False Dichotomies

“Bam bam?” asks the man at Srinagar’s Tourist Reception Centre. “Bholi!” I reply, for the third time. All I want is my permit for the 2011 Amarnath Cave Yatra, but he is more interested in making sure that I say the right words once I get there.  Said to be over 5,000 years old, the Amarnath Cave is dedicated to Lord Shiva, and contains an ice stalagmite which is said to resemble the Shiva Linga. According to Hindu mythology, the Amarnath Cave, which sits at an altitude of 12,756 feet, is where Shiva explained the secret of the universe to Parvati.

I warmed up for the yatra by walking from Pahalgam to Chandanwari, one of the two starting points for the yatra. But there is no karmic benefit to be drawn from walking this stretch, which is why on Friday morning I was the only person to be seen doing the sixteen kilometers on foot. It took me three and a half hours, meaning I was in Chandanwari by two in the afternoon.

Imagine Glastonbury with everything but the live music, but held in the Himalayas for a month and a half, and you should have some sense of the Amarnath Yatra’s scale At Chandanwari, a tented town had sprung up, with food, shops, and tents to sleep in. But I wanted to plug straight on to Sheshnag, another twelve kilometers up the mountain. Unfortunately, in a premonition of what was to come, the route was closed for the day, forcing me to slither off down the hill to find a tent.

Just before six the next morning, I was surrounded by hundreds of pilgrims, all waiting for the gate to open. I learnt that most of them only planned on making it as far as Sheshnag that day, and they were amazed when I told them I planned on walking the twenty-four kilometers to Panjtani, the base-camp for the cave.

At this point, I must note that the yatries are not great hikers. Of course, there are the sadhus who somehow make it up the mountain barefoot, but they aren’t the only ones: I saw sandals, flip-flops, and even slippers. But, if you don’t fancy walking, you can take a pony, or better still a dandy, which has nothing to do with Oscar Wilde, but instead involves four Guijars carrying you Cleopatra-style up the mountain, the morality of which I reflected on after my visit to Hem Kund.

Apart from a difficult first couple of kilometers, the walk to Sheshnag was a cinch, and a beautiful one at that. This was what I had expected from the Himalayas: waterfalls plummeting from melting snow up above, green pastures waking up to summer, and gargantuan peaks that seemed beyond reach even though they were now rather close. After two and a half hours I sat myself down, satisfied, in Sheshnag. Bam Bam Bholi.

Except I hadn’t yet made it to Sheshnag. Sheshnag was still three kilometers away. Much of the confusion stemmed from the lack of consistency regarding the distances. One map said two kilometers, another said four – what did it matter? The important thing was to make it to the cave. But in hindsight it mattered a lot. Hiking is basically a matter of psychology: to be told I hadn’t made it to Sheshnag yet knocked me off my perch.

Mentally speaking. Physically, my perch was still very high. By the time I made it to Sheshnag, I was walking more slowly than ever before, and was struggling for every breath. I was now above the tree line, a place for Gods and not men, at least not those unwilling to take the time to acclimatize to the conditions. This, I realized, was why most people stopped for the night in Sheshnag. But I didn’t fancy an extra day up in the mountains.

I tried to plough on, but didn’t get far. I couldn’t walk more than twenty metres without having to sit down. I opened up my map in frustration, and saw that the next stage of the yatra involved climbing 2952 feet in only six kilometers. No thanks. I decided to take a pony. As we made our way towards Mahuguns Top, the heighest point of the yatra, with Fiyaz the pony man introducing me to his brothers and uncles (I don’t know whether he meant it in the blood or the Wu sense, but there were lots of them), I cursed myself for thinking I was capable of walking the twenty-four kilometers from Chandanwari to Panjtarni in one go. And doubts started to creep in about the whole enterprise. Apart from the Kashmiris, who were in it for the money, and some of the soldiers, I was the only non-Hindu on the mountain. They were only there because they believed in the holiness of the cave. If there hadn’t been a holy cave, they wouldn’t be here. And what would they have thought about someone who came up here despite not believing in Lord Shiva and his power? The Indian equivalent of a mug.

But up the mountain I was, and I resolved to continue, for the sense of achievement, for the dinner party stories, for the grandchildren. I disembarked from Fiyaz’s pony at MJ top (the Kashmiri name for it – perhaps they have renamed it in honour of Michael Jackson), rain drizzling down, a bleak scene of mud and melting snow before me. The next three kilometers were a nightmare. I slipped, stumbled, and fell into the mud. Incredibly, loudspeakers of appalling quality were operating along the route, blasting out religious music. I felt out of place, and was beginning to understand why I was the only westerner up here. Even the Hindus’ excitement at seeing me and the ubiquitous chants of Bam Bam Bholi didn’t help. I was cold, tired, and missing my Kashmiri family and my boat on Dal Lake.

My suffering was lessened, slightly, by a massive food hall, three kilometers shy of Panjtarni. Once again everything was free, but this time the quality was even better. And there were specialties from all over the subcontinent: dosa, Hyderabad biryanis – you name it, they had it. There was even kulfi, which up in the mountains didn’t start melting as soon as they handed it to you.

This was only a brief respite, though. I confess: by this stage I had decided not to go to the cave. Time permitting, I would walk the sixteen kilometers down to Baltal, the other starting point for the yatra, and from there I would go straight back to Srinagar. Perhaps I would be home by midnight. What possible reason did I, a Jew, have for taking part in this blatant act of idol worship, and in such terrible conditions? I did not have to prove my worth to anyone. I had no interest in making an offering to Lord Shiva or casting my eyes on the dubiously formed ice lingam. I just wanted to be down the mountain. When I made it to Pantjani, another makeshift village that stretched three kilometers across the mountain, I had already resolved to pas straight through.

To be continued…