therefore many pilgrims
return to Janki Chatti for the night.
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