Travels in Himachal Pradesh VI: Beautiful Valleys and Broken Dreams
The final day of our trip we awoke to a totally different vista. Having left the barrenness of the Spiti Valley as night fell, we were now treated to the lush, green slopes of the Sutlej valley. Trees – pine trees, eucalyptus, rhododendrons, splashes of bougainvillea lined every hillside, reaching up as far as we could see. For the whole of the past week we had travelled at over 3,000m – mostly above the height of Mt Cook, and more than twice that of Ben Nevis. The mountains around us had risen to well over 6,000m. And now, here we were, back in the land of ordinary mortals, less than 1,000m above sea level.
And still surrounded by beauty, though now of a different, more gentle, comforting kind.
As with the previous evening, we feasted on a sumptuous breakfast at Star’s restaurant, presided over by the ever-smiling Star herself. Star, from North East India, and another friend of Laji and Sheila, seemed to reflect the mood of this new valley: her easy-going, flowing manner contrasted with the austere and more reserved nature of the Spiti locals we had met.
Setting off from Jhakri, we drove a bit further down the Sutlej valley, past more hydro-electric plants and wandering towns, before crossing the river and heading up towards the Jalori Pass – a climb of over 2,000m. As with our climb to Rhotang Pass a week ago, the road switch-backed up and up, this time, though, through swathes of dense forest. There was far less traffic on this road, and mostly, the driving was easy. At every town and village, though, all traffic ground to a halt, as buses, cars, motorbikes and vans in both directions jostled for space in the tiny streets, already crammed with pedestrians, wandering cows, flocks of sheep and goats coming down from the mountains for their winter lodgings, and shop fronts spilling out into the already constricted roadways. As with so much of India, the general philosophy of driving seemed to be to nudge yourself as far forward as you can, make as much noise as you can, and hope that eventually someone or something will give way to create a gap through which you can squeeze. Somehow, miraculously, it eventually worked, though we were often left wondering if there might not be an easier way of achieving the same goal.
We paused for a leg stretch at the crest of the pass (3223m) and gazed in wonder at the view before us, up towards the Kullu Valley, and, far in the distance, the mountains on either side of Rohtang Pass. Above us, two eagles soared on the thermals, enjoying a freedom of which we could only dream.
We dropped down the other side to the tiny village of Jhibi, where we stopped for some lunch at a small hospital which Laji and Sheila had established in the 1990s, and Lois’ niece, Kaaren, and her husband, Jeph, had spent some time here as resident doctors while their children were small. It is hard to envision a more picturesque setting in which to practice medicine: a remote mountain village, surrounded by wooded hillsides; plenty of forest trails to hidden waterfalls and lakes; steep climbs to mountain ridges with panoramic views; and the clinic itself nestling beside a tumbling, clear mountain river.
When Laji first started coming to Jhibi from Manali, he would set up a road-side clinic on a sheet of tarpaulin. Villagers would trek from all over the valley to consult him, and his clinics would last long into the evening, continuing by candlelight, before driving 3-hours back to Manali after a long, long day. After several months of treating basic illnesses in this way, a local shop-owner offered him a small room at the back of his shop, where Laji continued to come regularly for his day-long clinics. Eventually, he was able to purchase a small plot of land beside the river, and designed and built the clinic, with a consulting room, pharmacy, operating theatre, x-ray room, dental surgery, and two wards, along with offices and accommodation upstairs.
The clinic served the people of this valley for many years, offering a much-needed alternative to the arduous and expensive journey to Kullu or beyond. However, as with so much that we had seen, what was lacking was other doctors to carry on the vision. Now in his late 60’s and still going strong, Laji continues to work tirelessly in Manali and the Spiti Valley, but just cannot sustain clinics in every place where he has gone. So, apart from a small team of nurses offering basic healthcare and health education, the clinic lies empty, its ancient operating theatre and x-ray room a sad reminder of what could have been.
I wondered what to make of these broken dreams. Was it all misguided enthusiasm? An over-ambitious passion to bring hope and healing to those for whom it might otherwise be unattainable? Was it a failure? Or was it just a vision that had its time? A practical response to human need that brought a glimmer of light to some people? Perhaps, for those people, it was more than a broken dream, but a step towards healing and wholeness; a touch of compassion in an otherwise harsh existence; an offering of beauty in the brokenness of our world.
And so, still pondering on beauty and brokenness, we left Jhibi, for our final stretch down to the Kullu Valley and so to Manali, and the Aadisha Retreat House.
