The Lunatic Diaries

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Malana – the name itself has a surreal, liquid feel to it. So Razz thought when I told him about the place on the way to Jari. “Malaanaaahh…?” he wondered aloud. To him it only meant the famous cream that sells for a minor fortune in the cafes of Amsterdam. He had been in the Parvati Valley for four months (!!!) and could never overcome the awe that comes with the name ‘Malaanaaah’. A good reason for that as well, Malana is unlike any other village in the valley and there will be a very few of its kind in the country, if any. Razz more than eagerly jumped at the offer of accompanying an Indian (me) to Malana. I was than happy to have human company.

In the 70s, and the 80s, when the hippies, in search of a higher plain, discovered Manali and the Kullu Valley, the Parvati Valley lingered in quiet obscurity — maybe because the valley was a little strange, sometimes eclectic and sometimes downright dangerous. The story has changed. Tourists, mostly foreigners, sprawl all over the valley. Much of the country’s charas is grown or harvested here. The upper reaches of the valley is almost “police-free”, the authorities clinging to the end of the motorable road, rarely venturing up on the small trails that criss-cross the valley. It is almost like an Indian version of “Deliverance” country. Nestled somewhere in these valleys, a substantial distance from any motorable road, is this village called Malana.

From Jari it was another hour of a bumpy bus ride on a surprisingly well maintained road. The swishing sound of the Parvati flowing was abrubtly silenced by a dam at Chowkee, the last motorable point on the shortest trek route to Malana. It was peak summer time and the Malana Nala was running full-throated and wild. It would eventually pour into Parvati river which was an important tributary of the mighty Beas. The brand new, glimmering hydel project over the Malana river is tapping its wanton energy.

We trudged straight up the steep windy slope, through surprisingly hot and humid weather, pushed by a strong motivational force neither of us could describe. An eerie "richkety" sound scratched through the still valley air, perfectly in rhythm with the flowing river, drowning the thump of our footsteps. At several places, narrower and steeper paths branched out from the track and very often we would get seduced into following a braided thread of trails used by herdsmen and local people. Most often I have regretted my decision to stray from the beaten track and have been left wondering at the sure-footedness and amazing lung capacities of these local people. But Malana was not very difficult to find, all I had to do was look for the electric cables dangling across the mountain, and follow them religiously.

Three hours later, the village emerged out of the clouds, literally. The skyline was a rush of various shades of green dotted with vertically aligned houses cascading down in steps along the sloping mountainside. The trail was just beginning to look a little trodden on when a roadblock stood guarding the village from us. A small band of foreigners with rucksack laden mules where sitting in a small circle. Our arrival was sort of a mini event. They looked at us perplexed and confused. A notice board painted in English, Hindi and Hebrew warned the tourists not to venture into the village unless escorted by a local.

We waited at the edge of the village to be invited in by one of the locals. Razz looked apprehensive. I guess it was dawning on him that there he was, standing at the gateway of another realm. And within 5 minutes, a man appeared out of nowhere, as if he'd been anticipating our arrival for quite some time. With simply a smile and a nod, he led us down the path and into the village. "Oh man, I can't wait!" someone muttered beneath their breath in the same manner in which we as children felt the night before Christmas. They were intensely focused on something to the right of the trail. And as I turned my head and caught a glimpse of my first MARIJUANA FOREST…!!!I have seen marijuana growing before, a foot or two tall hidden amongst the bushes in the backyard, but nothing like this! The plants amongst these florescent green forests soared to above 12 feet with stems as thick as your wrists and leaves bigger than a basketball. “Are these wild or cultivated?” I inquired from our escort. He simply shrugged and hastened away.

As we entered the village, the first thought to strike me was “What is a place like this don’t up here”. The houses were distinctly influenced by the Greek style of architecture. The top heavy, 2-storey structures made of stone pieces or smoked mahogany like dark colored wood. Three fourth of the way up a wooden deck circled the outside walls, complete with ornate carving on them. The knowing mind got frustrated with its own inability to fully comprehend what it is witnessing and I constantly required another glimpse.

A dirt path snaked its way through scattered houses in no apparent order and the escort warned us not to go astray from the path. Children played freely and waved and smiled from their decks. Rugged snow-capped peaks loomed above us in the near distance and drifting clouds seemed to be everyday commuters.

There were no ‘hotels’ as such in the village. It did have a few ‘cheap and best, no frills’ guesthouses. Through a glass-less wooden window frame of one such guesthouse I found myself looking into 5 inter-connected paintings.

A profound calm prevailed all over as if a vast eternity with a mass so large had landed here on the valley from nowhere, the law of physics became silly. Deva, the guesthouse cum café owner, brought us some tea and along with it, the stories about Malana, about their strict caste system, separate government, and strange ways.

The history of the village is now lost in memory, although the general consensus by self-proclaimed local historians is that Alexander the Great reached as far as these valleys during his Indian conquest, some of his soldiers married the local lasses and settled down here. Deva presented some physical proof to support this. He pointed out of the window at a panel with few robed soldiers carved on it. The carvings on many homes and the temples also depict an elephant, even though elephants do not inhabit these hills and it is well known that Alexander's men used elephants to cross the treacherous mountain passes of Afghanistan on their way to conquer part of India. I also, noticed the green-grey eyes of most locals, unusual for an Indian. Some believe that people from the neighbouring valleys migrated here many centuries ago as represented in the eight distinct clans residing in the village today. For a community with no recorded history, without a script and speaking a dialect that is a confusing mix of Sanskrit, Bhotti and Kinnauri, deciphering their past remains a challenge.

What is easy to decipher, though, is their social structure - the governing “Malanan Parliament” which comprises of upper and lower houses. The Upper House has three permanent members (permanent because they cannot resign!) and eight elected members, each representing one of the eight clans residing in the village. The Lower House comprises of all adults or heads of families of Malana. Any issue, big or small is endlessly debated over by this Government until a consensus is reached. If not, it is left to their guardian deity Jamlu Devta to decide. A ‘gur’, who can apparently talk to Him delivers his judgement to the people. The system has endured the test of time; divorce as well as crimes like rape, murder and kidnapping are unknown in Malana and not a single case of civil dispute has been appealed to outside authorities. They in fact do not acknowledge the authority of our bigger nation, India.

Big bold signs reading “Holy Place. Do not touch. 1000 fine’ are allover the place and the ‘holy place’ could be anything from a house, to a tree to a stone and also a small portion of the Malana river. The world, for a Malanese, ends at Rasol, the next village barely 8 km away. The rest of the world comprises of “untouchables”. This aspect came to me as a revelation when I tried to pay Deva for the tea. He recoiled from my outstretched hands mumbling something incomprehensible. It was not the idea of accepting money as payment of his generosity that so appalled him but the custom that a true Malanese would never accept anything from “outsiders” directly, lest he should get contaminated! It was however all right to lay down the money on the table from where he could collect it – a dose of untouchability from the other side, a first of sorts for me!

We were not allowed to enter the village Temple of Jamlu Devta, who seems to imbibe the Malanese with his free spirit. The doorway was arched over with huge skulls and horns of buffaloes, they were mementoes of the sacrifices made to their Devta. The priest Bua Ram had us seated a safe distance from him and told us the legends about Jamlu Devta,

Long ago, the then king of Kullu, Jagat Singh, had an idol of Lord Raghunath brought to Kullu in hi attempt to embrace Vaishnavism. When the idol arrived at Sultanpur the king organized the Devtas and Devis of all the villages of Kullu valley to congregate at a certain point where they were required to give cognizance to Lord Raghunath’s sovereignty.

All arrived promptly and in order of protocol. All with two exceptions, Jamlu and Hadimba, the wife of Bhima (remember Mahabharata). Hadimba was later appeased with promises of retaining her overlordship under the new dispensation. But there was no placating Jamlu. The tribal devta of Malana refused altogether to submit to an “alien”.

To this day, Hadimba is the last to be worshipped at the Kullu Dusshera. As for Jamlu, His absence has been observed for centuries. During Dusshera, His idol is worshipped on the left bank of Beas, opposite the Dusshera site at Dhalpur, and is returned to Malana after Dusshera, without Him paying homage to Raghunathji.

The long walks through the village were only a slightly more real experience than Bua Ram’s stories. Every time we descended on the village an unofficial ‘guide’ would join us, without saying a word, keeping a distance and an eye making sure we didn't break the rules. Strikingly dressed women and children moved in and out of my way with rapid steps, whispering probably the only English words they knew, "no touch, no touch." Paranoia played games with the mind and I almost felt like a little boy who wasn't allowed to touch the cookie jar, teasing myself to touch it just because I am not allowed. It did get annoying at times, but it was reassuring that these rules weren't in fact there to break, as some sort of money making scam, something we have all seen too often.

Then one morning, after days of stories and endless games of chess with absolute strangers, we thought it would be a good idea to walk to the mountain top. Within an hour we came across a beautiful crystal clear waterfall maybe 150 ft in height. As the water splashed on the rocks below the mist rose, it created a gorgeous rainbow. It just seemed too perfect! And the greenery was intense! The colours, deep green of the trees, the florescent light green patches of the marijuana plants and a yellowish patch of golden grass with a streak of white waterfall running across, were a treat for the senses

But, again, it was the people we encountered that were the most fascinating than the mighty landscape. Men and women stomped down the narrow paths, from Rashol, carrying loads I wouldn't consider fit for a horse! The men shouldered pieces of lumber 20 ft long and a feet in diameter! All they had as help was flip-flops for ankle support! The women were even more astounding. On their back they carried bundles of firewood equal to the size of 2 huge garbage bins, on their front, hung in a sling, breast feeding was their baby! One thing which also thoroughly impressed me was both the men and women ability to do, what Razz called the ‘Malana side-step" - climbing up the side of the mountain, log on the back, just to avoid us foreigners. And one look at some of these beautiful children, some with dark brown skin and beaming blue eyes was amazing. I immediately cast away my doubts about their claims of European ancestry.

Things are changing here though. As Deva put it ‘Himalayas aren’t what they used to be’. The “outside government” is determined to put an end to this exclusivity. The dam at Chowkee and the road to Jari only came up in the last year and has made Malana more accessible than ever before. The people seem to be getting the hang of the outside world as well. Stories of families with flooded lockers at banks in Mandi, the closest town, are told in hushed voices. A few TV antennaes also clog the evening sunset. Slowly exceptions are being made to the culture as well, one young man did touch me after all, explaining that he would perform a ritual cleansing later. Teenagers call out 'hey, baby!' to tourist girls. In another generation, Malana may soon just turn into yet another Indian village.

At a height of 2652 m, life for the residents of Malana is certainly not easy. Adding to the physical rigors of life in the mountains, keeping outside influence at bay and leading self-reliant, secluded lives. But they obviously think it is a very small price to pay for an able and a just judiciary combined with an even and free environment, the fruits of an almost perfect democracy.

There are no perfect democracies, I argued with myself. But if democracy is to be defined as “government by discussion” - in which groups of people having common interests make decisions that affect their lives through debate, consultation, and voting - then Malana, truly, stands to the claim made in bold alphabets at the village entry point – The world’s oldest democracy.

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