Smoke emanates from one of the many houses on a sloped narrow path in the village, in a single circling stream to the blue early afternoon sky above, leaving an oaky hugging warmth lingering in the air, a smell reminiscent of the mountains for those who dwell in the plains. The snow that fell a fortnight ago has settled in patches in little havens of shade, where the sun seldom visits, leaving a slurry of water and mud in places making for treacherous walking. The source of the smoke is a one story structure with a pent-and-gable slate shingles roof to protect against snow, sleet and heavy winds; dry masonry and wooden beams form the base structure with no cementing, woven together for strength against the seismic temperament of the terrain. A projecting balcony with a wooden railing on the first floor, intricate unique designs adorning its wooden beams and panels, overlooks the modest yard, where a couple of cows chew in silence through their day's share from the stack of hay that they need to sustain through the harsh Himalayan winter, that is only at its onset. A calf sits on a little blanket of hay in a corner, looking animatedly at life passing by with an infantile curiosity, it's tail flapping subconsciously at the resident flies. In an opening in the structure on the right, next to the cattle, lie stacks of neatly arranged twigs and branches of wood, the sole fuel for the house, for cooking and heat, collected by the axe wielding ladies through the year from nearby forests, hauled home on the back in conical baskets that once used to be made of wood but now are available in plastic and a variety of colors and sizes - convenience and consumerism has managed it's way up the hills. This house projects beauty in practicality over design, one of the last few standing Kathkuni structures between a line of new generation houses - painted in pink, green and of other bright hues - that have succumbed to the economy in scale of brick, mortar and cement.
Two cemented lanes travel the entire village, a wider path and a narrow tributary that snakes around the temple of the protector deity of it's people, finally merging back in to the main path. Cars, mostly white with yellow number plates, of varying brands and makes, the majority old rejects from the plains, all uniformly of compact dimensions, adept at hugging the curves of the border mountain roads, stand parked interspersed on the wider path. Majority of the youth of the village have taken up taxi driving for sustainance, carrying flocks of tourists to and from the local sightseeing spots at prices fluctuating with the haggling capabilities of the passengers. Furrier cousins, of the leaner more agile canines of the plains, lie about in front of shop fronts lazing in the winter sunshine, even opening their eyes seeming an exercise in futility. Having evolved to the calmer propensities of the mountains, they exist in perfect harmony with the people, living a life of playful meagre sustenance which comes easy with puppy eyes, capable of melting even the most crudest of hearts, claiming stake to everything edible on offer by passing prospects. An elderly gentleman wearing a traditional himachali cap and a locally tailored simple cream woolen jacket over gray heavy winter trousers, herds a group of monochromatic sheep through the main path, not more than seven including a couple of curious lambs, reared for wool, milk and eventually meat, through the busy street, sharing niceties with the shopkeepers on presumably his daily route, unaware or habitually numb of the submissive little traffic jam in tow.
On the narrower path, leading to the temple - the only one in the world devoted to the namesake deity of the village - sit little girls and elderly women, presumably grand daughters and mothers, selling the very last of the season's and now yellowing apples to tourists and devotees enroute to the temple, sold cut and sprinkled with a delectably peculiar local wild mint based salt. Embroidered scarves knotted at the back of the head, pink on white noticeably a preference, cover the hair of the ladies, and thick traditional golden round earrings adorn their ear lobes. Only innocent smiles embellish the faces of the grand daughters. The countenance of the more experienced feature deep wrinkles, characteristic of the people in the mountains, carved over the years, not through worries of life but by the harsh dryness of the himalayan winds; Futile fretting only flourishes in the busy cities of the plains, a far cry from the laid back simplicity found at these higher altitudes. Akashvani bellows nostalgia and government favouring and controlled news in the background, for the entertainment of anyone in earshot, from an ancient transistor in a scantily stocked provision store that is ample for the simple needs of its patrons; the reception of the trendier modern day radio stations with their trashy new music is conveniently patchy in the mountains. Closer to the metal bridge over the Beas, the only entrance to the village, a few enterprising locals run cafe's selling all but the local cuisine and shops selling (now mass produced) handicraft, with signage in Hebrew and English, luring hip urbans and foreign wanderers from alien lands on their journey of self discovery.
Pristine white rugged himalayan peaks nestle this quaint little settlement, their snow covered mountain faces contrasted by black ragged rock face in places and the dark green of the piny conifers, having shook off the snow swaying in the cold passing wind on its course to the plains. In the greener pastures below, in the valley a few clicks from the village, downstream the pebbled greenish blue glacial waters of the Beas, lie acres and acres of apple orchards, the trees all barren after the fall, shivering in the winter cold, hoping for a bountiful summer and employment for the villagers through the warmer off season months.
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