image by Ashwini Chaudhary, Unsplash
It took me an hour to come up with that headline, but it took me less than 5 minutes of thinking to land myself in the lap of the Parvati valley twelve hours later. Grinning from cheek to cheek, this is how I began my journey as a solo female traveller across the Parvati valley.
As I stepped off the bus, my eyes couldn’t believe what lay in front of me; the majestic river Beas being taken into its lap by the Parvati valley. The Beas River was feared by tourists. As I stood there, I understood why. The river seemed to be engaged in a heated disagreement with the valley. The locals, who I later made friends with, told me the person I was looking for and had heard a lot about back in Delhi was no longer with us. They were smiling indifferently, which gave me the impression that they were content with their predicament—residing in the valley so close to peril.
I experienced a shiver of loneliness that started at the back of my neck and travelled down my spine as I got off the bus. Whether this loneliness was brought on by the bustle of city life that I missed in Delhi, the deserted streets of the valley, or possibly the solitude that awaited me as I began my journey alone, I made my way over to the closest store outside the hotel hangout and enquired about directions. Confused by the accent of the shopkeeper, I walked over to two young men standing with their backpacks. As this was an impromptu vacation from the stresses of city life, I didn't have a plan in place, so I was essentially lost. I was perplexed by the idea that this didn't seem to be the solution to my problems, as I had been told back in Delhi, and I experienced no such epiphany. Uncertain of what to do and hesitant to approach the two men, I eventually mustered up the courage to ask, "Where are you guys headed?". I asked them if I could accompany them on their trip because this was my first time in Kasol, and they agreed after we had a satisfying and enjoyable discussion about the bus driver's reckless driving. As this was more of an impulsive, desperate reaction to my existential crisis, I followed them like a lost puppy as we moved in the direction of Chojh.
We eventually arrived at a bridge—or what was left of it—after fifteen minutes of walking. The heated argument I alluded to earlier in the story was one I had personally witnessed now. The disagreement between Beas and Parvati led Beas to swiftly sneak in one night and sweep away the bridge that would have led us to Chojh village. Then, I was rendered speechless as my first eureka moment came in: the mortality of human lives. I was back there, a young, immature adult, in my literature class. Before I even understood what an existential crisis was, before it had a chance to sink its teeth deeply and seize hold of me, I was 18 once more. My professor had been harping on the idea that we have no control over what happens to us, only how we respond to it, as I recalled the class where we had learned about stoicism. We have no control over anything outside of ourselves. Only what is within us is under our control. Now I can see you, Seneca.
We had to now take the road less travelled to get to Chojh. I set out on my journey with these two travellers once more through the mountains of the Parvati valley without any idea of what lay ahead of me. They told me there was only one way up, up the mountains, as we walked to the end of the road. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I swore at myself for coming here during the monsoon and for choosing to do so. But I was here now, and this was my reality. I made the decision to make the most of it because, after all, what could possibly go wrong with a mountain hike in an area that is prone to flash floods? I could already feel the effects of my years of inactivity and smoking during the pandemic setting in as I stepped onto my first rock. I noticed my pace dwindling after a half-hour of walking. I looked down as I began to make an effort to get nearer to the two strangers who were leading me up and across the hill. I heard a squeak escape from my mouth as I struggled to comprehend what I was seeing. The remnants of the bridge that once connected Chojh and Kasol, as well as a flash flood.
Image by Nikhil Kumar, Unsplash
Death and horror engulfed my entire being as I caught my foot slipping away with the muddy remnants. A shriek escaped my mouth as I clung to the foot of a now-dead tree. One of the younger of my two companions ran to my rescue as I saw my life flash in front of my eyes within those 5 seconds. I cluck at his arm like a mother would cling to the lifeless body of her child. With only the bittersweet truth between the locals' indifferent smiles as my only wound, I was healthy and alive. Once more, the knowledge of the precariousness of the things that had crept into a remote, dusty corner of my heart began to stir from its sleep. I have a fresh sense of gratitude for being able to breathe life into my body each day as I sit here and write to you. After my life-threatening ordeal, which lasted merely a couple of minutes, I began to trek again with my two stranger friends.
Through was the only exit from this journey. Thirty minutes later, still glued to the ground and the path, I finally pulled my head up to see houses peeking out from the hills. Above me, the mysterious Himalayas towered, exuding both danger and beauty. I noticed a group of women approaching us and conversing in what I assumed to be the Pahadi regional dialect as we drew nearer to Chojh. It appeared as though they were gracefully floating towards us as they moved through the muddy remnants with such ease. When we passed them, they grinned as they observed my struggle to take their usual route home.
My two counterparts were doing fairly well; they seemed to have been trained to climb mountains; I’d like to believe that, for I am of a fragile ego. I started having trouble breathing as we drew near the houses. The dogs, who had been gracious enough to travel with us on our perilous journey, began to run down the hills rather than through the village. We chose to walk alongside them because we were curious about their destination. After a challenging descent, we reached the most breathtaking sight I had ever witnessed. It was the same flash flood that had devoured human lives a month ago.
It sat there peacefully, as though its stomach was still full and that another attack of hunger was just a matter of time away. It echoed the peace and innocence of our other canine companions and was just as tranquil and innocent. We stood there trying to catch our breath as the dogs began playing in the water. The hour-long, arduous journey and the breathtaking beauty of the landscape in front of us were both tempting us to give up our humanity and merge with the flora and fauna of Kasol. Another lightbulb moment occurred to me as I moved toward the area of the river that resembled a beach where the dogs appeared to be engaged in playful fights. This time, it made me realize that my only anchor is the present.
Varnika Jamla works as a content marketer but longs to teach literature. She is a reader by night and a writer by day, and while she dislikes talking about herself in the third person, there are times when she may give in.
