Travelogues > A Trip to Lakhamandal

The temple at Lakhamandal A howling wind rattles our windowpanes. Icy fingers rent the inky sky as lightening falls on a distant tree and peals of thunder applaud this impassioned symphony of nature. A flash of lightening illuminates the bare mountains.

Somewhere, perhaps only in the mind, sounds a rhythmic pounding of drums. I get up, bathed in cold sweat. Far, far away, I get a glimpse of the enigmatic valleys of the Himalayas. I travel back in time to think of a sun-silvered stream spun into the Yamuna, gushing through chasms on a long journey to the plains of northern India. On the banks of this dark sister of the Ganga is the quaint village of Lakhamandal.

Ploughing the clouds, an old man tills the calcinated soil, as little grows in the north wind. His wooden plough turns Jaunsari soil in the Biblical admonition: 'A time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to break down, a time to build.'

Luckily, they were spared the attempts of do-gooders to change their way of life. A horrified J.B. Fraser in 1815 exclaimed: “Really barbarians plunged in superstition, who live in a promiscuous state of life, four or five brothers marrying one wife; among whom the meaning of female chastity was absolutely unknown.”

An exaggerated account, probably born of arrogance, but sufficient to get us all worked up, enough anyway to want to make a trip here. Of that early journey, memories survive: a rickety old bus rattling along a narrow trail winding up, along the banks of the river. The road glistened wet, like a slithering snake in the autumnal drizzle. A nervous co- passenger asks the driver how he took the bus so fast around these hairpin bends?

“By shutting my eyes every time I'm scared!” explains the driver.

With those words for consolation, our eyes half-open, we shut our minds to the here after which looms threateningly near.

Thatched roofs emit occasional streams of smoke from the teashops perched along the edge of the road. The mountain’s huge masses of quartz and granite stand stark naked without a patch of green. Their bleakness erupting into a dazzle of glory as the autumnal sun reveals itself in all it splendour.

The road dries up as the driver brings his foot down on a rusty foot-board. The dampness evaporates as a cloud of dust rises in welcome. It filtered through the broken glass-windows and settled on our clothes. The bus rattled to a halt at Kuan. In a minute, everyone appeared to have aged a decade. Youth was however, restored by slapping off the dusty coating that encrusted us.

Tired travellers, we straggled into a 'chai' shop run by one Nain Singh, a tall handsome youth from Lakhamandal. A wizened old man with a grey tobacco-stained moustache sucks noisily on his hookah. With a glint in his eyes, he says:

“Tomorrow is the Athward festival. You are just in time to witness the sacrifice of buffaloes to appease the angry gods.”
“Sacrifice...? At present?” I react.
He shrugs this off with a contemptuous “Ha! You non-believers. What is the world coming to!”
“Why don't we use the ropeway bridge?” I ask Nain Singh, who has offered to help us cross the river.”
“Too risky.” answers Nain Singh.
“Ritual sacrifice has nothing to do with the believing.” mutters the old crone.

Down below, the river giggles at these futile disagreements.The river had been there when the Pandavas spent a lonely exile along its banks; when a youth set off, from South India, to establish the four 'maths' of Dwarka, Jagganath, Badrinath and Sringeri. The river had flowed, a silent spectator, down the course of legend... and history.

The river is cold, icy cold. Its waters turbulent. A pack of mules is the first to wade across it. We brace ourselves for the crossing. The waters suddenly seem very deep and the rocks treacherously slippery. The mountains on the other side rise menacingly into the sky. Their colourless hue adding a grim note to our silent train. I brave a look upwards. Immediately above, the hillside is lashed with caves. Legend has it that the Pandavas spent their exile-wandering incognito in these wild mountains. At Lakhamandal, it is said, their scheming cousins the Kauravas built a palace of shellac in an abortive bid to kill the exiled Pandavas.

A narrow path rises shrill as a scream piercing across the lower terraced- fields. Apple, peach and apricot trees, now bereft of leaves, colour the hillsides pink and white in spring. From a spur on a hillock, the rays of the setting sun wash the grey-tiled roofs of the distant houses with a reddening glow. Stretching-out lazily before us is the land speckled with low-lying huts. The land of exorcists and black magic, Lakhamandal.

Snatches of tales told by my mother drift through my mind. Her voice whispers a familiar warning, “Never go to Jaunsar, my son, people never come back from there.”

The whisper turns into a gentle pulsing. Throbbing rhythmically. As we near the village, it reverberates through a pounding of drums. The village suddenly looms large before us. A temple rises above a cluster of houses. In the courtyard of the temple, a young boy beats a round of drums slung from his shoulders. He smiles dreamily, lost in the fitful music that pounds through the valley.

“You play the drums well,” I say mesmerised.

“You should have heard the one played last year,” he says caressing the taut skin, “It was made of wolf-skin and its beat tore the drums made from lamb-skin.”

Knowing little about drums, I do not contradict him. After all strange things happen in the mountains and then there is the indisputable fact that he knows much more about drums. More than I do.

We move towards the temple. Atop, a wooden canopy is perched rather precariously. Along the sides are littered exquisite sculptures dating from the eight to sixteenth century. Two life-size statues of 'Arjun' and 'Bheem' stand propped up in the backyard, their faces mutilated probably during the Gurkha Wars in 1816. My reverie is interrupted by a shrill cry of “Chai sahib”. A glass of steaming tea is thrust at me. Some youngsters inspect our belongings with unabashed curiosity.

Refreshed we adjust our pack-frames and walk on towards Dhora, a stones-throw from the temple at Lakhamandal. “Must have been a 'shivalingam' factory in the old days!” mutters my friend Dr. Misra, as he surveys the stone wilderness of phallic-symbols that sprout from the weary earth. It's an archaeologists dream come true.

The tired sun has set. Wisps of smoke begin to trail from the cooking-fires burning in the houses below. The mountain paths are obscured by the mist and lurking darkness. An apparition brings us to a sudden halt. Under a peepul tree, in front of a blazing bonfire sits a picture-book sadhu. The glow from the fire bathes his classical lotus position in an unearthly light. He sits dragging at his chillum, surrounded by his disciples. His body covered with grit, grime and ashes from the holy fire. The darkness blanks out the stars and settles with the lingering mist over Lakhamandal to the fitful beating of drums.

I cannot sleep. Nor can my companions. Like me, their eyes await the slow lightening of the darkness in the east that will signal the break of dawn. Slowly, one by one, the stars are extinguished. Nature bestirs itself. A screeching flock of parrots alights on a 'doodhia' tree; babblers scuttle the sparse bushes for breakfast. The temperamental parrots burst away in a confusion of green as the drums beat their ritual rhythm. The sun crawls over the mountaintops, its rays pressing warmly against the cold earth. Smoke from the sadhu's subdued fire spirals into an azure sky.

Lakhamandal awakens to a new day. And so do we. Down at the stream, a rather young woman stops to stare at us as she fills her brass pitcher. A ray catches a clean spot and bounces a blinding gleam as she balances it in a thatch of black hair. Suddenly I know why my mother had never wanted me to come to this land. Who would want to return, once having caught a glimpse of such haunting beauty that seemed to mock the ugly, withered mountains in which it bloomed?

The sun blazes in a clear sky. Clouds are bunched over snow-capped peaks near the horizon. The sadhu asserts that he has not eaten for eight days. By the look of him, he does not seem to have eaten after his shrill entry into this world. All he does is smoke his chillum and emit a guttural “Bholay Shanker!” His weathered skin hangs on him like ill-fitting clothes on a scarecrow.

Everything appears normal, yet everything feels strange. Something is in the air.

Gaily dressed crowds start streaming in at noon, like restless butterflies invading a placid pasture, from the neighbouring villages. Each procession of merry-makers is led by an imposing woman who walks up to the temple and plants her tribal flag in the crumbling walls. Yet the tension is there, you can reach it with your hand and grasp it. An unseen energy emanates from the waiting crowd. The beat of drums reaches a wild crescendo as the headman of Lakhamandal makes a dramatic entry astride a white horse.

Tied with thick ropes, a buffalo is dragged into the open space by men armed with sticks. A blood-curdling cry gathers in the throats of all the idlers and shatters the peace as they begin to dance the official dance. Is this 1974? In answer at my doubt, an irate officer snaps: “No photographs!” He has a certain mindlessness that is typical of a sense of without reason. No point arguing with him. The cameras are slipped into their leathery tombs.

Meanwhile, the sadhu and the headman are arguing loudly. “The gods must have their due. The sacrifice must be performed!” says the headman. The sadhu is calm. With a raised hand he intones the consequences. “All evil will come down on those who perform this slaughter,” he says in a clear voice. A hush falls over the gathering. As if in answer to the latter's prayers, a group of ragged boys pant up the hill. A crowd had by now gathered under the sprawling chestnut tree. The headman's horse lies dead.

A surreptitious murmur runs through the crowd. All faces turn blankly toward the sadhu, who is already walking away in the distance. “Must have been the sun,” exclaims the headman alluding to the dead horse, as two village urchins mutter the sadhu's departing curse. The headman's eldest son will die within the week. All the eyes are fixed on the headman, who had suddenly paled. But he recovers and gives a careless shrug. At a nod from him, the drums pick up their lost rhythmic again. The ashes from the sadhu's holy fire are swept disdainfully away. A priest materialises out of nowhere and hurriedly anoints the doomed buffalo. The crowd surges forth excitedly, its fear forgotten. After all, haven't the ancestors of the headman the 'Sangawar' ruled the area with an iron fist? They should know better. What's there in a stupid sadhu? With one ceremonial blow, the buffalo's ear is sliced off neatly.

Crazed with pain it hunches, straining at its bonds. Sticks, swords, axes rain cruelly upon the enraged animal. A bugle peals a greeting as the black flesh parts to reveal the yellow fat. Crimson lava gushes from the wounded animal. It breaks its bond in one mighty lurch. But a frenzied mob crazily hacks it down. The crowd's savage appetite is satiated. The dying beast is left to the vultures; the only partakers of the sacrificial meet.

Stunned, we turn our back on this bloody spectacle, walk down the mountain trail to the Yamuna. The sun sinks gravely behind the hills. We wash the dust of Lakhamandal at the river, but not its memories. They return, to haunt us, on dark stormy nights, when the drums sound in the distance.

A Trip to lakhamandal - By Ganesh Saili

India Guides