The icy pinnacles of the Himalaya seem to change expressions as the sun plays with light. Why have sages and travellers been mesmerized by these mountains? Is it a desire to attempt a dialogue with the gods, or its opposite, to surrender to the unknown?
Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated most competently by Somdatta Mandal, is a unique account of a traveller with no religious motivation. His urgency arises from a desire to abandon domestic life after the traumatic loss of his daughter, wife and mother in a short span of time. The heart seemed vacant—perhaps a journey would salve the wounds. Jaladhar falls into the company of a Swamiji heading for Haridwar, Kedarnath, and Badrinath. While today these locations are popular pilgrimage sites embellished with facilities, it was a tough trek through dangerous terrain in his time. Jaladhar’s journey started on 6th May 1890 from Dehradun and he returned after one month. Perhaps the hardships healed him, as he married again to start another phase as a householder, teacher, journalist and writer.
Himalay, as originally named in Bengali, comprises Sen’s diary notes on the empty pages of a Baul songbook he was carrying on the journey. He had not intended publishing these random thoughts, but Dhirendra Kumar Roy took away the notes and shaped the book with a Foreword by him (p. 9). Written in conversational Bengali, Sen’s travelogue earned fame as the outpouring of a Paribrajak Sadhu (traveller-monk).
Uniquely, this book is not about spiritual awakening through a divine force but about self-discovery born of deprivations and loneliness. While the majestic mountains inspire lyrical encomiums, a scepticism tinges his encounters with a variety of ‘holy men’. The swindler and the sage have different lessons to teach. Jaladhar recognizes one sadhu—matted hair, long robes, loud prayers—as a thieving servant he had recently sacked. Another time, he is stung by a scorpion and devastated by pain. A Tantric sadhu emerges from nowhere, bites into the wound and seems to draw out the poison (p. 73). An enormous group of ‘Udasi’ sanyasis polish off all the food in the chatis or resting spots, pandas are mostly ‘touts’ looking for wealthy travellers, ‘danda’ carrying sadhus are scary, senior sanyasis sleep on tiger skins—the variety is vast and colourful. Jaladhar’s insights into Bengali devotees are hilarious showing them to be culturally different from the ‘Westerners’, the term for residents of the north and west of India. Sen’s journalistic style has been admirably preserved by the translator, Somdatta Mandal. The book is equally about the pilgrimage sites and the motley crowd on the journey, not always with a holy heart.
The quasi-history of Himalayan spaces is a beautiful blend of the mythic and the modern—one example being the Lakshman Jhoola in Rishikesh. Returning to Ayodhya, Ram, Sita and Lakshman had to cross the Ganga. It is said that Lakshman used two ropes to fearlessly swing across the river. Engineering history tells us of a perilous rope bridge constructed at this location to honour the legend. This was replaced with an iron bridge by the British.
Such details of time travel fascinate me in Sen’s descriptions of Devaprayag, Kedarnath and Badrinath of the nineteenth century. The pristine beauty of the rivers and shrines overwhelms today’s travellers too but surely the mountain trek suffers from the deluge of visitors. About Devaprayag, Sen writes, ‘the rays of the setting sun streamed through the mountains and spread over the greenery below. My gaze alternated between the grey mountains and the Alakananda River, which gleamed in the light of the setting sun’ (p. 45). The route from here to Badrinath is signposted in the same sequence as followed today: Srinagar and the Kedarnath temple, Rudraprayag, Joshimath, Vishnuprayag, and finally the legendary Badrinath.
A travelogue’s merit lies in reporting with freshness. Jaladhar is an observer of people rather than a religious sectarian. He recalls a poignant encounter with two young girls who ask him about his family. They are astounded that he has none. ‘Not even a daughter?’ Asks a little one and shyly holds his gnarled hand, bringing tears to Jaladhar’s eyes (p. 47). Such innocence is offset by an opulent Mahanta who has replicated a royal lifestyle (p. 63). Fortunately, Jaladhar and his Swamiji share a trusting bond throughout.
The Kedarnath temple doesn’t elicit much praise from Sen (p. 57) though its simplicity is noted. We know of the legend that the Pandavas had chased Shiva and the God assumed the shape of a bull. The hump is now worshipped as the linga. Kedarnath is also Adi Shankaracharya’s final resting place. Readers today will recall that Uttarakhand’s devastating floods in 2013 left the shrine miraculously unscathed. The confluence of Alaknanda and Mandakini at Rudraprayag leaves Sen in raptures, ‘mountains enveloped the area on all sides, … the water reflecting the dazzling glow of the sun’s rays upon the mountain peaks, crimson tinged clouds floated across the sky’ (p. 74). Honest personal impressions save the book from becoming a tourist guide.
If there is an epiphany in Jaladhar’s journey it occurs at Badrinath: ‘Today, standing at what felt like the doorway to heaven … I found myself revisiting the happy days of my childhood and the cherished memories of my youth’ (p. 158). Time collapses, ‘I momentarily forgot the sorrow, suffering, and hardships endured along the journey’ (p. 163). Sen’s receptivity to the divine surfaces despite his scepticism: ‘This beautiful, harmonious sound did not arise from any earthly musical instrument, rather, it seemed to flow into the ears of the pilgrims like a divine congratulatory hymn’ (p. 182). Why ‘congratulatory’? For reaching the final destination or attaining the peace that his bruised soul craved? Perhaps it brought a readiness to return to worldly pursuits. He interprets the famous paras-pathar or touchstone as ‘a woman’s heart’ (p. 179). After a brief visit to Vyasa’s Cave where the Mahabharata is said to have been written, the pilgrim trail is over.
The return journey has nothing remarkable after the ethereal experience of the mountains. The last journal entry is 8 June, the trek being just a month. Can major questions about overcoming life’s tragedies, discovering the essence of one’s being, or speculating about the future be achieved in one month of pilgrimage? Perhaps not. However, the book raises important social questions. Is ascetic surrender easier than the householder’s web of routine? Is a Himalayan journey with a kambal and kamandalu a great leveller? In Jaladhar Sen’s time, money could not buy comforts on the Badrinath route.
To me the book is journalistic writing though confessional in tone. Somdatta Mandal’s translation makes it an attractive travel document that astutely weaves in the moods and predicaments in Sen’s original. For us, this is far more readable than the old Bengali, and Somdatta Mandal magnificently renders the humour as well as the philosophy of temporary renunciation.
Malashri Lal is former Professor, Department of English, University of Delhi, Delhi. Publications include Tagore and the Feminine, and The Law of the Threshold. Co-edited with Namita Gokhale is the ‘goddess trilogy’ on Sita, Radha, and Lakshmi, and also Betrayed by Hope which received the Kalinga Fiction Award. Currently, Lal is the Convener, English Advisory Board, Sahitya Akademi.