Himanshu Khagta in Ladakh, Himalayas - Pic : Poras Chaudhary

The beauty of her mysterious mountains and the tranquility of life in Shimla, had been captured with amazing flair by a zillion cameras over the years but never could the “queen of hills” truly boast of someone out of these shutterbugs, who was nurtured in her own bosom.  Certainly not someone, who is just 21 years old.

Walking back from school everyday little did he would have expected that very soon the pictures he clicked of those tall, dense deodars would earn him a name that would transcend the misty, huge mountains of his town.  Started off just as a hobby, photography now completely fits as another form of living for Himanshu Khagta.

While his fellow classmates were occupied with the hits and wickets in cricket, he was busy chasing the magnificence of the historical monuments around him in his reel camera. Nothing was as essential as the call of the camera for this Himachal lad.  Photography happened to him like flying happens to a bird.

Every time they got the photographs developed, his parents wondered why they were never made one of them. Their perplexed mind finally got an answer when they saw their boy’s clicked picture in one of India’s leading magazine’s guidebooks, Outlook when he was only in 12th standard. The journey, from a reel camera to a camera phone to a digital camera to his first DSLR, a short one though, was long enough to draw him out his hometown and take him to more intriguing places in the North.

He couldn’t wait long to give the colours of Pushkar a touch of his own. The vibrant festivals of Gujarat could not be missed. The diversity of culture in Uttar Pradesh surely deserved to be caught. But the Pahari boy adored the mountains like nothing else. Srinagar just deepened this love while he went on capturing the people making them appear as normal as every other Indian.  And Uttarakhand was the perfect destination for the making the flashlight meet the thunders of the sky. But nothing could change the love he had for the place he came from. He has travelled extensively in Himachal. Every culture which has always remained unnoticed in the country’s best tourist state was put in frames with stunning sanctity.

Himanshu Khagta with the Raika Tribe in Rajasthan

Doing the rare required him to put down the comforts he was used to. His photography expeditions have made him starve, walk endlessly for 14 hours and what not. “The Chanshal Valley tour almost made me forget about photography, all I wanted then was some morsels of food” he says smilingly. His experiences of convincing people to let him click a picture can make for an interesting storybook. “Often I have been asked to pay them in return” he says it with a smirk.

He thinks of his camera as more than a machine to click and capture people, moments or nature. He feels he can contribute in preserving the rich and varied ethnicity of rural India which faces a threat from the Western influence, with his small yet powerful tool. “Rural India is more intricate than we think, every experience there gives me an impetus to travel deeper into it” believes the snapper. And the respect with which he treats his subjects and the sense of maturity he shows with sensitive themes cannot be guessed by his age.

The geek is not a great fan of technology but admits is a slave to it, after all, everything started for him from the clicks of the mouse. It would not be wrong to say that the Internet mentored him.  It wasn’t a long time ago when he used to put his pictures on sites like Flicker and get his friends to comment on them, now he is a contributor in various national and international magazines and newspaper; Femina, DestinAsian, Discover India and The New York Times to name a few.

The travel photographer wants to make a trip to the South soon but wants to go with the Gujjars(nomads) on a mountain climbing trip first. There is no dream project as such but yes there is a bag full of aspirations.  There is a lot more to travel, lots of cultures to be explored, lots of people to be met and of course lots of pictures to be clicked.

Ladakhi Dancers wearing traditional Ladakhi outfit in Dras, a small town of Kargil District which got famous after the Kargil War of 1999. (Himanshu Khagta)

( Originally appeared in the October/November 2011 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“The Last Valley”) )

Long marred by separatist violence, the Kashmir Valley is finally enjoying a relative peace, with tourist numbers higher than they have been for years. But will it be enough to return the beautiful Himalayan vale to the ranks of India’s most legendary destinations?

Text By Shoba Narayan
Photographs by Himanshu Khagta

At 3,528 meters above sea level, Zoji La is among the highest—and most hair-raising—mountain passes in the world. It constitutes a narrow, precipitous spur of India’s National Highway 1, which connects the serene Kashmir Valley with Ladakh. I’m en route there now, risking muddy switchbacks and plunging ravines just to see a polo tournament in the remote Himalayan town of Drass. And right when I think things can’t get any more unnerving, the convoy of tourist vehicles I’m traveling in screeches to a stop. There’s a landslide ahead.

Thankfully, a patrol of rifle-toting soldiers is on hand to clear away enough of the debris to allow a single lane of traffic to pass. Their being here is not merely fortuitous: the Indian Army has maintained a heavy presence in the area since the Indo-Pakistani War of 1947, the first of three border wars fought over Kashmir. One of our drivers tells me in a soft Kashmiri accent that there’s a high-altitude army training center nearby.

While we wait for the way to be cleared, the group of journalists I’m traveling with loiters by the gravely roadside. Some of us take pictures, or blow cigarette smoke into the thin mountain air, dazed by the raw beauty all around. The snow-capped Lower Himalayas rise on the horizon like frozen tidal waves. Far below, in the grassy plains where the River Sindh rushes headlong toward its confluence with the Baltal, Hindu pilgrims en route to the holy cave of Amarnath have populated a massive campsite. Their turquoise and yellow tents look like candy wrappers from where we stand.

Finally, we’re ready to move on toward Drass, which in winter is said to be one of coldest inhabited places on earth. It’s also the closest Indian town to the Line of Control, along which a tenuous cease-fire exists between India and Pakistan. Only this morning, that all sounded like a terrific adventure. Now, I’m not so sure. As our vehicle edges around the rubble, its wheels perilously close to the drop-off, I’m wishing I were back in my bed in Srinagar.

A Kashmiri Private bus on its way to Srinagar near Baltal, Kashmir (Himanshu Khagta)

“Five thousand years ago, at the time of the great Mahabharata War, we Kashmiris did not participate in the battles, saying that we were saints and not fighters,” says Yousuf Chapri, the owner of Discovery Tours, one of the oldest trekking operations in the Kashmir Valley. “Just look at us now.”

We are sitting in his office right across from Dal Lake in Srinagar, the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir. It’s a mild, sunny day and the shikaras—canopied gondolas—are out on the water in force, carrying boatloads of tourists across the lake’s mirrored expanse.

Over cups of masala chai, Chapri recounts Kashmir’s long, turbulent, tragic history—how it was once a major center of Sanskrit scholars, or pandits; how Buddhism came to the Kashmir Valley during the third century, followed later by Sufi sages and Muslim invaders from Turkestan; and how it was eventually absorbed into the Mughal Empire during the reign of Akbar the Great, whose heir, Jahangir, was so besotted with the valley’s beauty that he penned this famous Persian couplet: “Gar firdaus, ruhe zamin ast, hamin asto, hamin asto, hamin asto” (“If there is a heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here”).

Trucks crossing the mighty Zoji La Pass, Kashmir. Zoji La is 9 km (5.6 mi) from Sonamarg and provides a vital link between Ladakh and Kashmir. It runs at an elevation of approximately 3,528 metres (11,575 ft) (Himanshu Khagta)

Alas, everyone wanted a piece of heaven. By the 19th century, control over the valley had passed from the Mughals to the Durrani shahs of Afghanistan and thence to the Sikh kingdom of Ranjit Singh. In 1846, as an upshot of the First Anglo-Sikh War, it was lost to the British, who, in turn, sold it to Maharajah Gulab Singh Dogra as part of the semi-autonomous princely state of Jammu and Kashmir.

Then came Indian independence, and Partition. Pakistan claimed predominantly Muslim Kashmir for its own, kicking off a series of wars and military standoffs between the nuclear-armed neighbors. The area became a tinderbox. In 1987, separatist insurgents, trained and armed across the border, launched a campaign of terrorism that, together with brutal crackdowns by the Indian government, would eventually claim tens of thousands of lives. Not for nothing did U.S. President Bill Clinton, in 2000, call Kashmir “the most dangerous place in the world.”

“If the dispute between India and Pakistan had been settled during Partition, we would not have had to suffer so many decades of terrorism,” says Chapri with a sigh. “Now, we have lost our infrastructure, our education, our youth. Politics can be settled overnight at a table. But if we lose Dal Lake, the chinar trees, and these mountains, then what do you have left to fight over?”

Kashmiris are given to such poetic turns of phrase, partly out of nostalgia, and partly out of a sense of what could have been, had the politics of independence taken a different turn. “Disillusionment is a cottage industry in Kashmir,” a Srinagar cab driver tells me.

And yet the valley’s tourism amenities remain largely intact, including Dal Lake’s famed houseboats, vestiges of the colonial days that still bear fanciful English names such as Jewel of the Thames and Queen Victoria. As for hotels, there’s the historic Lalit Grand Palace, which was first built as a residence for Maharaja Pratap Singh in 1910. It’s almost perfectly situated, with the snowy peaks of the Zabarwan mountains as a backdrop and Dal Lake in front. Perfectly symmetrical chinar trees (a member of the maple family) tower above sprawling lawns where tables have been set up for tea.

After checking in to my wood-paneled room in the hotel’s old wing, I head down for lunch and run into Daisy Nedou, whose family owns hotels in Srinagar and the ski resort of Gulmarg, 56 kilometers to the southwest. Taking a table together, we talk about Kashmir’s famous cuisine, both the vegetarian fare of the pandits and the meat-based, 36-course wazwan feasts, where guests are seated around a common plate called the traami, and share dishes such as rogan josh (an aromatic lamb curry), minced-beef kebabs, mutton kurmas, and yogurt-based yakhni stews. Nedou invites me to go skiing in Gulmarg (home to the world’s highest cable car) during the season, which begins in December.

Lunch lasts almost three hours, and by the end, we are sated by both the food and the view. “Where else can you find this?” Nedou asks rhetorically. “You look up and see the pine forests; you look down and see the lake. This beauty…” Her voice trails off.

That evening, I go downtown to the shopping district near the narrow Jhelum River. Almost everyone directs me to a handicraft store called Suffering Moses. There, I’m shown a rare khani shawl, seen these days only in museums. Mohammed Sadiq, the shop’s second-generation owner, then shows me the design for a lacquer tray that he’s working on with local craftspeople.

“The British did us a huge favor,” he says. “They taught us to incorporate a certain utilitarianism in our arts and crafts so that we could create lampshades, cigar boxes, biscuit tins, and other household items instead of mere objects of beauty.” Only in Kashmir is beauty taken for granted.

Nearby at Asia Craft, owner Afzal Abdulla walks me through two floors of high-quality carpets, lacquered papier-mâché boxes, pashmina shawls, and carved walnut furniture. The highlight is a reproduction of the oldest known hand-knotted Persian rug, the Pazyryk Carpet, unearthed from a Scythian burial mound in the Altai Mountains in the 1940s and now exhibited at St. Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum. Abdulla’s copy is no knockoff: he tells me it took 18 months to make, and has more than 600 knots per square inch. The price? US$10,000.

“Most of the Kashmiri crafts came to us from Persia, brought over by the 14th-century Sufi mystic Shah Hamadhan,” he says. “Unfortunately, 20 years of terrorism has taken its toll. Many of our artisans have left the valley.”

Kashmir still bears the scars of those decades, but in the last couple of years, a degree of normalcy has returned. The once-deserted streets of Srinagar are now full of traffic. Along the banks of the Jhelum, families sit peacefully on the lawns eating corn: women in headscarves peel oranges; boys play ball; girls in pink frocks hold up matching cotton candy; white-capped men talk softly about politics and the state of affairs.

Local vendors sell kashmiri Halwa and Parantha during the festival near Hazratbal, Kashmir Devotees converged for peace prayers at the famous Muslim shrine of Hazratbal to mark Meraj-ul-Alam festival in Srinagar, Prophet Mohammed's Moi-e-Muqaddas (Holy Relic) is displayed for public viewing on ten occasions in a year, which includes Meraj-ul Alam. (Himanshu Khagta)

“Kashmir today is as safe as any other part of the country, or any part of the world, for that matter,” the area’s top cop, Inspector General S. M. Sahai, tells me during an interview at his Srinagar headquarters. “We are in control of the situation. While there are still some incidents, violence is at its lowest levels, ever.”

Tourists, primarily from elsewhere in India, have responded in kind. As of July, more than 500,000 people had visited the Kashmir Valley in 2011, the highest numbers seen in years. And that doesn’t include the hundreds of thousands of Hindu pilgrims that have come to Kashmir for the annual yatra (“sacred journey”) to the holy cave of Amarnath, which has been worshipped as a Shivaist shrine for five millennia. Theirs were the candy-wrapper tents that I saw from the heights of Zoji La, en route to a polo game in Drass.

Polo has been played in Drass for generations, but today’s tournament is special. Organized by the Lalit Suri Hospitality Group, it’s part of the centenary celebrations of the Lalit Grand Palace. It’s also meant to show that the winds of peace have swept over Drass as well, with various government bigwigs on hand to press the point. Midway through a match pitting a Delhi-based team against the local club, the youthful chief minister of Jammu and Kashmir, Omar Abdullah, arrives by helicopter and takes his place in the VIP tent. I see him tapping away on his BlackBerry between chukkas.

The entire town has gathered to see their men compete. Folk music played on oboe-like surnas and daman drums cheers the players on. The Delhiites are in smart red shirts, the locals in white. Horses run, swirling up dust. “The horses of Drass are smaller, but generous,” notes the commentator enthusiastically. But not generous enough—the Delhi team trounces the defenders. After the final, there’s a filling lunch by the banks of the raging

Drass River, and then I’m on the road again for the five-hour, hair-raising trip back to the Srinagar.

The next day, I wake early to take a shikara to the morning vegetable market in the middle of Dal Lake. I quickly learn that Dal isn’t a just lake; it’s a community. There are hundreds of families living on the water in floating villages, complete with schools, vegetable gardens, and lotus ponds. The market itself comprises a knot of about two dozen vegetable-filled canoes. Men haggle with each other and lift sacks of tomatoes, melons, cucumbers, and marrows from one boat to another. As the sun rises, the market disperses, and the produce is carried to bazaars all over Srinagar.

That evening, a group of us drive half an hour to the Muslim shrine of Hazratbal, where the Meraj-ul-alam festival is taking place. Thousands of devotees stand on the lawns facing the mosque and pray. The women wear hijabs, but are not dressed in black. Instead, they hold aloft colorful dupattas (scarves), as if to catch a blessing. At the appointed hour, an imam appears on the balcony, carrying a holy relic that is displayed only 10 times a year. Called Moi-e-Muqaddas, it is thought to contain a lock of Mohammed’s hair. Upon seeing it, women break out into tears and chant Koranic verses. It’s all over in a few minutes. The imam ambles back inside, and families return to picnicking on the lawns.

The roads outside are packed. Lines of stalls sell giant fried paratha flatbreads served with sweet yellow halwa. I sample a piece—it tastes like a Latin American churro, without the dusting of sugar. On the way back around the lake, we spot the brand-new Vivanta by Taj hotel, yet another hopeful sign for the valley’s tourism industry.

The Mughal gardens of Srinagar are best enjoyed alone. For this, you have to go early in the morning, which I do, the following day. The Pari Mahal is set amid the ruins of a palace built high above Dal Lake in the mid-17th century by the eldest son of Shah Jahan, builder of the Taj Mahal. It’s worth the hike for the views alone. And next to it is the Chashma Shahi, a modest garden with pools and fountains arranged over three terraces. The spring here is said to be the source of medicinal water.

Later, I spend a solitary hour at the Sri Pratap Singh Museum, which has a fine collection of textiles, weaponry, and relics. While I’m pondering Kashmir’s rich past, my phone rings. It’s Yousuf Chapri, telling me that I forgot my notebook in his office.

Chapri is waiting for me when I arrive. He hands me my book and some brochures about the successful travel company that his sons are running in Delhi. They have a great life there, he says. So why hasn’t Chapri joined them, I ask?

The old man pauses. “I love Kashmir,” he says finally. “I love its lakes and mountains and the valleys that nestle between them. I pray to Allah to give me paradise after death. But in the meantime, I can ask for no better place to be than here.”

THE DETAILS
KASHMIR

Getting There
Srinagar’s recently upgraded Sheikh ul Alam Airport is connected to Delhi by numerous daily flights (90 minutes).

When to Go
The Kashmir Valley is at its most pleasant during the summer months of June through August. Gulmarg’s ski season typically kicks off in mid-December and runs until mid-April.

Where to Stay
** Lalit Grand Palace Srinagar: Gupkar Rd.; 91-194/ 250-1001; thelalit.com; doubles from US$210.
** Vivanta by Taj – Dal View: Kralsangri, Brein, Srinagar; 91-194/246-1111; vivantabytaj.com; doubles from US$294.
** Houseboats: For a more romantic lodgings option, stay in one of Dal Lake’s renowned houseboats, which range in standard from budget to five-star luxury and come with sundecks, lounge areas, two or more bedrooms, and the use of a shikara. Contact the Houseboat Owners Association (91-194/245-0326; houseboatowners.org) to learn more.

Where to Eat
Shamyana: This elegant Srinagar dining room specializes in top-notch Mughlai cuisine. Boulevard Rd., Dalgate; 91-194/245-3360.

Getting There
Sri Pratap Singh Museum Hazuri Bagh; 91-194/213-2859; spsmuseum.org.
Pari Mahal: Located five kilometers west of downtown Srinagar.

What to Do
Discovery Journeys: In business since 1870, this operation arranges custom tours and treks throughout Kashmir. Boulevard Rd., Nehru Park, Srinagar; 91-194/ 250-0337; discoveryjourneysindia.com.

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Following are some of the memories I have of the amazing moments of last winter.

1. Breakfast at Sangla

So I’ll start with food. Nothing is more delicious then a breakfast after a freezing night at Sangla. Parantha, rajmah, curd and tea.

Indian Breakfast of Stuffed 'Parantha' with lentils and curd at Sangla, Kinnaur. In winters all the shops and rest houses remain closed and the only 'Dhabas' that are open have almost no choice of food. (Himanshu Khagta)

2. 10kms walk to Chitkul and back.

Reaching Chitkul after walking for around 10kms on ice and snow and staying with a hospitable family.

Kids playing on the roof in Chitkul, Kinnaur (Himanshu Khagta)

Son of Mr. Thakur, our hosts in Chitkul checks his picture in a Digital Camera. (Himanshu Khagta)

Harsh Kalta checks something on the laptop with a Kerosene heater (Himanshu Khagta)

3. Sunset Treks

Sunset treks started last year with me and two of my friends, Ankur Khachi and Harsh Kalta. To get rid of the boredom of roaming senselessly on the mall road, we started exploring new places in and around Shimla, where people don’t generally go. From small tea shops with their aromatic tea to places were you could enjoy the different versions of Shimla Sunset.

The following shot we took when we were going back home as the dark orange sunset light fell on the green trees. I asked my friends for some poses and this is how we came up with this shot.

Friends posing for a shot at sunset time when the orange rays of the sun were falling on the green pine trees in a forest in Shimla (Himanshu Khagta)

4. Qilaa

Our friend Aasheesh Mehta, recommended this new place in town.  There were not many eating joints in Shimla so we decided to try it out and the moment we entered. we fell is love. Owned by a friendly couple, Qilaa has stone walls and low sitting area. We used to sit there for hours, without getting thrown out. We used to read, eat, talk and play games while waiting for the snowfall.

A cozy winter afternoon at Qilaa, a themed restaurant at Shimla. (Himanshu Khagta)

5. Early Morning Walks

Its difficult to get off your bed in sub zero temperature of Shimla, but once you are out, its worth the pain. Shimla looks beautiful with the empty roads of the mall road, the muted tones and grey clouds. Except for a day or two there was hardly anyone who would accompany me to the mall road at this morning hour. I befriended many mall road dogs. I used to walk around the ridge, Lower Bazaar and Lakkar Bazaar and my walk ended with a light breakfast at the Indian Coffee House.

People busy with their daily chores in a cold winter morning at Lower Bazaar of Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, India (Himanshu Khagta)

An early morning scene of the Indian Coffee House of Shimla. (Himanshu Khagta)

Cover - Hindustan Times Brunch

( This year I couldn’t attend the colorful Holi celebrations at Braj, but when Hindustan Times asked me to write a travelogue about my experience, I could easily retrospect the amazing time I had. )

The festival of colours is celebrated in Braj bhoomi for almost 50 days. In Mathura, Vrindavan, Nand Gaon, Barsana, Goverdhan, Dauji and Baldev, Holi festivities begin from Basant Panchami. While the official holiday for Holi around the country may be just a day or two, Braj gets eight days off. In this period called Holika-ashtak, all activities, including weddings and sale or purchase of property, come to a halt.

Two years ago, I received what was almost a challenge from a friend of mine who lives in Agra. We’d been talking about Holi, a festival I’ve never participated in. “This is all rubbish,” my friend announced. “The real Holi is played in my region.”

Naturally, that made me curious. I had to see it. So off we went to Braj bhoomi – the area of Uttar Pradesh surrounding Vrindavan, Mathura, Nand Gaon and all the places associated with Lord Krishna, to see how Holi is really played.

The real festival of colours
As we turned left onto a dusty village road at Kosi, a small town on the Delhi-Agra highway, we could see signs of a major village festival happening nearby. There were people dressed in bright fluorescent colours, kids spraying each other with water-colours and people traveling in jam-packed vehicles.

In a little while, we reached Barsana, the village of Radha Rani, the beloved of Lord Krishna. Like other villages of the Braj region of Uttar Pradesh, this village comes to life on Holi, the festival of colours. In every village of Braj bhoomi, Holi is played differently. The festival starts in the Fagun season of the Indian calendar, a week before the actual day of Holi.

Barsana is famous for Lathmar Holi. Preparations start a day before the actual event and synchronised chants of Radhe Radhe and aromatic incense fill the air, putting you into a spiritual trance. The first time I became part of this trance, I was nearly blinded by some idiot who splashed a handful of coloured powder straight into my eyes. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t even close my eyelids properly. In those few moments of blindness, I got a flashback of my schoolteacher telling my class about toxins in Holi colours that may blind you for life.

I had never played Holi before and going blind on my first attempt was not what I had expected. The enchanting atmosphere faded away and I ran for a tap to wash my eyes. When I finally opened my eyes, believe me, I was more than glad that I could see!

Everything had been so new to me that I had forgotten to be careful. You have to be extra careful when you’re playing Holi in Braj. You never know what might happen.

“It’s a wildly entertaining ride, not for everyone, but exhilarating nonetheless,” Poras Chaudhary, a photojournalist, told me when I returned to the fray. He was covered with colours from head to toe. As we chatted, I could see colours on his teeth as well.

Back for more
I was fascinated by the Braj Holi and decided to return the next year, this time with my camera. Since I knew what to expect, I covered my camera with rainproof material, and ensured the lens had a filter. It’s important to protect your equipment because photographers are the chief targets of mischievous youngsters who seem to prefer to practice their water gun skills on cameras.

We were lucky to get a room at Rangili Mahal, the only accommodation available in Barsana. To get a room you have to make a reasonable donation and you can stay for a maximum of three days. You should also note that this is the only place where you’ll find toilets. No public restroom is available in the village.

Loud hymns and religious remixes continued as we searched for a place for dinner. I couldn’t find a place that offered a proper meal. You get all sorts of drinks and snacks like thandai, paera and kachori, but that’s it. I had doubts about their hygiene, but it is advisable to avoid milk products to keep your stomach happy. Remember! There are no toilets!

The next morning I sealed my camera and applied oil to my skin. It was a lesson learned from last year, when the colours had stayed on me for more than a month.

Living the legend
When we entered the temple complex, we found hundreds of people on the stairs. The gates were closed and the crowd seemed difficult for the police to control. Then the gates opened and everyone, including me, rushed inside. An old woman in her 80s, with crutches, was among us. “Radha Rani invited me here, I cannot leave without taking her blessings,” said Yamuna Devi, a devotee from Jhansi. She finally made it to the temple.

Then a group of traditionally dressed boys with water guns, singing Holi songs in Braj bhasha, began running, penetrating the crowd in a challenging manner. The Barsana locals rushed to the roof of the temple and responded by throwing flowers soaked in water.

These young boys were from Nand Gaon, the village of Lord Krishna. Legend has it that Lord Krishna, jealous of the fair complexion of his beloved, Radha, came to Barsana along with his friends and smeared gulaal (coloured powder) on her and her friends. When Krishna and his friends refused to leave, they were beaten up by the gopis and sent home.

The tradition continues. The lads from Nand Gaon carry a leather shield, and have their heads covered with a thick, layered cap. They enter the temple, sit with the goswamis (high priests) of both villages and while the elder priests from Nand Gaon invite the people of Barsana to their village in the colourful event known as samaaj, the young lads run around in the streets via Krishna Mahal, singing Holi songs and spraying the women with coloured water.

As they reach Rangili Gali, they are caught and beaten by stick-wielding Barsana women wearing bright costumes and with their faces covered with veils. Thousands gather on the streets, many climb up on every possible location – including rooftops and telephone poles – to experience this event themselves.

Meanwhile the goswamis of both villages sing traditional Holi songs in Braj bhasha while people empty large bags of coloured powder over them in a swirling action, creating a cloud of colour. The scene is changed when another bag of contrasting colour is swirled around. The colourful event is repeated the next day in Nand Gaon, a few miles from Barsana. Everything remains the same, only the roles are interchanged.

Colours dominate the atmosphere during Braj Holi, and for this reason it’s famous among photographers. A large notice reading ‘Photography Strictly Prohibited’ is usually ignored. It merely hangs on the walls of both the temples.

Just do it
After the Lathmar Holi, celebrations shift to Banke Bihari temple in Vrindavan and Dwarkadheesh temple in Mathura and continue till the actual day of Holi. A day after the actual Holi, Huranga is celebrated in Dauji, during which men drench women with colours and women tear the clothes off the men and thrash them with soaked pieces of the torn material.

“This is our tradition, our pride, we should preserve it,” said Dilip, a Barsana boy now working with a multinational in Delhi. “We will not let modernisation come in the way.”

But modernisation may be hard to prevent. There were more tourists and photographers interrupting the celebrations this time compared to the year before. And a tourist was thrown out when he went into the temple with his shoes on. “Earlier, only pilgrims visited Braj, but now it’s becoming a commercial event,” said Jitendra Singh, a social activist based in Delhi. “People holding a camera think they have all the rights. It’s just a colourful event for them; they ignore the religious importance of the event.”

And it’s true. Holi is a religious event. At least, here, in Braj bhoomi, where it has been celebrated the same way for centuries. It’s an experience that leaves you mesmerised with its beauty and awestruck by its colours. An experience that can’t be summed up in words or in photographs. You have to see it yourself.

The Churukula dance
An integral part of fairs in Mathura district during Holi, the churukula dance is strongly associated with the Braj Holi. In the dance, a woman carries a ‘churukula’ – a broad plate that bears three kalashes (water utensils) and 108 diyas, and dances with it, balancing the plate perfectly with the rhythms of her dance.

Getting there
Since today is Holi, you’ve already missed most of the fun in Braj. You could dash off right now from Delhi, if you like. Or better yet, keep this copy of Brunch to refer to next year. To reach Barsana, you can take a taxi from Delhi or get down at Kosi railway station and then take an auto or shared jeep to the village. I would not recommend the shared option unless you want to enjoy your ride on the bonnet of a small Mahindra jeep. A shared jeep usually carries around 20 people – five in the front row, seven in the second, three on the bonnet, some on the roof and the rest in the boot. And the driver won’t move until the jeep is full! The best option would be to book a taxi in advance.

Stay at Vrindavan as it is centrally located and all the Braj Holi venues are easily reached from there. Plus, it has lots of hotels and ashrams. Vrindavan is also home to many famous eating joints, such as Brijwasi where you can get mouthwatering paede and badaam milk. You can also try the organic food at the Iskcon Temple. Taxis and other forms of public transport are easily available to Barsana and other Braj villages.

- Himanshu Khagta is a freelance travel photographer based in the Himalayas. He has travelled extensively across India, documenting people, places and cultures.

- From HT Brunch, March 20, 2011
- Link to the Article
- Link to Hindustan Brunch Website

An early morning scene of the Indian Coffee House of Shimla.

I am sitting here in the Indian Coffee House.

The one situated on the mall road of Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, India.

Its a cold winter morning.

Its around 8:30 am

I could not sleep the entire night. So here I am on an early morning walk to the Mall Road.

Here are some pictures i took on my way.

People busy with their daily chores in a cold winter morning at Lower Bazaar of Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, India

People of Shimla covered with warm clothes in a cold winter morning at the mall road

A worker trying to pick a pile of cardboard on the stairs of Shimla in a cold winter morning.

It was only when I was strolling, I realized that I might freeze in a few seconds.

I got inside the only eating joint that was opened.

I am waiting for my third cup of filter coffee.

Its a South Indian version of coffee that has a burning taste to it. Its made when the milky water is made to pass through the ground coffee powder without any pressure, but I think they have just boiled the water and added coffee with milk to a pan and served it in a small white cup with a saucer. Its the Indian way of making coffee.

Too much information.

…

I am staring at the menu board on my left wall.

I think it has one ironical mistake.

‘Veg Hum Burger’.

Hum Burger at the Indian Coffee House

I just overheard a funny conversation of the couple sitting at the table to my left.

Then I overheard another conversation of a policeman talking about some criminal.

I don’t think overheard is the right word. I am trying hard to listen and keep myself busy.

Never thought this place could be so interesting. That too at around 8am in a cold winter morning.

I hear a cat mewing.

I think its under my chair.

I see the waiters trying to shoo it off in a very secretive way.

Its so amusing.

I hear pink floyd.

‘Waiting for the worms’

Pink Floyd in The Indian Coffee House of Shimla ?

How is it possible ?

Oh! I found the source. Its that foreigner sitting right in front of me.

Foreigner playing Pink Floyd on some music player

What an amazing morning.

Pink Floyd, interesting conversations, a cat mewing.

Kalta just arrived.

‘Its real cold outside’, he said.

I placed my order for two more cups of coffee.

Its my fourth cup.

I think I should shut up now.

My breakfast just arrived.

A cup of filter coffee and a plate of Vada- Sambhar at the Indian Coffee House of Shimla

Bye! Have a great day.