Mcleodganj is perhaps every backpacker’s rite of passage to India. Except that it is so unlike India, I feel I’ve skipped a few legalities, missed a few stamps on my passport, and entered a world I was taught is forbidden.

I see a foreign face around every corner, interspersed with men and women robed in red & orange, lending a tranquil vibe to the chaos on the narrow streets. I’m fascinated by the small stalls & shops selling colorful bric-a-brac; little memorabilia from Tibet that has been reproduced elsewhere in India or Nepal.

The sidewalls are covered with graffiti about Tibet, a reminder of the refugee lives of the people in Dharamsala. This has to be the only hill station in India where no shop-owners are shouting to sell their goods, nor touting foreign travelers; I can feel a spirit of acceptance among the people, or maybe a disguised form of dejection.

I wonder if in 1959, when His Holiness the Dalai Lama found shelter in Dharamsala from China’s occupation of Tibet, anyone would’ve thought that Tibet will sustain its magnanimous culture and continue the much-needed propagation of the teachings of Tibetan Buddhism. I’m given to hear that Mcleodganj is much more akin to Tibet than present day Tibet itself, a thought that makes me proud of India for physically & financially supporting a culture that could’ve been long dead.

I allow myself to be distracted, first by the typically Tibetan handicrafts, and then by the alternate cafe culture that has housed itself in Mcleodganj. There are rooftop gardens, Italian joints, organic food cafes, and of course, authentic Tibetan food dhabas. I am amused to see the cafes being frequented by monks & nuns, but gradually become so accustomed to their presence that everywhere I go, my eyes subconsciously search for the deep red colors.

In my head, I had formed a strong association with Dharamsala while in Spiti; everyone I met in the mountain desert had some roots in this relatively lower-lying valley. The spiritual similarities now surface themselves, though the mountains that were bare brown in the Spitian background have now been painted a lush green. I stroll behind some lamas, past blue tents selling knick-knacks that remind me of the Tibetan market in Mussoorie, and resist an elderly lady scooping fresh momos from her high stool just outside the monastery.

In the alley that leads to both the monastery and HH Dalai Lama’s house, the first signs of security surprise me. I miss the innate trust of the people of Spiti, but things are different here in Dharamsala for good reason. I expect a solemn ambience at the monastery at this late-evening hour, but a buoyant atmosphere greets me; it’s debating hour and the monks are animatedly clapping & talking in what sounds like the Bodhi language. I can’t help but smile at the prevailing cheerfulness.

The monastery is beautiful, open and airy, as most monasteries I’ve visited before. I seat myself on a bench in the verandah, and watch the clouds play hide & seek with the Himalayas, as they gradually descend to greet us mortals and reveal to us a gorgeous sunset. No power, I assure myself, can rob the people of such natural beauty, and the conviction that comes with it.

Club Mahindra has a resort at the foothills of the Dhauladhar range, 5 km from Dharamsala city on the Palampur road. It offers an exclusive opportunity to learn the Tibetan arts & crafts. Here is the view of the river that flows by the resort.

Our first holiday as Club Mahindra members saw us driven by the whisky breath “Gogi” to old Delhi station. We clambered on to a train to Pathankot.

Disembarking the next morning at Pathankot, we were greeted by our driver and made our way through the town’s market, frequently crossing paths with huge military trucks either laden with goods or jawans.

That was followed by a quick breakfast stop at a wayside restaurant where we were greeted by Himesh Reshamiyya’s latest and a group of tourists who entertained us by grooving to his nasal notes. We made a stop at the curious stalagmite temple where water dripping on limestone had created a Shivaling. No photo graphs were allowed so we had to stay content with retaining the visuals in our memory, but quite an amazing experience.

As we neared Dharamshala, a couple of official vehicles whizzed by taking away the Dalai Lama on an official tour, robbing us of the chance to see the Dalai Lama or be in his presence.

Finally after a few hours drive we were at the Club Mahindra Kangra valley resort, just in time for a late lunch. I entered my room and my jaw literally dropped at the magnificent view. The mighty Dhauladhar looked down both kindly and sternly I thought and reminded me of my smallness and mortality; Most humbling feeling. We ended the day by visiting the highest point at Dharamshala and to bask in an astounding view.

The Magnificent Dhauladhar

The next morning we were accompanied by Tampa, our guide as he took us on a 5 hour trek through Dharamshala. We began the tour completely wrapped up in thick padded jackets and by the end, were cursing ourselves for layering ourselves with so many clothes! Tampa was humorous and engaging and we met several Tibetan students readying themselves for their exams. One of them told us how he had crossed the Himalayas on foot!

The best thing about Dharamshala is the constant murmuring and gurgling of little mountain brooks that seem to follow you everywhere! Good Qi I guess according to Feng Shui!

Dharamshala - Source FlickR Deepsan

In the late evening we stopped by at the Bhagsunath temple and dipped our hands into the icy cold waters of the temple tank fed by the melted glaciers of Gangotri.
The next day we mounted an ambitious trek to Bhagsunath falls. Here I came across a strange herb, close cousin to valerian, that has the distinct and unmistakable smell of toe – jam! Young girls and boys sprinted across by me on the steep climb on heeled and fancy shoes while I laboured for breath and stamina in my trusty Reeboks. It was worth it when we reached the summit.

We left the next day for a quick tour of Palampur- Karan’s Singh’s summer palace, Kangra Fort, Andretta, the famous painter Shobha Singh’s residence and finished it with a visit to the Baijnath Temple.

Another day saw us visiting India’s Switzerland Khajjiar, where for the first time I saw Zorbing! Honestly I did not have the guts to try it out after a greasy but hearty meal at the local hotel.

We left Dharamshala and made our way to Wagah where we learnt a lesson in patriotism. But more on that in the next post!