The fragmented filming and research—which for now has taken the shape of this brief article and five short videos— was conducted over two years. We first filmed the Bagh (mask)ritual of Kardang village in January 2017, returning again in the summer of 2017 to gather more information. Our initial plan was to document the ritual in the winter of 2015. But that year (pre-tunnel), we couldn’t reach Lahul on time, owing to the erratic winter helicopter service and miscommunication over precise dates with my grandmother’s family in Kardang.
The Bagh ceremony of Kardang, we were told, is unique and one of the few remaining remnants of Lahuli folk tradition. Those aware of the ritual cited it as a living case of Buddhist and pre-Buddhist symbiosis in the valley, and also informed us about similar bagh based rituals elsewhere—like in the villages of Jobrang, Goshal and Yor in Miyar valley—both in the trans-Himalayas and across Western Himalayas. We were specifically cautioned about the strict codes and conducts of this village-bound ritual. No one outside of Kardang village is allowed to witness the ritual unless one enters the village before Kuns, the local new year, commences. In such cases, those who enter the village can leave only once the bagh ritual concludes. The rule to not cross the village boundary applies to Kardangpas as well. People from the neighboring village of Gozzang, however, are allowed, but not via the main pathway that cuts through the village. The only permitted access for Gozzangpas during this time is the route that runs along the village boundary.
In 2017, when we finally managed to reach Kardang on time, it was after four consecutive days of waiting at the airport in Bhuntar, hoping for the helicopter to show up. First day, there was an issue with air pressure; on the second day, the then Chief Minister was touring Kangra with the same helicopter; on the third day, it was supposedly off to Chandigarh for servicing. Finally, on the fourth day, we took off at 3 p.m. from Bhuntar airport to Stingri (the nearest helipad to Keylong). That year, we finally witnessed the night of Halda (wooden fire torches) in Kardang, followed by the three days of bagh ritual.
Following, you can see the first of the five video series we have composed. The narrating voice is of Uncle Dorje, who warmly welcomed us in his house. Along with other Kardangpas, Uncle Dorje brings out Halda at night, gathering again in the afternoon the next day for mangs-alcha, opening of the masks, or the “opening of the dream”.
Aawa (father) and Aama (mother) bagh are considered embodiments of male and female deity. Any unwanted actions and impurity are likely to offend them, as well as Tsoro, their seven children. Adults continue to partake in the ritual for several reasons: from not disrupting the annual village ritual calendar, the ritual’s village centric character, to being guided by reasons of faith, belonging, fear and loss. For children, it offers the possibility of collective play, dance and fun. The very act of kyorbi, to play, remains central even in the ritual’s current manifestation, as told to us by an aging Palmo Karpa (89 years old when we interviewed her), and affirmed by the young kids of Kardang who wait eagerly to tease and provoke the bagh family.
Infrastructure reconfigures how we experience space and time, and the 9.02-kilometre-long Atal Tunnel connecting the Kullu valley to the district of Lahaul and Spiti of Himachal Pradesh, is no exception. Until recently, the Lahaul valley had to be accessed via the Rohtang Pass. Perched at almost 4000 metres above sea level, Rohtang (which means a pile of dead bodies) is a difficult and circuitous route, with unpredictable weather, treacherous roads and never-ending traffic jams. Constructed over a span of ten years, after multiple geological tests, feasibility studies and structural redesigns, this horseshoe-shaped tunnel was formally inaugurated in October 2020. Several governments (including Congress, Janata Dal, National Front and Bharatiya Janata Party) have put their stamp on this complex endeavour. Eventually named as Atal Tunnel by the Union Cabinet under Prime Minister Narendra Modi in 2019, it bypasses the Rohtang Pass, making Lahaul accessible all year round and reducing the travel time by several hours.
Till now, we haven’t really placed the Himalayas in the right perspective. Our efforts have been piecemeal, resulting in a fragmented understanding of Himalayan societies. My goal is to write more about ancient Lahul, as there still exist many small cultural realities that have preserved their socio-cultural ways of being and language. Languages especially can reveal a lot about the past of these societies. What I am suggesting with this title is that to arrive at an understanding of ancient Lahul, we have to first better study the ancient Himalayas.
Tshering Dorje, Nana Ji Friday, 13th November 2020.
Twenty days have passed by since Coronavirus consumed that giant body of yours. You are no longer just a phone call away. Your strange departure has been difficult to comprehend for everyone whose lives crossed paths with yours. I thought you were always going to be there.
For Lahulis, you were our homegrown repository of knowledge. A free-flowing storyteller, a treasure of oral history, who sought commonalities even in the most disparate cultures. Your visibility and the community’s unquestioning faith in you— be it within Lahul-Spiti or Himalayan academic spaces— I admit also irked the critical researcher in me as one person after the other suggested I meet this man called Tshering Dorje, or Bhoti Master, as you were known locally. I would say yes and stop at that, feeling a sense of frustration as to why every research inquiry on the region was to begin from you? I confronted you often. Why not Nani Ji or any other Lahuli women? My provocations wouldn’t offend you, nor would you defend or question your position; just laughingly ease my annoyance by listing younger generations of Lahulis, Spitians, Kinnauris, Ladakhis you were helping facilitate research in their contexts.
I listened eagerly to your stories all these years but never read what and how you wrote about the Himalayas. Except for that one article for The Illustrated Weekly of India describing the Puna ceremony, the copy of which you retrieved from your records in a matter of a few minutes. Reading that article, I was convinced about you and I inhabiting two different worlds and ways of seeing but lately, in our conversations, the divides stood challenged as you displayed a tremendous openness of heart and mind. In your narratives, the Himalayas were always in motion and Lahul was always relational. Culture was about interconnections—the reason we returned to each other with our frameworks of culture despite our differences. In the last five years especially, in our hopes and worries, we lent each other silent solidarity, as we kept working toward a progressive and inclusive Himalayas in our spheres.
As I think about you now, my research journey actually began under your guidance. In 2010, we spent ten days together in Malana speaking to women for my undergraduate thesis on women in Panchayati Raj. Now that I have lost your guidance, I’m realising the value of that first fieldwork experience. As a young girl, it was empowering to be in your company as you helped me navigate a deeply gendered and casteist field site.
I still see you climbing up the 37 stairs of our home in Raison. Excited and nervous, I watch you from above. What must you be carrying in your lama style jhola today? My cousins and I knew it was full of books but sometimes also imported chocolates that you received from your foreign friends. Being in your company meant having distinct experiences, like eating cooked apples, European style thukpa, discovering regional and local literature in your floral wallpapered study room, or simply watching you work on a typewriter. Alongside your passion and dedication for the Himalayas, people are also remembering your infectious laughter. If I close my eyes and see what I will remember the most about you— along with your sharp smile and glinting eyes—it’ll be your genuine hugs. They carried the same care even when our families were breaking; a gesture of love straight from your heart. I will carry along with me the memory of your comforting hug on the day of my wedding. Tears rolled down as you embraced me, happy to see two people in love unite.
I hadn’t shared this with you that I was planning to document your life. I wanted to know you not as Tshering Dorje, the walking encyclopedia as people called you, but Tshering Dorje as a person with myriad life experiences. Tshering Dorje, as a rebellious young monk in Western Tibet, husband, father, grandfather, spiritual practitioner, and much more. A man who had no fancy degrees to flaunt, yet was deeply engrossed in the question of culture. You were in your mid–80s, still traversing the mountain roads on HRTC busses hopping from one seminar to the other. My wish to travel together with you through the Rohtang Tunnel, the making of which you negotiated tirelessly, cannot be realized anymore.
In the last few years, I saw you looking inwards. Perhaps, you were preparing to leave. You were finishing your final project of compiling your works in the form of a book. You were increasingly seeking the space to elevate your spiritual practices, but knowledge seekers wouldn’t stop knocking at your door. On several occasions, you expressed your growing disenchantment with political ongoings. You worried about conservative forces hijacking the spiritual essence of the Himalayas. To all kinds of dangerous binaries birthing around us, you responded by seeding culture as a unifying force. Culture, you utilised skillfully and compassionately to put people and ideas in conversation. In his tribute to you, Ajey, a Lahuli poet and writer, to whom you were a mentor and friend, succinctly captures this political vision of yours. He writes:“You were a true cultural worker. Culture and heritage wasn’t a matter of fake pride for you or a hobby. It wasn’t a means to show off your intellect or to garner fame. Culture for you was a complex political crisis. Acutely aware of the deep rifts political trends were leading to, you looked beyond monastic Buddhism and institutional Brahmin Vaishnavism and talked about shamanism. You went beyond the Aryan and Mongoloid binary to talk about Kinnar Kirat. You spoke about the Bon tradition and Zhang Zhung language. You believed that shaman tradition contained within it immense possibilities to dissolve fatal inhuman binaries. You searched for its remains in Lahul, Kullu, and the entire Himalayas till the very last moment”.
Your going away is a huge loss for Lahul as the valley has lost one of its progressive thinkers. As a community, we have lost your generosity, sincerity, and openness at a time when we need it most. May you be in peace.
I heard you will come to life today. I hope your mother Pir Panjal is not deceiving us yet again, with her zillionth labour pain. You were to arrive five years ago. Never mind. Now, in 2020 and a frugal bill worth 3200 crores, we are waiting for you, outside the operating theater. How can our arms tire out holding the Kalchhor (ceremonial libation) and Khatag (white scarf)? We, Lahulis, thank you for teaching us the art of waiting.
Your mother had a painful journey. She bled profusely in these years but doctors said her pains and cries were mere geological surprises. If not for the masses, you need to come alive for the media that gloriously announces the same old saga of your birth every few months. I heard you were even given a new name after some closed door discussions. Atal Tunnel, Rohtang. Congratulations, this infrastructural feat of Bharat Mata is a Man. I do not wish to hurt you or question the choice of your name, but I must tell you that ever since you were conceived, I have only known you through the hesitant utterances of my Aama (mother) and Abi (grandmother): Tandal. I still get goosebumps recalling how softly and reluctantly my Abi first whispered your name to me, as if you didn’t belong to us. As if she didn’t want Meme (grandfather) to claim her eccentric pronunciation of your name. But each time Abi tries to unify you and Rohtang, she’s breathless. For us, you have overtaken Rohtang’s sacredness, for Abi, not as yet. How could you? Rohtang is her refuge. Rohtang is her sacred escape to the sky. Rohtang is her formless realm. You, in your enticing emptiness, are profoundly concrete, deeply earthly. Tandal, even today when she calls you out, you unsettle the warmth of our sun soaked tandoor room as you did back then. But my Aama and Abi too have cultivated faith in you. It shows in the dissolved color and coarseness of 108 rosary beads. They have obsessively chanted, prostrated and circumambulated on the doctor’s prescribed mantra day and night.
Mane Padme Hum
an engineering miracle
Mane Padme Hum
Mane Padme Hum
mighty as our men
Mane Padme Hum
Abi has consistently been complaining though. In the stubborn and overprotective care of your mother Pir Panjal, we didn’t justify our ways of being, she says. “What is this show of tribal tourism?”, she shouts at me even if she’s nearly lost her voice. “Have we already put our values and beliefs on sale?” Tandal, I am truly confused. Your doctors authorise worth in packaging our history, our rivers and mountains as tourist itineraries. Only now that I am learning my language, each lesson is an encounter with depths of your contamination. Lahul isn’t Lahul anymore. It’s a tourist place. As you are opening us to the world, the dakinis (female Buddha) and dakas (male Buddha) are retreating into caves, remerging into rocks and stones. The wisdom inflows of Chandrabhaga are drying out. Will ego and individuality flow now on?
Abi’s rainbow body has shrunk visibly since the definitive announcement of your birth. She’s sleepless at night, unable to distinguish the ferocious mood of her guardian deity Palden Lhamo from those of men and machines churning inside you for the one last time. You know, your big mouth was once her fertile field where she sang and danced with the dakinis.
Aama is waiting outside the operating theatre luminous in her goshen (silk brocade) cholu (attire). By her side is an inconsolable Chandrabhaga. Your bright and shallow eyes have possessed us. I heard they are the longest in the world. But will you have the courage to look into my Aama’s eyes? I should let you know, in my dream last night, she revealed her desire to transform your wrath into blissful radiance of the Khatag.
Text by Kesang
This essay is first in the ‘Tandal’ series, a collaboration between Kesang and Krishna on infrastructure and gender in Lahul valley.
A shorter version of the essay was first published in The Tribune
Filming Lahaul continues collecting new visual and sound material. Meanwhile, the editing for the first feature film has begun. Soon, we’ll post the teaser, as well as some visual studies we did on the material. Also, we would like to share updates on different platforms we presented our visual research in the past two years.
In April 2018, we presented ‘Khandroma’ , a visual study on the local movement against hydropower dams in Tod valley of Lahaul at Displacements, the 2018 Biennial Meeting of the Society of Cultural Anthropology and Society for Visual Anthropology.
Soon after in the month of May, we showcased our short film on the bagh (mask) ritual of Kardang village at ‘Chandrabhaga Flavours’, an evening of poetry, music, painting, and films organised by Samgh Foundation in Manali.
In November 2018, Filming Lahaul travelled to Dharamshala International Film Festival to participate in the Film Fellows Programme.
In Sapno ko kaun gayega: Lahul main Kavita’, a poetry event organised in January 2019 by Save Lahul Spiti Collective to celebrate Ajey’s poetry, a progressive poet and writer from Lahaul. Filming Lahaul presented its visual study on Ajey’s poem ‘Byoons ki tehniyan’ (Willow Branches).
We see the tangible impacts of climate change in the retreating glaciers, depleting rivers and shifting agricultural patterns of the Himalayan region. The much reiterated call for sustainability – the need for a sustainable present for a sustainable future – underpins multiple climate change reports. But is this understanding reaching the common Himalayan people, or are sustainable solutions presupposed as emerging only from scientific expertise? If the latter is the case, the “solutions” ignore the value of local knowledge and skills in triggering bottom up climate change solutions. Today, the ‘remote’ borderlands of the Indian Himalayas are emerging as central sites of different socio-environmental conflicts due to an increasing dissonance between institutional and local understanding of sustainable development. The Trans Himalayan valley of Lahaul (Lahaul and Spiti district) in the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh – and my ancestral home – is one such frontier where unfortunately development solutions are unfolding in a similar fashion.
Filming Lahaul presented its “work in progress” at the 18th Conference of the International Association of Ladakh Studies, held from 2nd to 6th May 2017 in Pozan, Poland. The conference was jointly organised by the Polish Academy of Sciences, Humboldt University, Berlin and the Nicolaus Copernicus University in Torun, Poland.
The conference brought together sixty researchers from Europe and South Asia working indifferent regions of the Western Himalayas. We were delighted to share our visual research on Lahaul and received many thought provoking inputs. A big thanks to IALS, especially for the opportunity to meet and exchange ideas with young scholars from Ladakh and Kargil,India.