Jazz-in' up Manali!

A trip to Tirthan Valley (some odd kms away from Manali)

That evening when Japan lost the match to Paraguay, there were two more hearts which sank, apart from the many present in the Loftus Versfeld stadium. Me, for my tiny Japaneso connection and Jazz’s (new Honda Jazz X, to be more precise) for the more obvious blood relations. And then? Then I had to take her out for a tiny tummy fill, spin her around a little and cruise her on the sleepy streets of Chandigarh to recharge her jazziness. And all this while, BB King accompanied me in the noble cause; after all, he Jazz and I were partners for 4 more days to come. Those jazzy tantrums had to come in, and all thanks to her enhanced ‘X’ factor.

A little formally now, welcome to my first travelogue, which I’d like to call “ Jazz and Blues meet the valley fish” when Jazz and yours truly got a little too lucky to flee from the scorching Delhi heat and spend a quiet weekend in Tirthan Valley, a popular fishing getaway in Kullu valley. The next morning, we shook last night’s gloom off our shoulders and were ready to swipe another 300 kms to see how heaven’s footsteps look like. Jazz, after a big yawn and stretching, blinked her tiny lights, gave me an assurance that she’s geared up for the journey and off we went.

Drive till Chandigarh was pretty smooth, if we don’t consider the Delhi traffic and Karnal by-pass hustle bustle, that is. The 260 kms that we covered so far were everything but tiring. Lovely green sarson farms and excellent inter-state highway grab the credit for that. With the new USB port in the Jazz X, King then elborated his three ‘o’ clock blues, while we tried to cheer him up with flavoured Lassi and other Punjabi delicacies.

From Chandigarh to Ropar was an easy route, without any windows rolling and asking for directions hassles. But a few kms down that road, and projects for a four laned highway had slyly dug up the existing two lanes. Because of this, all the passing cars had to suck their breath in and share their space with the bully trucks. Apart from the vernacular poetry behind the trucks, their musical power horns and names of the villages which fell on the way, the way how Jazz became ‘ Jajj’ in Punjab, called for a hearty laugh too. The road after we took the turn towards Manali, shrunk to a single laned winding road, where traffic coming from the other side played hide and seek and you needed to give your feet a little exercise to successfully make it uphill. The road didn’t make for much of a success story too. It looked more like an honest attempt to make a road through those finely cut hillocks, but quite forgotten.
Rubble, weathering stones, stray wild and 43 degrees steep roads were enough to scare living daylights out of a rookie F1 driver, much more than the Monaco racing circuit. And if you’re lucky, you could see the transport buses’ drivers feeding monkeys at the end of a blind curve. They really seemed to have exchanged places for that moment. Not just that, the view outside the window was just too tempting for you to not pull over on a side, hunt for your camera under that huge heap of luggage smiling at you at the back, and capture some candid shots of nature casting a majestic spell on you. Fuel fills weren’t that frequent and Jazz gave us a glimpse of her diet-conscious self, as well.

The road from there got steeper and mercury fell like dead pigeons. Jazz had to remove her pretty heels and wear those grubby sneakers to defy gravity and climb on. New alloys really added another layer of sportiness to Jazz’s sneakers. The road narrowed and through the tiny habitats, it could actually be termed as a pass way, if not anything more. Marijuana bushes along the road made our eyes glisten with greed, hope Narcotics dept isn’t reading this. And for the Blues, song being played was- Sweet Home Chicago, BB King isn’t The King for nothing. It was somewhere around this time when I sensed this tinge of jealousy which arose in both the camps. Jazz with her newly acquired spoiler tried to match with King’s fine cut suit and diamond rings, while I stretched my legs in the cabin and enjoyed all the space I was blessed with. The cup holder at the door pocket saved me from dying of thirst while my co-driver, despite my repeated attempts to wake him, slept merrily in the chill of the AC.

Sun bid its farewells for the day and advised us to better make it to our destination before the mist of night swallows the road and casts a spell on our senses. Just to remind us of how safe hands we were in, Jazz flickered the halogen lamps and made night driving simple as abc’s. Discussing Clapton’s ride with the King, we reached the Himalayan Trout house, in Nagini village and gave our salutations to Tirthan stream, a tributary of river Beas. While pear, cherry, apple and apricot trees standing tall and proud in the camp area fed our hungry tummies, curiosity and amazement, the lullaby that river sang while enveloping tiny trouts under its arms put us to a sound sleep.

Even if I was hypnotized, I wouldn’t be able to tell when was the last time I woke to chirping birds and not my cell phone’s annoying Christmas bells alarm. A bit of mist on Jazz’s body whispered that she and the stream had an extended conversation last night. The next day was devoted to taking all the travel fatigue off our bodies layer by layer, and it got all the more interesting when the camp owner tickled our attention by making a mention of fly- fishing. What followed was a mind quenching discussion on what the sport is all about and where and how we could try our hand at it.

The valley is basically famous for its fly fishing camps for brown trouts. The technique used in the sport puts Shakespeare’s saying in the best possible use- ‘The world’s a stage and men and women, mere players’. Using replicas of river flies as baits, fly fishers dupe the trouts to their dinner plates. But making exact replicas, tossing them into the river at a certain angle and understanding the habits of the fish is what calls for a practice. And since we could relish the trout only if we caught it, we were more than happy to undertake the practice session. What better than clubbing a nice camp evening with the fishing lessons, and there you have my head nodding. Even Jazz merrily agreed for the same, put her magic seats down and welcomed the tents fishing rods and wood for evening’s bonfire without a sigh.

Let’s not get into the details of our not so successful fishing hour, but words fail to support me
whenever I sit to write about the camping experience and the fishing lessons. Apart from night-long discussions about fishing, angling and river floods, herb trees in the vicinity and even Jazz’s new scarlet red skin fuelled the night’s bonfire. Another mistake that we made was not taking any light woolens with us. 12 degrees at night were enough to rattle your bones once.

There were plenty of other things which we could’ve done being in the valley, visiting Jalori Pass and Great Himalayan Park, being a few. But time constraint permitted us to stay there for only a day. The next morning, before the cherry trees could uncurl their leaves, we were ready to bid adieu to the Himalayas. Needless to say that none of us wanted to leave so early, but better things awaited us at the other end. Before the curtain goes down, I would like to change that famous saying,
‘Give a man a fish, and you at least feed him for a day… Teach a man to fish, and he eats herbs for dinner!’

Claps (optional). Curtains down.