As the Sun Left the Valley

On the way back from Manikaran we stopped at the market. Kasol is better known for its night market. Handmade bags, collectibles, jewellery and the large wind chimes. But even in the daytime the stalls have their own quiet appeal.

It was here that the subject of shoes came up with some urgency. Naviin's trek shoes had given up with just half a day of Kasol trails. Mine followed the day after, as if in solidarity. We found a local shop selling hunter type trekking shoes made in Nepal. I was not entirely convinced. Naviin, however, had history with them. He had done the Sar Pass trek in a pair just like these and they had held. That was a good enough reference.

Kasol meant something more to Naviin, and not just because of this trip. Nearly ten years ago, he had come here with the Youth Hostel Association of India trekking group. This had been his base camp before heading out towards Grahan village on his way to Sar Pass. Standing here again, with a different itinerary and a wife in tow, the place had something different to offer him than it did a decade ago.

Kasol is a base camp in every sense. Walking through the market streets we could spot the trekking gear shops, the trail maps on café walls, groups of people with backpacks and trek essentials. Other than the popular treks like Kheerganga and Sar Pass, the villages of Tosh, Kalgha and Pulga were located at the higher reaches of the valley, and accessible only on foot. We were headed to Tosh the following day.

For lunch, we stopped at a place whose board announced that it was the only pure vegetarian restaurant in Kasol. We saved the thukpa for later and ordered momos.

Back at our stay after the day's explorations, we discovered we had neighbours. A Tamil couple had the hut next to ours, travelling with their young daughter, adding to the list of Tamil encounters we had that day. The little girl, within approximately five minutes of meeting me, decided that I was her person for the trip. She attached herself to me, with the confidence of the kid who doesn't think much.

It was around five in the evening. There was still time for more café hopping if we wanted it, but we decided against it. Two reasons. Acclimatisation is real and non-negotiable. Coming straight from Chennai to this altitude in under twenty-four hours, we were not going to push it. The second reason was simpler. The place we were already in was too good to leave. Mountains on every side, the Parvati moving below, food, warmth, and a view that kept giving. There was genuinely nowhere better to be.

We sat by the river as the sun went down. The temperature, which had been cold but manageable through the day, began dropping steadily. The cold simply kept arriving, layer by layer, until we stopped arguing with it and went to find our jackets.

The German Shepherds by that time had taken up residence in front of our huts and were treating the evening as their own. They wanted to play fetch. Specifically, they wanted us to throw stones and watch them run. As someone who cannot be in the presence of a dog without immediately wanting to do something for it, I had already scoured the Kasol market earlier and found two rubber balls.

The dogs enthusiastically received them and then promptly refused to return. No fetch. No sharing. Just three large German Shepherds and one pup, deeply possessive of whichever ball they had claimed, regarding each other with open suspicion. I had bought two balls for four dogs. The math had not worked in anyone's favour. I made myself a mental note to buy extra pairs the next morning.

As the last light left the sky, the hotel staff began testing speakers for the DJ set and arranging wood for the bonfire. From further down the valley, music from the cafés carried easily through the cold air. The mountains made sound travel as though the valley itself were an amphitheatre. It got dark quickly there, the sun disappearing behind the ridgeline well before it had finished setting anywhere else, and the transition from late afternoon to full night happens faster than you expect.

The café culture here runs late and loud, fuelled by bonfires, live music and travellers who have heard about the nights and come looking for exactly that. The Parvati Valley had always attracted a free-spirited crowd, and the night is very much a part of what Kasol offers. The music was still going strong past eleven.

Inside the tent, it was somehow colder than outside. I layered up with the double jacket, double socks and gloves and made my peace with it. Hot water was aspirational. The heated beds, however, were real and they were everything. I got into mine and stayed there.

It was too cold to be outside. Too loud to sleep inside. So I was just there, planning the next day and then, inevitably, thinking about life. I was not the kind of person who found her way to a dance floor at midnight in a mountain tent camp.

The cold of that tent reminded me of another night at Sarchu, on our bike trip to Leh a few years ago. A tent at fourteen thousand feet, where the altitude had done something to my head that I can only describe as the edges of hallucination. That night had been frightening and I did not fully admit it until later. This was nothing compared to that. A loud DJ set and some cold I could handle. The mountains had already shown me worse.