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Text and photographs: Kartik Krishna

I must have been a good Samaritan in my previous life.

Only good karma can explain why I'd be proffered the chance-of-a-lifetime to soak in Arcadia itself.

Virgin, sylvan domain... lushness incarnate. Can heaven really be any different? Or any more postcard-perfect?

Sangla Valley, realm of love and beauty, nestling in a snug corner of Himachal Pradesh, must surely rank as one of God's most cherished of creations. It's astonishing that there are still such undefiled places left on this good earth -- a poignant reminder of how far we have drifted away from the Source. And how tragically.

The journey to the valley begins from Delhi is not totally pleasant. On the way, I think up several synonyms for 'road hog' which turns out to be a euphemism from every angle. My co-passengers, who consist of my kid brother, baby cousin, and her parents, attempt heroically to elevate the general mood. But it's difficult to feel anticipatory exultation when the road stretches endlessly before you and its all noise and grime.

The first climb changes all that; the mountains are awesome and overwhelming. The drive turns invigorating, the twists of the narrow road leading us to the coolness of freshly rained-upon mountainsides. The first sight of snow makes my heart pound with wonder and euphoria. For me it is as alien, as extraordinary as the sands of Mars.

The voyage continues, acquainting me with new, wonderful aspects of the world at every moment. The very structure of the landscape, its trees, rocks and its animals, metamorphose constantly, almost magically, into different belts as we ascend.

The people in the villages and towns we pass have now a definite ruddiness of complexion and a buoyancy of mood that is pleasantly contagious. They stare, out of natural curiosity. I feel a kinship with them, their simplicity and enthusiasm is enchanting. I wave back to almost all the children we see.

We camp overnight at a motel in Narkanda, a ski resort just beyond Shimla. The morning after, I step out of the motel and instantly get a taste of things to come. Pristine, verdant mountains engulf us from every side, and I can only stand and gape. Apple orchards covered with blue nets for protection from snow, little cottages cradled on the slopes all around. It could' ve been a dream. We drive on, higher, further than most forms of 'civilization' had ever reached.

After several fascinating hours spent navigating serpentine roads, the valley is directly below us, dappled with tiny colourful tents, barely discernible amidst a constellation of cypress trees. Though our watches show seven pm, twilight has barely settled in. Its picturesque beauty is awesome.

Our descent into Sangla valley is almost dreamlike, in lucid slow motion. When we arrive a couple of genial people materialize miraculously, to escort us to our place of dwelling, a comfy riverside tent site -- the Banjara camp, near Barseri.

In the fading light, we make our way to the tents, cutting across a couple of charming brooks and there's Himalayan splendour all around. The peaks stretch away into infinity above us, some of them snow-caressed, others lush with natural vegetation. These behemoth towers of nature seem to protect and mollycoddle the valley with their strength and majesty, and when we reach the camping site, we're stunned into reverential silence at the beauty of the place. This is the lost paradise on earth. And we're part of it.

The valley, I feel, is a boundless reservoir of energy, a super-charger that revitalizes oneself and dissipates goodwill. In the vast, idyllic expanse of this country, one must leave the ego behind or prepare to feel totally insignificant.

After night of deep sleep I feel like one reborn. Gulping in the cool, exquisite morning air -- pure hawa that my lungs are not familiar with -- I set out to 'bond with the vagabond' in me. I walk alongside the lustrous blue Baspa river that visits us benevolently, all the way down from melting glaciers above. Welcome to the Real World, I think to myself, exhilarated, halting occasionally to dip my fingers into the crystalline, cold water. Communing with the air, water, the good earth, is a kind of rejuvenation. Later that day, after sampling the freshest and tastiest of fruits, grown locally, we make our way to the Batseri village, a couple of kilometres from the camp.

At the end of that day, I was to reminisce about how it felt to be gaped at like an exhibit in a museum. And yet, strangely, I feel an utter lack of unease. The people of Batseri are almost like storybook characters in their charm and ageless beauty, yet they're far from caricatures. There is a natural camaraderie. And walking amidst them is almost like a warm homecoming. Some of the children, out from school during recess, follow us like long-lost cousins, amused by our fancy backpacks and clumsy, hi-tech clothing.

A little later, after our first mini trek up to low lying clusters of snow -- deliciously cold and deceptively slippery -- we traipse back through the village, and this time, we're greeted by some elders and a frisky, little puppy. Back at the camp, it's time for a late, late lunch and a heavenly siesta. Life doesn't get much cosier than this, I ponder under the luxury of my quilt.

The evening is cool. And we're ready for the bonfire once more, accompanied by hot food. On the spur of the moment, we decide to embark on a longer trek the following morning, courtesy our host who guides us through the crests and troughs of the giant hillsides.

The Long Walk, as it comes to be known by the end of our trip, is a singular experience, a giddy blend of adrenalin, fatigue, and a kind of primal satisfaction. From a distance, the peaks are miniature, but as I walk, I observe the way they simply engulf you with their dimensions. We journey well over fifteen kilometres, over hill and vale, through grizzly bear territory and unending roads, passing sheep, dogs, bulls, cows, yaks, until we finally sight the comforting huddle of tents in the far distance. I realize how painfully fragile we must seem to our guide, as we halt every few minutes to catch our breadth.

Yet, by the end of the march, there is a sense of triumph and conquest, even though my legs feel like they belong to a another body. Seven hours of trudging across the mountainsides and we're ready for a banquet, instead of just plain ol' lunch. And the food tastes like it was prepared for an army of Gods: scrumptious, abundant, the meal of the century. For dessert, a bout of much-needed sleep awaits us.

The third day in camp, and we're completely relaxed, unwound. The weather alternates between drizzles and bright sunshine. The hammocks, hanging by the riverside, beckon. Games people play in Banjara: volleyball, darts, cards, Frisbee... the pursuit of wisdom via meditation! The mystique of the valley exerts an odd magic!

We say a reluctant adieu on the fourth day. But this place will live on in our hearts, always.

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