The Hindu Business Line : Mana at road’s end

A light drizzle accompanies us from Joshimath as we make our way to Badrinath, 45 km away. The narrow road winds round the mountains until, finally, the temple town comes into view clothed in a misty veil. Vehicles jostle for space and people tread single-mindedly, propelled by the fervour of darshan at the shrine. And the heavens acquiesce. A ray of sunshine bursts through the clouds to reveal nature’s bounty — mountains refreshing in their newly washed greenery, imposing Neelkath towering over, streams and waterfalls motionless — their waters still frozen…

I join the flow of pilgrims past the array of stalls loaded with pooja offerings. The temple, colourfully painted, exudes a joy that seeps into all, creating an extraordinary camaraderie amongst total strangers.

Meera Joshi

Stone homes with slate roofs at Mana village

About 3 km from Badrinath the road ends at Mana, the last village here. Steeped in its past, at the crossroads of cultures, it retains a rich heritage. It seems but befitting to access it in slow mode. I walk along the road punctured by water cascading down the mountainsides, flowing across the tarred surface to join the Alaknanda that surges in the wide gorge below. A narrow paved lane leads into the hamlet, with low-strung stone homes with flat slate roofs.

Mana is home to the Marcha Bhotias, who came from Tibet ages ago in search of warmer climes. Back then, each spring, as the snows began to thaw they headed across the high Mana Pass, their yak caravans loaded with goods to barter with, crossing back in late autumn before the weather turned again.

Today, though they no longer make this annual journey, they still roam all summer, herding their flocks of sheep and goats to high-altitude pastures deep in the inner valleys, spinning and dyeing wool from their animals, and handcrafting it into rugs and garments through winter. Behind almost every doorstep there is a hive of activity — women busy at their looms or simply knitting…

Lachi, just back from a foray collecting grass, invites me to her mohalla. We flit though a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, then under a stone-covered passageway to a square courtyard surrounded by homes with low doors and tiny windows.

The tiled aangan common to the dwellings reverberates with the chatter of children, benignly watched over by the elders as they sit in the sun attending to chores, exuding a camaraderie that comes from aeons of community living.

Out again, I stroll to a vantage point to get a bird’s eye view. The habitation blends seamlessly into the natural surroundings, contouring the mountains down to the river. A grey path ribbons its way around, and every now and then there’s a spot of green — a tiny plot vibrant with lai and uggal (local greens) and potatoes.

Mana is also steeped in mythology. Aeons ago it was known as Manibhadrapam, and it retains vestiges of its legendary past. There’s the Vyasa Gufa, the cave from which the sage is believed to have dictated the Mahabharata to Ganesha, who sat at another spot nearby, dutifully penning it all.

Meera Joshi

Nearly every home here is engaged in making woollen crafts.

And there’s Bhim Pul, a massive boulder bridging the surging Saraswati. It is said that Bhim used his immense strength to place it there so that the Pandavas could cross the deep chasm. The river thunders as it hurtles through, its spray icy. A bit further on it merges into the Alaknanda and somewhere here, according to popular belief, plunges into a subterranean passage to join the Ganga and Yamuna — albeit invisibly — at the sangam at Allahabad.

The path beyond leads to Vasudhara, a spectacular waterfall that seems to fall from the skies, the torrent swayed by the wind into a moveable sheet of fine droplets. It’s a good 6-km trek along the mountains, through meadows, the scenery comprising breathtaking glaciers…

Back at the village it’s time for chai at ‘India’s Last Tea Shop’. It comes piping hot, laced with flavour one can’t quite fathom. Seeing the quizzical look on my face, the shopkeeper chooses to enlighten me. “It’s tulsi,” he says. “It grows wild on the mountains here, and for us it’s a gift of the gods.”