Char Din - Char Dham: Day-3 - Kedarnath Dham

 Day 3: At the Doorstep of Mahadev – Kedarnath Dham

A tale of an anxious wait, twin rivers, the memory of the 2013 deluge, Bhim Shila and a quiet longing to return.

The rain that had drummed on the cottage roofs through the night showed no signs of relenting. Morning merely made the grey clouds visible.

The six of us spoke briefly over the phone before walking to breakfast. There was no urgency. Helicopter operations remained suspended, and no one could say when they would resume.

A middle-aged couple occupied the table beside ours. Like everyone else, they kept glancing through the rain-speckled windows. The burly gentleman finally broke the silence.

"Pahadan naal behas nahin karde... jadon oh keh den 'ruk jao', taan bas ruk jao!"

His wife smiled and added, "Par nashta time te hona chahida!"

Laughter rippled across the dining hall.

"Punjab, Sir?" one of us asked.

"Bilkul sahi pehchaaniya ji! Chandigarh! Punjabi bande da hausla na meenh vekhda hai, na dhoop. Te je helicopter na udeya, taan ki hoya? Nashta te vadhiya hoya!"

The rain, however, remained completely unimpressed.

Back in our rooms, we resigned ourselves to waiting. Chairs were pulled together, tea kept arriving and conversation wandered happily from one subject to another. We called the reception a few times before giving up. The answer never changed. We eventually returned to doing what Indians probably do best—gossiping.

Our resident poet found an attentive, if somewhat captive, audience. A few poems later, another friend responded with songs of his own. Whether the applause was inspired by appreciation or politeness shall remain our little secret.

Lunch turned out to be a drab routine. Looking at the modest spread before us, I suddenly felt like a guest who had stayed well beyond the wedding, long after the baraat had departed. The hosts continued to smile warmly, but one couldn't help feeling it was perhaps time for everyone to head home.

The warmth of the meal and the rhythmic sound of rain soon persuaded most of us to surrender to an afternoon nap.

The telephone rang.

It was four o'clock.

"Sir, please keep your luggage ready. The boys are coming to collect it. You need to leave immediately."

Within minutes, sleep had vanished. Bags were zipped, jackets pulled on and we were on our way to the helipad. Traffic crawled patiently through the familiar bottleneck but, unlike the helicopters, never came to a standstill.

Boarding was over almost before we realised it had begun.

Moments later, we lifted gently into the air.

Our pilgrimage to the abode of Lord Shiva had finally begun.

The valley unfolded beneath us like a giant relief map. Tiny villages clung to impossibly steep slopes, terraced fields traced graceful contours across the mountainsides and silver ribbons of streams disappeared into deep gorges. Wisps of cloud drifted lazily across our path, briefly concealing the landscape before revealing it once again.

Thirty minutes later we landed at Fata, where passengers transfer to the Government-operated shuttle helicopters for the final seven-minute flight to Kedarnath.

As the helicopter climbed once more, the broad Mandakini valley narrowed rapidly. Snow-clad peaks seemed almost within touching distance. Then, almost without warning, the ancient stone temple of Kedarnath appeared below, standing serenely amidst one of the grandest mountain landscapes anywhere in the Himalaya.

A strange sense of enchantment descended upon us the moment we entered the sacred valley. The Mandakini flowed quietly beside the settlement, while towering mountains enclosed the shrine in a natural amphitheatre. For a fleeting moment my thoughts wandered to the devastating floods of 2013. That story, however, could wait until after darshan.

Our tour guide advised us to keep the evening free and return for an early morning darshan before the crowds gathered.

The hotel was simple but comfortable. Soon six steaming cups of coffee and a plate of hot pakoras arrived. Never had such ordinary refreshments tasted so extraordinary.

Refreshed, we climbed the broad stone steps leading towards the temple. Shops, eateries and souvenir stalls lined both sides of the approach. Trays of piping hot jalebis briefly tested our resolve, but we promised ourselves they would have to wait until our return.

The temple complex echoed with chants of "Har Har Mahadev!" and "Jai Bhole Nath!" Pilgrims queued patiently before the ancient shrine. We folded our hands from a distance, seeking Lord Shiva's permission to return for darshan the following morning.

Instead of joining the queue, we slowly circumambulated the temple and climbed towards the revered Bhim Shila.

Rows of tiny shanties belonging to sadhus, fluttering saffron flags and gleaming trishuls created an atmosphere that seemed untouched by time.

Outside one such hut, an elderly sadhu sat quietly beside a small fire.

"Baba," I said, "you are fortunate. You live in the shadow of Lord Kedarnath every day."

He smiled gently.

"People think they come here to find Mahadev," he said softly. "The truth is, Mahadev has always been here. It is we who occasionally find ourselves."

His words accompanied us as we bowed before the Bhim Shila—the great boulder that had stood steadfast behind the temple during the devastating floods of 2013.

From there we climbed to the beautifully designed Adi Shankaracharya Memorial Complex. Against the backdrop of the snow-covered Himalaya, the memorial looked magnificent. Nearby, hundreds of little stone cairns – small towers of stacked stones, stood silently upon an open patch of ground. We liked to believe that each represented a pilgrim's quiet prayer, left behind in the sacred valley.

As dusk settled over Kedarnath, we returned to our hotel carrying something far more precious than photographs.

We carried anticipation.

A quiet dinner, a few hours of light sleep and a 3:00 a.m. wake-up call marked the beginning of the most awaited day of our pilgrimage.

The mountain air was biting cold. Thankfully, the geyser worked. Just as I was getting dressed, however, the lights went out. The torch on my mobile phone came to the rescue, and by 3:45 all six of us were walking silently towards the temple.

The queue outside was surprisingly short.

The moment we stepped inside, the atmosphere changed completely.

For a few moments, we simply stood there, allowing the surroundings to seep into our being before entering the sanctum sanctorum. Very rarely have I experienced such an overwhelming sense of inner energy, accompanied by a deep desire to surrender completely to the Lord.

And then, there He was.

Not the familiar, smoothly carved Shivling that most of us associate with Lord Shiva, but a mesmerizing natural rock form, firmly entrenched in the earth, as though it had always belonged there. It radiated an extraordinary sense of antiquity, serenity and divinity.

The gentle jostling of devotees was inevitable, yet we were able to offer the sacred water and bilva leaves with folded hands and spend a few precious moments before the Lord. It almost seemed as though Mahadev Himself had granted us enough time in His divine presence.

The promised Jalabhishek did not materialise. Our tour guide never entered the sanctum. Strangely, it no longer mattered. We had received far more than we had come seeking.

As we stepped out of the temple, a deep sense of peace settled within us. For the moment, there was nothing more to ask for.

The first light of dawn had begun to spread across the valley when worldly realities returned with surprising haste.

"Everyone must report to the helipad by six o'clock sharp," our tour guide announced. "If we miss the scheduled helicopter, I cannot say when the next one will be available."

The spell was broken.

We hurried back to the hotel. Bags had to be packed, rooms vacated and the walk to the helipad begun. The hurried packing was completed under the light of our mobile phones. The power failure had continued.

Even my cherished morning cup of tea abandoned me. Every cup available was heavily sweetened and uninviting. For the first time in years, I willingly walked away from my morning tea.

Yet I could not leave without one last pending task.

Stealing a few precious minutes, I walked down to the banks of the Mandakini.

The river flowed quietly, belying the unimaginable fury it had unleashed in June 2013. Nearby, the Saraswati hurried down to meet it in the shadow of the temple. The debris-strewn riverbed and its boulder-lined banks still bore silent testimony to the catastrophe. To an engineering geologist, the valley was still speaking.

The temple stands on a remarkable site between the Mandakini and the Saraswati. During the disaster, triggered by a glacial lake outburst and extreme rainfall in the upper reaches of the Mandakini, the debris-laden torrent thundered down the valley. Instead of striking the temple directly, the main flow split and swept around it. The massive boulder now revered as the Bhim Shila travelled with the debris and came to rest immediately behind the temple, shielding it from the full force of the torrent. Whether one calls it geological coincidence, nature's remarkable geometry or divine intervention is a matter of faith. The temple survived. That is beyond dispute.

Standing there, I realised that the pilgrim and the engineering geologist within me were not competing with each other. One bowed before Lord Shiva. The other quietly listened to what the mountain had to say.

The waiting hall at the helipad looked like any busy railway station or bus stand. We somehow managed to find a few chairs, though not all together. Fortunately, the wait was brief. Before long, our helicopter lifted gently into the morning sky, carrying us away from the sacred valley.

I left with the strange feeling that I had not had enough of Kedarnath.

I had come seeking the darshan of Lord Shiva. I returned with something I had not expected—a quiet longing to come back.

Har Har Mahadev!