Page 75 - January 2021
P. 75

Mornings unveiled a different scene altogether and a glimpse of the majestic
        golden hued snow clad mountains proclaimed that the heavens were not too
        far. With a spring in my mind, I set out for the petite Himalayan goat village I
        had a mind to visit.
        I  had  heard  about  Bagori  from  the  locals.  A  small  cantilever  bridge
        separated this tiny village housing about ten families from the main town of
        Harsil.  With  the  bridge  on  one  side  and  the  mountains  marking  off  the
        boundaries on the other three sides, it was a discreet piece of land. It was
        like  a  unique  habitat  with  its  own  character,  culture  and  community.  I
        perceived this distinctiveness even more once I crossed over to the other
        side.  There  was  something  about  the  air,  the  terrain  of  the  rocks,  the
        untrodden paths, the flora that grew here and the impenetrable silence all
        around. It felt like I was on some mission to discover this unexplored land,
        and I would certainly have something to write home about after this visit.


                                                                                    With     a   fur    dog    for
                                                                                    company,  I  treaded  along
                                                                                    the  path  bordered  by
                                                                                    yellow and blue primroses

                                                                                    on  the  hill  slopes  and
                                                                                    saxifrage  growing  on  the
                                                                                    rocks,  to  reach  a  hamlet
                                                                                    of  beautiful  huts.  Each  of
                                                                                    them had a flight of stony
                                                                                    stairs leading to the patio
                                                                                    with  a  flower  garden
                                                                                    skirting  the  edges.  They
                                                                                    looked            hauntingly
                                                                                    beautiful and just like the





         perfect homes. However, none of them had any inhabitants. The wooden front
        doors had bolts with rustic locks and it seemed that the entire village was in
        hibernation.  Walking  past  rows  of  empty  houses  I  finally  located  an  old  man
        covered  in  snoot  who  was  burning  weeds  in  an  open  area  at  the  end  of  the
        village.  He  informed  that  because  of  the  cold  and  harsh  weather  the  entire
        village  migrated  to  a  warmer  area  downhill  called  Dunda.  This  was  a  regular
        phenomenon during the winter months. They would come back once summer
        set in with its warmth and promise of a more agreeable livelihood.



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        litterateur                            5                                         january 2021
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