It is a place for those who want to leave behind the world, forget the date and the day
My heart pumped wildly even before I was exposed to the trippy air of Kasol. The road leading to this popular hill station in Himachal Pradesh is so dangerous that every time the bus took a sharp turn (and there were plenty of those), I looked out the window with trepidation.
On one side of the highway stood massive and mean-looking rocks that threatened to slide on to the road causing havoc. And on the other side was River Beas, with its unrelenting current. The bus had to tread a delicate path between these two stubborn natural obstacles. The life of 25 bus passengers (including mine) was entirely in the hands of the driver and there was no margin for error whatsoever.
After a 12-hour bus ride from Delhi, I reached the first pit-stop of the journey at Bhuntar. Another four hours on the road, and I reached my destination —the quaint town of Kasol.
The little Israel
Parvati Valley is the favoured holiday destination of young Israelis tired from three years of compulsory military service, and Kasol is undoubtedly the hotbed of this recreational immigration. The readily-available drugs, low cost of living, peaceful environment and the prospect of rave parties draws many foreigners to this hill station.
It is fast turning into a Jewish settlement where Shalom (greeting) and namaste are used interchangeably. Hebrew signboards are a common sight in this area. According to an estimate, about 70 per cent of the foreigners visiting the state come from Israel.
Kasol also has a Chabad (prayer place) for the Israeli community at the end of the market. It is open and accessible to people of all communities and looked after by a soft-spoken priest. Birds have built their own nest here and are at ease with the surroundings.
The stillness of Kasol is frequently broken by the dash of bikes headed to the Sikh pilgrimage sight Manikaran, five kilometres away. The young pilgrims can be easily identified by the blue flag with a khanda (Sikh sign), which juts out of the front of the bike. Their youthful rigour comes across in their demeanour and constant blow of horns.
After a round of falafel, I was ready to venture to a nearby village called Chalal. The trek began by crossing a rickety bridge that swung perilously with every step. The winding path of the Parvati River, tall pine trees and the setting sun had a soothing effect on me. For the first time on this trip, I felt truly at peace.
An hour into the trek, I heard booming techno music from the thicket. I followed the music deep inside the jungle to find myself at a rave. There were loudspeakers, a makeshift dance stage and plenty of expat faces in the crowd.
It seemed like half of Kasol was gathered here. Bodies grooved to music uninhibitedly and there was no dearth of LSD. By the time I returned to Kasol and boarded the bus to Delhi, dark clouds had gathered over the hills and a hail storm ensued.
The weed capital of India
A tiring hour-long trek finally led me to the remote village of Tosh, located on the slopes of a mountain about 18 kilometres from Kasol. The snow capped mountains high above and the waterfall below made the long and tedious journey to Tosh worthwhile.
The sun had set by the time I stepped inside the Pink Floyd café for snacks. The smell of hash reeked from every corner of the dim-lit café with Bob Marley posters on the walls everywhere. In time, I realised that Bob Marley is the God, Schnitzel (Israeli food) the staple diet, and trance the archetypal music in this part of India.
The three Indian travellers I interacted with didn’t remember what day or date it was. They had forgotten when they had arrived in this village, and had no clue about their departure date. I was beginning to understand why Tosh is called the weed capital of India.
People don’t come to Tosh for the weekend — they come for weeks that turn to months. Stubbles turn to beards amid the smoke and sound. I walked down to another cafe, with a torch light in hand, only to find another group of young men smoking up and betting on an IPL match.
“Can you increase the volume?” I asked. They looked back at me with a bemused expression and went back to watching the game on mute. As a rule, the television is always played on mute. Silence is celebrated with joints and psychedelic music fills the space with noise.
A young traveller offered me weed and I declined. “You haven’t smoked up. And you don't even want to smoke up?” he said looking astonished.
I felt like the world is divided into two kinds of people. Those who live in Tosh and those who don’t. The former are comfortably and happily detached from the mainstream.
Ten minutes inside the cafe and my eyes began to burn. I stepped out to fill my lungs with the crisp and chilly mountain air. Two young men (Avinash and Shikhar) joined me and began rolling a joint. They were articulate, smart and completely stoned.
“Kasol is no good anymore,” Shikhar said. “This is the real deal. We get 10 grams of top quality hash for Rs 1,400. Kullu Valley is famous for top-quality charas, which is sold under various acronyms such as Malana Cream. The rates go as high as Rs 40 lakh/kg, depending on the quality.
I, too, have the habit of withdrawing to my thoughts. I began to wonder if they saw me with the same curious and questioning eyes with which I looked at them. Perhaps we weren’t all that different. We were both addicts in our own right; them to smoke, and me to my words. I didn’t judge them and they didn’t judge me. We sat on the opposite sides of the table intoxicated by our own beliefs, accepting our vast differences. Clearly, there is more than one way to live. The next morning I packed my bags and boarded the bus back to the treacherous journey back to Delhi.
I thought Parvati Valley to be a haven and it was, although in a different way than I had imagined. It is a place for those who want to leave behind the world, date and even day. That is the good, bad and trippy of it.