It’s that time of the year again when people make their way for new jobs: bidding the insti a final goodbye, amidst sad recollections and with a grieving heart. Some move out quietly, while a few others may find a bunch waving them off as they make their way to the buses and trains that await to take them away from that sleepy little town, maybe for the last time. And even as the volume of the senti status messages and wall posts decrease already, so will the number of calls and texts sent to that friend who lived down your corridor, whose room was the local hangout spot for night long bakar sessions and what-not. Moments will be missed and people will still be thought of – longingly, lovingly – but those contacts will be lost amidst the scores of new ones from work. And so life will move on.

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Leaving college was difficult – almost as if a piece of me was being left behind. So naturally when my time at Roorkee came to an end, I went on this crazy, rampant spree of revisiting every nook and corner of the campus if only in a desperate bid to create memories – to keep the place alive, knowing fully well that the best of those memories had already happened silently, unplanned without me realizing then. I stayed back even as most of the people I knew, one-by-one, departed.

My trip to McLeod Ganj came about in June of the previous year, at the very end of my college term. It was an outcome of a long pending desire to escape the mundanity – of work, deadlines and wages – which was sure to reclaim me soon enough. As it turned out, McLeod didn’t quite appear to be the peaceful retreat I sought. The place was too full of people, and as a result, unquiet and often at some places unclean. Intensive commercialization had taken its toll on the surroundings and the once beautiful, serene location, home to the Tibetan government-in-exile had been reduced to a tourist destination that witnesses among others, countless Indian families with excess baggage and an even excessive litter of kids. The sheer number of cabs was an eye-sore and the blaring vehicles often ended up causing jams in the town square. My initial response was that of disappointment. And as I trudged up Tipa Road to Dharamkot, a mile away from the bustling crowds, I was hoping dearly the trip wouldn’t be for a lost cause.

The getaway road: to Dharamkot and beyond

A small dose of afternoon slumber, though, saw much more than a changed weather. The place grows on you and I, on my part, soon learnt to look beyond the throngs of people and buildings. And as we moved a little farther anywhere from the heart of McLeod, there emerged landscapes that have stood silent witnesses to the undefiled beauty this place once was. A small trek of just over 3 kms. lead to a small hamlet – the village of Naddi.

Deodars lining the slopes near McLeod

Road to Naddi and the Children’s Village, through the heart of Deodar forests

The narrow, winding path through the Deodar jungles was replete with its refreshing scent and Tibetan faith: cairns piled along the path and prayer flags fluttering in the cold mountain breeze, conspicuous among the branches by their motley of colors. The walk was delightful and the trees offered a much welcome shroud that broke only to offer some breath-taking views of the valley below. Far away in the distance, the Himalayas stood pensive, majestic; the very clouds descending over their lofty peaks. Most assertive of nature’s creations, the mountains have this humbling effect. We stayed there, soaking it all in, a silence broken only by the rushing of the stream in the valley below.

Prayer flags and cairns scattered around a clearing

The majestic Dhauladhars rising above the Deodar forests

In McLeod I saw Tibetans away from their homeland, as they lived and survived. A life in exile – each day a struggle to keep their traditions alive; keeping off the arms of modernism and local culture from snatching away their precious heritage. But more than anything else, they could be seen striving hard against their oppressors – for freedom, for a life of dignity and for the sake of their culture that is being systematically murdered. It was touching and inspiring at the same time to see a community bound by a common faith and the dream of returning to a free Tibet.

Stalls like these are lined all across the streets of McLeod

The place has so much to offer in terms of culture, adventure and volunteering. Treks of varying difficulty and duration can be taken up from here along with any gear or route maps that one may require. Food options are plenty, with so many restaurants that specialize in one or the other cuisines. Better still, the food is deliciously cheap. There is much to learn too in McLeod. And weaving through the numerous lanes and cafes of McLeod, I learned about the various initiatives like the Clean Upper Dharamsala Project – a reflection of Tibetans’ refined culture and their way of living that is in harmony with nature.

Tibetan Children’s Village: an effort at providing a semblance of normality

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the sensitivity the local government has demonstrated on such issues. In spite of the long grievous years of unfair treatment: invaded and exploited by an aggressively developing nation, sheltered yet shunned in another and snubbed, in general, the world over, the Tibetans’ have stuck to non-violence. They aim only to spread awareness and win the support of the international community for their cause in a world that would more easily pay attention to gun-shots and mortar. The cause and effects of the political nuances being played out at India’s northern borders are numerous and the petty bargains with China are keeping a nation’s future and their culture hostage.

A view of McLeod as seen from Dharamkot

McLeod is a sort of place whose beauty reaches out through the shrouds of human activity; its natural serenity in stark contrast with the buzz of life on its streets. It is one of those rare places that derive its color as much from the diversity of its people and their culture as from the enviable position it enjoys in the greens of Himalayas. To some, the place is a refuge, to others a symbol of resistance, while some others look back its way as a summer retreat. For me, McLeod was the end of an era – the most cherished one at that – and the wait for things new and unfamiliar… and a prayer that the wanderlust which grew in my heart then, may never die.