✒︎
10.1
Har ki Doon
Finding Winter in the Valley of the Gods
Why We Went
In May 1999, Vidarbha was doing what Vidarbha does best—turning into a tandoor. We wanted an escape, and in a burst of optimism that now feels slightly reckless, we decided to do something we had never done before: a Himalayan trek.
Har ki Doon, in the Garhwal region of Uttarkashi, sounded just right—remote, green, and reassuringly far from Wardha’s hot winds. Dr Suhas Jajoo and his family joined us. Our little expedition included Bhavana (37), Ashwini (13), Amrita (10), Ashwini’s cousin from Indore, Tushar (14), and me—six people, all novices, powered mainly by enthusiasm and the belief that mountains are always kinder than cities.
The Taj Mahal in a Heatwave
We began with a tactical error. On the way, we decided to stop in Agra so the children could see the Taj Mahal. It was a noble idea, and a foolish one.
May in Agra is not summer; it is punishment. The Taj, which poets describe as ethereal, was radiating heat like a giant marble tawa. Walking on that white floor felt like stepping onto a griddle. Even the air seemed to shimmer with irritation. To make matters worse, the water was saline and undrinkable. We were thirsty, sunburnt, and slightly dazed, and it dawned on us—slowly, like a late diagnosis—that the Taj is best admired in winter.
That evening we fled Agra and boarded a train to Delhi, desperate for cooler air and kinder temperatures.
A Package Trek and an Unexpected Friendship
We had booked the trek through a Pune-based agency and paid Rs 17,000 for the entire group. It was a package deal that introduced us to Mr Joshi, a gentleman from Pune. The mountains do strange things: they tire you out, make you hungry, and also make friendships stick.
That one did. Even today, Mr Joshi sends Diwali greeting cards to our children every year. It is a small gesture, but it carries the warmth of that journey.
From Delhi to Sankri: The Magic Begins
From Delhi we took a bus to Dehradun, and then another to Sankri—the starting point of our foot journey. Somewhere along the way, the world began to change. The dust and noise of the plains gave way to pine forests, rushing streams, and that sharp, clean mountain air that feels like it has been filtered through prayer.
We entered the Govind National Park and suddenly everything looked like a calendar—green slopes, tall trees, the occasional glimpse of snow in the distance. Our guide pointed out flora and local details, but we were mostly focused on the basic survival skill of trekking: putting one foot in front of the other without complaining too loudly.
The Himalayas and Their Mood Swings
We learnt our first Himalayan rule quickly: the weather is a fickle friend.
In the day, the sun was bright and the walking warmed our blood. But the moment the sun dipped behind a peak, the temperature dropped like a curtain. Nights in the guesthouses were bitterly cold. We piled on blankets, wore extra layers, and huddled together like people who had suddenly discovered the value of body heat.
Osla, Dark Clouds, and the Thin Air
The trek was not easy. On the second day, we raced against menacing dark clouds to reach our campsite before the rain hit. The following day we climbed towards Osla village (2,590 metres), a hamlet surrounded by apple orchards and snow-capped peaks. The beauty was almost unfair—so perfect it felt staged. But the altitude was beginning to bite.
As we climbed higher towards Har ki Doon, I began to feel the tell-tale signs of mountain sickness: nausea and breathlessness. I had spent years diagnosing others, but the Himalayas have a way of reminding you that the body doesn’t care about your degrees.
The Rhyming Anthems
To distract ourselves from fatigue and thinning air, we invented a game.
We began composing nonsense rhymes—silly, off-key, and utterly shameless. It started clumsily and then became competitive. The children—Ashwini, Amrita, and Tushar—would shout out a verse, and the adults would chorus back. Our ridiculous anthems echoed through the valley, startling birds, entertaining strangers, and keeping our spirits afloat.
It turned out laughter was the best antidote to exhaustion. It didn’t increase oxygen saturation, but it certainly improved morale.
When we finally reached the Har ki Doon valley—with its glaciers, wide meadows, and pristine stillness—the sense of achievement was overwhelming. We spent a day exploring, meeting other trekkers, and feeling very small against the vast canvas of nature. In that valley, you don’t just admire the mountains. You accept your size.
Back to the Furnace
The return journey brought us back to reality with a jolt.
We descended to Sankri, took the bus to Delhi, and walked straight into a heatwave. The capital was boiling at 45°C. Our faces—already red from mountain sun and snow burn—were now scorched by city heat. It felt like being punished twice for the same holiday.
We also ran into an unexpected snag with accommodation. We tried to check into a Jain dharamshala, hoping for a clean, quiet place to rest. The caretakers, on realising we were not Jains, turned us away. It was a small moment, but it stung. Religious boundaries, I realised again, can sometimes trump basic hospitality.
Fortunately, life has a habit of balancing disappointments with kindness. Dr S K Ghosh and his wife—friends and colleagues—rescued us. They welcomed us into their Delhi home with open arms. Their warmth washed away the bitterness of rejection and the fatigue of travel. We arrived as exhausted travellers and were treated like family.
What the Trek Left Behind
We returned to Sevagram sunburnt, peeling, and thoroughly tired—but happy. Har ki Doon remained my only foray into high-altitude trekking. Bhavana and I never went back to the mountains in that way. One trek was enough to satisfy our curiosity and test our knees.
But the bug had bitten the next generation.
Years later, Ashwini and Shaily explored Leh and Ladakh. Shaily went even further—she did the Chadar Trek, walking on the frozen Zanskar River in the dead of winter. When I read her blog describing that sheet of ice and the brutal cold, I smiled. I remembered our own clumsy rhymes, our heavy breathing, and our childlike pride at reaching Har ki Doon.
We had stopped at the meadow.
Our children went on to walk on ice.