Dignified company of Gujjar pastoralists

A fortnight’s leave in the 1980s, and we (my wife and I) set out on a long-pending trek to Har Ki Dun. By courtesy of Army friends at Dehradun, permission for a night halt at the Netwar Forest Rest House was obtained and on arrival there, the caretaker readily arranged four sturdy porters on reasonable daily wages.

After the first two days of leisurely walking from Netwar to Taluka on lower heights, on the third day we deviated from the beaten track, involving a four-hour steep climb under the canopy of lush pine and deodar trees to the top of Khandrola ridge.

Past midday, the track suddenly levelled upon a secluded, modest meadow where we settled for the day. About half an hour later, we were surprised by the sound of jingling bells approaching from another direction. Soon, like a magic show, a herd of some 30 buffaloes, led by six Gujjar wives, a few suckling children, toddlers and adults literally plonked themselves on the meadow, as their familiar destination.

After a brief breather, with clockwork precision, they set about unloading their domestic wares strapped to several buffaloes — the women collecting dried twigs, branches, getting cooking fires going, brewing tea, preparing atta dough, making chapattis, cooking khichdi, unmindful of suckling babies.

The menfolk, having marketed milk and milk produce at the scheduled urban locations, arrived about an hour later and got busy in erecting shelters with tarpaulins supported by bamboo staves. And in less than two hours, what appeared like an extended happy family group, they sat under respective shelters, savouring a wholesome hot meal in dignified silence.

Such was the quotient of human brotherhood and contentment that even the children neither cried nor squabbled at any stage.

We sat simply mesmerised near our tent, pitched slightly above and away with a respectable gap. Mindful of their privacy, I enquired if I could use my camera, to which they agreed but warned me not to approach the buffalo cluster as the animals may well stampede. A pity that sunlight had diminished rapidly. Nevertheless, the Kodak-colour slides have survived, which a photo studio with latest gadgets has cleansed of dust smudges, putting on display the proud and chiselled features of Gujjars and the intricate silver jewellery of women to perfection.

We parted company early next morning and after two more days over several pitches of steep goat tracks, we were at Har Ki Dun, a huge amphitheatre enclosed by the glorious panorama of the three Swargarohini peaks.

In the opposite direction was the daunting ridge line of Lamkhaga La and Barasu Pass, gateways to the Baspa valley, our stomping ground of earlier times. We spent the next two days in the fabled Valley under sunlit skies, star-studded nights and blissful solitude, now lost forever to commercial trekking.

On the return journey, our imperishable memory is of a brief meeting with a charming lass minding her flock of sheep upon a ridge, overlooking her picturesque Osla village!