The Melody Of Rara’s Waves

Visiting Mahendra Lake had been a dream since the day I read the poem "Rara Ki Apsara?" I was finally realising the dream. But the signs were not encouraging. Just as I was about to enter the Mahadev Hotel in Salleri, Mugu, while on my way to the beautiful lake, it began to rain. The sky had shown no sign earlier, but suddenly it rained cats and dogs. My cherished dream was clouded over by the rain and dark mist.

It was cold, and we gathered around a locally made iron stove with firewood inside, an old air-conditioning machine in the Himalayas. "Even if it rains in the evening, the sky will be clear in the morning." Keeping the hotel owner's faith in mind, we tried to sleep. It was a night with no electricity. It was a wooden house, and the noise from the adjacent room, and the sound of the wood creaking were disturbing sleep. We were four on the journey to Rara. 

My sleep was broken early due to the cold before the morning light.  Fortunately, the sky was clear. The blanket of white snow seen last night around the hills of Mugu was glistening in the morning light.

Since vehicles are prohibited above Salleri, a queue of horses welcomed us. The horse owners were bargaining with travellers. "If you people just walk, how will our horses get their feed?" I replied, "Have I eaten your horse's feed?" He said, "No, with the money you pay after riding the horse, we can feed it." 

Considering walking would be better in the morning, we decide not to hire the horse. The consumer surplus gained from this would secure our own lunch for the afternoon. Many of the horses in the line, heading uphill in hope of finding travellers, were empty. Padam Tiruwa, who was leading a horse and walking uphill alongside me, repeatedly requested that I ride. He kept asking me until about halfway. "Now just give three hundred rupees, only fifty per cent."

Pancha Rawal, who was leading another horse on the other side, laughed heartily. I said, "You two have wasted Rs. 1,200 by just chasing me today. You should follow others." I looked back; most of the others were also leading empty horses.

Padam Tiruwa turned back, perhaps to negotiate with other travellers. Pancha Rawal, however, continued uphill with me. “The number of horses here is over a hundred; it’s hard for everyone to get a turn,” said 42-year-old Rawal. Travelling empty like this was not just a single day's routine for the horse owners. "Why do you walk non-stop without waiting for travellers?" I asked. "For the people who take photos at Rara," he replied.

After the meadow (Patan) ended, the forest began, with a stone-paved path running through its middle. It felt as if the forest were a colourful curtain hiding the beauty of an Apsara. 

Rawal said, "You will see Rara as soon as this forest ends." His words made me walk even faster, far ahead of the horses. I waited for him. "You walk so fast yourself, why do you even need a horse?" he must have thought. 

In a moment, the curtain lifted on its own, and a beautiful valley surrounded by greenery with a lake in the middle was seen. Such pure water is like the infinite blue sky, extending down to sea level. We tried to find the reflections of the Saipal, Sisne, and Kanjirowa mountains in the water. 

The thought of circling the lake along the paved footpath struck my mind. My friends were engrossed in their own activities—some riding horses, others taking pictures and making videos. People were scattered everywhere, capturing the beauty through their camera lenses. I, however, became lost in the experience of walking the circular path.

The reflection of the fully bloomed rhododendrons along the lake's edges was perfectly mirrored in the water. It was difficult to take one's eyes off it. How does a person get lost in nature? I can't find the answer within myself. After all, it's just water; two-thirds of our bodies are water too. Water is everywhere on Earth. Yet, how beautiful that same water looks atop this endless mountain.

The continuous water waves created by the wind came one after another. Perhaps a musical rhythm of these waves could be heard in their movement. The scene fo rmed by those waves was deeply captivating. I thought if there had been no sigh of the pine trees standing around the blue lake, the sound of the waves would have been even more audible.

Indeed, the sound of the sighing pines and the rippling water must create a kind of orchestra. Moreover, there must be cicadas and frogs chirping here too. I am someone who grew up listening to the music of frogs in the large paddy fields in summer evenings, and of cicadas in the jungle near the edge of those paddy fields. 

There is a beautiful coordination in this music. The natural coordination between the rhythm of the instruments, the melody, and the song's tune feels like it comes on its own. What beautiful coordination exists among all the instrumentalists in an orchestra, almost as if connected by spirituality and created spontaneously. No one's tune is lost in the singular rhythm. Nature is giving me such a unified rhythm. I am feeling it.

The last days of Baisakh (mid-May) mark the beginning of the bukiphool (alpine flowers) and the end of the blooming of the national flower, the rhododendron. They all have their contribution and responsibility in the rhythm of the enchanting beauty, according to their own time. It is said that the colour of the lake changes with the hour of the clock. Every moment has its own importance. One just needs to be able to feel it. 

I traveled almost to the far corner. Beautiful views of the sprawling mountains came into sight. If I could fly, I would sit in the middle of the lake and watch the shadows of these mountains. Oh, how beautiful they must look. Still, the joy of sitting on its western edge and gazing at the mountains feels special.

The flocks of sheep seen across the way also have their own charm. This hill and the pool of water between the hills have shaped the economy and the lifestyle of the people. I just remembered what Pancha Rawal said on the way. He leads horses, and his wife has gone to the hills with about 50 sheep. They have four children, all of whom attend a government school. The eldest daughter, however, has quit school; he helps her father lead the horses.

Horses, sheep, and welcoming tourists are their daily routine. Once a year, Pancha himself goes to Jumla to sell the flock of sheep. At that time, his daughter takes the responsibility of the horses. It takes two days to reach Jumla and about three weeks to return after selling the animals. 

So, what is Pancha's dream? Nothing much in particular. For now, it's about marrying off his daughter. He will keep on rearing sheep. His sons will probably do the same work. Thoughts of educating them for a government job? "No," he said. "If only I could raise a few more horses than Padam Tiruwa." The daughter has a job only until she gets married.

Pancha Rawal's dream has been determined by the beautiful Rara Lake. It is the geography that creates dreams. The geography, the structure of the society, the source of the economy, and the aspiration determine the boundaries of the dream. At least he didn't dream of sending them to the Gulf or Western countries. 

I really like the dreams of Pancha Rawal, shaped by situation, circumstances, and geography. This divine knowledge came to me at the edge of Rara. Perhaps, the late king Mahendra also received such divine knowledge when he first reached Rara.

My friends were already in the boat, heading to the hotel across the lake for lunch. They were calling me with a hand signal. I, however, was remembering king Mahendra's poem. My eyes followed the continuous waves on the water, and a gentle melody began to form in my mind with the lines of his verse.

Oh! Rara! Tell me!

Rara, who are you?

Heaven or an Apsara?

(An MBA from International University of Japan, the author is Director of the Center for Education and Human Resource Development.)