When I was taken for a sweet ride in Kinnaur

I n 1983, Kinnaur was a breathtaking virgin country, not yet mauled by the vagaries of tourism. The entry to this paradise was restricted to armed forces personnel, civil administrationandtheKinnauris. A hydel project across the mighty Sutlej was a work in progress. The capricious Sutlej enters India from Shipki, the last village in Tibet before it meanders through Kinnaur and then flows through the plains of Punjab. I spent two years at a placeaheadofRampurBushahr on National Highway-22, the erstwhile Hindustan Tibet road (the silk route). Here on, there was military presence right up to Sumdo, the place which Prime Minister Narendra Modi visited last year to spend Diwali with the troops. Military convoys moving up and down halted at my unit for the night.

Major Stanley (name changed) had retired from this unit in 1967 following which he squatted on a piece of land outside the unit periphery. Much later, in 1983, his wife Stella and he got proprietary rights over the land. The sturdy couple had lived a lifetime in the wilderness in a shack called a ‘basha’ in army lingo. I asked why they had continued to live here, and he answered that they had fallen in love with the place. For a living, he grew apples and apricots. He was also an apiarist and produced honey. But the product most in demand from his orchard was the apricot wine.

While Major Stanley was to the left of my unit, on my right lived Major Randhawa (name changed). Post retirement, he too had chosen to make this place his home. His reasons were somewhat similar yet different. Major Randhawa had fallen in love with a buxom Kinnauri woman, a wholesome retirement package for Randhawa sahib. Major Randhawa, perpetually high on a local brew called ‘ghainty’, grew the sweetest and the juiciest black plums I had ever tasted. The two retired officers were at daggers drawn, but willing to go to any length to befriend me. With me as a friend, they had an assured clientele for their farm produce. I was irked when it dawned upon me that befriending me was a smart marketing strategy on their part.

Both tried to misuse my unit resources, but I curbed this firmly. They thought, young in age and service, I could be taken for a ride. But they were mistaken.

When my wife visited me, I took her to Sarahan. Those days army jeeps carried a canvas bucket slung by the bumper. On steep inclines, water was required frequently to cool a fuming radiator. I can safely say Sarahan is north India’s God’s Own Country with its orchards, pine forests, streams, rivulets and slate-roofed houses besides the famous Bhimkali temple.

We stopped at an orchard laden with red-coloured peaches, the size of cricket balls. We tried looking for the owner of the orchard, and saw a stunning Kinnauri woman sitting under a tree. I requested permission to pluck a bucketful, and happily gave her the Rs 50 she asked for before she disappeared.

Another person came by, and asked why I had given her money. I paid for the fruit we intend to pick, I answered. He replied that the woman was not the owner and the peaches were growing in the wild. I made appropriate noises, but this time I had been taken for a sweet ride. The Kinnauri woman had done what the two Majors couldn’t.

AT AN ORCHARD, I REQUESTED A WOMAN LET ME PLUCK A BUCKETFUL OF PEACHES AND HAPPILY GAVE HER THE ₹50 SHE ASKED FOR BEFORE SHE DISAPPEARED; LATER I WAS TOLD SHE WAS NOT THE OWNER OF THE ORCHARD

colipsk@hotmail.com n The writer is a Chandigarhbased freelance contributor