The plan came together one lazy evening in Delhi. Over a hot cup of tea, Anshuman, Amrita and I decided to undertake a journey to un-chartered territory in the beautiful Spiti valley. Everything fell into place and reaching Manali was the least of our troubles. Next morning at 4 am – midnight as far as I am concerned, we groggily trudged to the bus stop. Amrita bought three tickets for monastery country, about two hundred rupee worth each, while we crept into the state transport bus and sank deeply into its comfortable seats. Before long I was in snooze mode.

With the sun beating down on my face I blinked awake - and gasped! A dusty narrow road meandered ahead, a bottomless gorge broke away to my left and the bus rocked perilously. To top it all – literally, there were locals perched on the roof who were whooping in delight each time the bus swerved. Their kind of theme park – I mused.

At one point at Anshuman’s insistence, I too climbed the roof and was amazed to find it more than exhilarating. The skies were clear and cloudless – the patches of green and vistas of brown were woven together in an intricate divine tapestry – and I had never felt so free before. 

At Tabo

As the evening closed in we found ourselves at Tabo, a growing town built around a 1000 year old monastery responsible for giving Spiti another one of its alias, ‘Ajanta of the Himalayas’. It was 6 pm and colours had begun to darken. As an inky blue replaced all hues, diamonds of the sky emerged with a radiance that can only be experienced. Running a hand through my dusty spiked hair, I pulled on a warm jacket and sighed in satisfaction. Time to look for accommodation!

Snacking on some biscuits and tea we rushed out to soak in Tabo’s ambiance. Amrita walked into the sole STD booth, pride of Tabo, to make a call home. Metered by a stop watch the booth was truly unique. Although this was the only commercial telephone of the settlement, we discovered that residents did have private telephone connections.

A friendly ‘jule’ from beside caught me off guard. Facing the red cheeked youngster, dressed in a yellow striped T-shirt, I eagerly befriended him. After the preliminary hellos we embarked on a half Hindi –half Lahauli conversation. With an unpronounceable name, he convinced us that he was ecstatic at not being called Tenzing, a name which almost every second male of Tabo sports. Sitting in his little cottage of burnt bricks and cracking mud plaster we made ourselves at home. China bowls neatly stacked and brass water pots shone brightly in the corner of the dimly lit room. As the thanka of a mystic Buddha smiled down at us we chatted with Mr. Unpronounceable name’s mother, Phunzo. Mother of three boys and two girls, she talked of her failing health. One of her boys was a monk in the Tabo monastery, which we were yet to visit. She insisted on serving us delicious hot thukpa, cooked over slow wood fire. Satiated after a hearty meal we pulled out our purses to offer some remuneration, which she refused with such vehemence that we withdrew immediately. 

The afternoon passed by merrily. Tabo monastery was magnificent. The interiors were dark and perfumed with a blend of fragrance, from incense and freshly laid polished pine floors. This monastery, most important in the region, has paintings and stuccos that are unparalleled. Entering the monastery one transcends to the world of the gods and demons of Himalayan Buddhism. A circumambulatory around the main shrine is a narrow passage with high walls and divine light filtering  from the ceiling to reveal walls painted with a million buddhas. The experience of being in this space was exhalting. We sat a while in the dim warmth and meditated. Unfortunately photography inside the monastery is prohibited. Then, stepping out into bright sharp sunlight we squinted to adjust our eyes and watched young monks dressed in their traditional maroon and orange bakkus playing hopscotch games in the courtyard. A life so different from ours – I thought.

We returned to our rooms, booking a jeep that would ferry us to Dhankar Monastery and then into Pin valley to foray into its lesser known villages. From there we would carry on to Kaza-one stop from our final destination, Chandratal. After much negotiation the Nepali driver – Pradhan, agreed for twelve hundred rupees for the service. Packing all our stuff we slipped into sleep with the amplified rush of the turbulent Spiti river, way below in the gorge, playing in our ears.

At Dhankar

A two hour drive, with hardly any vehicles on the road, except the odd heavy duty, high altitude jeeps and trucks and we were at Dhankar, the first capital of Spiti well over a century old. Built as a fort, this monastery has a distinctive antiquated charm. It is incredibly cut-off and stands proudly against earth pillars, a fluvio-glacial deposit. In fact the warmth of Dhankars inhabitants made up for what was lacking in the partly dilapidated fort-monastery.

Soon, Pradhan, our driver, beckoned us to carry on. This was just a job for him, he had to get it done –that’s all. We stopped for lunch at Lingti village in the Pin valley. The setting was so picturesque that I tried to convince Anshuman and Amrita to spend the night here. In battle that ensued, Anshuman the body builder, got his way and we carried on to Sagnam, a tiny village also in the Pin valley. There we bid adieu to Pradhan - the young and restless Nepali, and his jeep of course.  Anshuman was right - this place was just as beautiful. Sprawled over a thick patch of grass we picked tiny wild flowers that grew everywhere. From purple to red and from yellow to orange the range of colours was unbelievable. Amrita lovingly collected many and taped them to the sheets of her travel diary. We cooked our dinner (which came in tins all the way from Delhi) and spent a quiet evening by the rushing river.  

Way to Chandratal

Next morning we took the bus to Kaza, the district headquarters and supply stop for all the mountain vehicles. We were perhaps a trifle disappointed to find a lonesome settlement with locals stationing themselves at some locale that had captured the interest of some Bollywood team. The night we spend there was abuzz with ripe stories about heroes and heroines that was accompanying the team. With all that fuss we were a little skeptical about getting help to reach our final destination, Chandratal - the Moon Lake.

Perhaps it was that wretched Bollywood team, sheer bad luck or a touch of insanity that drove us to get off the bus at Kunzum La, when we intended to go to Batal. Kunzum’s intoxicating beauty (about 5000m) provoked us to make this smitten decision. Well, there are two routes to get to Chadratal. One via Batal (12 kms) while another, a slightly longer route (18kms) although downhill, via the Kunzum La. The Batal route is motorable upto two kilometers from the lake and would have been wiser choice for uninitiated trekkers such as us. Although uphill this trail was substantially easier. It is also motorable up to 2 km. from the lake.  But alas we chose a pagdandi that would have ruined us, had there not been divine intervention. 

The walk from the wind-swept pass was a tricky one. In the course I did get an opportunity to get close to the components that I had previously perceived as the colours and textures of the mountains. But we were lucky to have managed the walk from Kunzum La to Chandratal without suffering anything beyond temporary mental distress and physical exhaustion. The walk which takes about 5 hours for an experienced person took us all of 9 punishing hours.

The path was narrow, just enough for two burly Anshuman feet. The drop from the windy, dry and dusty trail was, in my estimation, a steep 3000feet. One wrong step, no rock or vegetation to break our fall, would hurl us down to unknown depths with unknown consequences. Inching slowly over the gravelly path our hearts sank to see the rain clouds rising and moving in from the lower slopes. We earnestly prayed for help. It was then that our steady and petite Amrita lost it. She squatted abruptly and broke out into a heartrending wail. “I’ll never make it –never, never….’. Maybe he heard her over the wind blown reaches or maybe God just send him to us, but suddenly this shepherd appeared from nowhere. He greeted Amrita as a smile creased his Mongoloid features further and helped her to get on to her feet. A swift walker, he slowed down to accommodate our pace and walked us by our hands across some of the more forbidding ravines and slopes on the walk. An adventure in its true spirit!

This crystal clear blue lake is placid by dawn, reflecting the mountains that cradle it. The visual effect is that of a surreal illusion with a lake infinitely transparent and infinitely deep. As the day progresses and winds begin to blow, the surface rippled with aquamarine blue, continually changes shades with the play of light and shadow of the clouds and mountains. Needless to say, the only accommodation at Chandratal is your tent.

Chandratal, literally the moon lake, lies between Lahaul and Spiti valleys and is situated at an altitude of 4300 meters. It is about a km in length and about half km in breadth at its widest.

Walking away from Chandratal was tough. It was just too beautiful and with one last look we wrenched ourselves away to undertake a downhill trek to Batal. Walking beside the slaty slopes the varied and vibrant images of our trip flashed through my mind. I didn’t want to get back to the crush of Delhi – but I knew that time was up. Listlessly picking some pretty yellow flowers, I watched Amrita chatting up a young Austrian couple for a dollop of sun-block. Anshuman following the lead helped himself to a hefty blob while I politely scooped a little. However inspite of our best borrowed efforts we couldn’t help becoming a blotchy purple by the end of the trip.

The fun was over and barely recognizable we were back at work – with a longing in our hearts to return to the windswept vistas again.