The Valley Fish
To the envy of all Delhiites, Gasha Aeri and the new Honda Jazz X flee to the serene and breezy enclosures of Tirthan Valley to paint it in hues of blue and red
Photography Sanjay Raikar
That evening when Japan lost the match to Paraguay, there were two hearts that sank, apart from the many present in the Loftus Versfeld stadium. Mine, for my tiny Japanese connection, and Jazz’s (the new Honda Jazz X, to be precise), for the more obvious blood relation. And then? Then I had to take her out for a tiny tummy fill, spin her around a little and cruise her along the sleepy streets of Chandigarh to recharge her jazziness. And all this while, B B King accompanied me in the noble cause. After all, the Jazz and I were to be partners for four more days to come.
Welcome to my first travelogue, when Jazz and yours truly were lucky enough to flee from the scorching Delhi heat and spend a quiet weekend in Tirthan Valley, a popular fishing getaway in the Kullu valley. The next morning, we shook the previous night’s gloom off our minds and were ready to swipe another 300 km to see what heaven’s footsteps looked like.
The drive until Chandigarh was quite smooth, if we discount the Delhi traffic and the Karnal bypass bustle, that is. The 260 km that we had covered so far were far from tiring thanks to the lovely green farms along the way and an excellent inter-state highway. With the new USB port in the Jazz X, King then elaborated upon his ‘three o’clock blues’ while we tried to cheer him up with flavoured lassi and other Punjabi delicacies.
Chandigarh to Ropar was an easy route. However, a few kilometres down that road and we were upon the work on a proposed four-lane highway for which the existing two-lane one had been dug up. Now all the cars had to suck their breath in and share the space with lumbering lorries. This was also the time for variegated vernacular poetry on the backsides of those lorries, musical power horns and the Jazz to surreptitiously transform into ‘Jajj’ in Punjab!
As we took the turn towards Manali, the road shrank to a single-lane winding one, where oncoming traffic played hide-and-seek and your feet got that extra exercise required in accomplishing an uphill task. The road did not spell a success story either. It bore all the marks of an honest attempt at laying a motorable strip through those finely cut hillocks, but quite forgotten. Rubble, weather-beaten stones, stray animals and a 43-degree steep ascent were enough to scare the living daylights out of a rookie F1 driver. If you were lucky, you could see the drivers of transport buses feed monkeys at the end of a blind curve. Not just that, the view outside the window was just too tempting for you not to pull over to a side, hunt for your camera under that heap of luggage and capture a few candid shots of nature casting her majestic spell on you. By the way, fuel-filling opportunities were not that frequent and the Jazz gave us a good glimpse of her diet-conscious self. 15 kms to a litre is a rather impressive figure.
The road from there onwards became steeper and, simultaneously, the mercury fell like dead pigeons. The Jazz now had to remove her pretty heels and wear those reliable sneakers to climb on. New alloys really added another dimension of sportiness to the Jazz’s sneakers. The road narrowed further as it wound its way through those tiny habitats. As for the Blues, the song being played was ‘Sweet home 
Chicago’. B B King isn’t the King for nothing. It was around this time that I sensed a tinge of jealousy. The Jazz with her newly acquired spoiler trying to match King’s fine-cut suit and diamond rings!
I stretched my legs in the cabin and enjoyed all the space I was blessed with. The cup-holder in the door pocket saved me from thirst and my co-driver slept merrily in the comfort of the air-conditioner.
The day’s duty done, it was time for the sun to set: a warning to us to better make it to our destination before the nocturnal mist swallowed the road up. Not to worry, though. We were in safe hands. At a flick, the Jazz cast a reassuring halogen glow on the road, making things easy for us. Discussing Clapton’s ride with the King, we reached the Himalayan Trout House at village Nagini and gave our salutation to the Tirthan, a tributary of the river Beas. The pear, cherry, apple and apricot trees standing tall and proud in the camp area fed our hungry tums. The lullaby that the river sang while enveloping tiny trout put us to sound sleep. 
I wouldn’t be able to tell when was the last time I woke to chirping birds and not to my mobile phone’s shrill Christmas bells alarm. A bit of dew on the Jazz’s body told us that she and the stream had had an extended conversation over the night. The next day was spent in taking all our travel fatigue off layer by layer and it became all the more interesting when the landlord aroused our attention by making a mention of fly-fishing.
The Tirthan Valley is basically famous for its fly-fishing camps for brown trout. The technique is using replicas of river flies as bait to dupe the trout to the dinner table. However, making exact replicas, tossing them into the river at a certain angle and understanding the habits of the fish call for some practice. Since we could relish the trout only if we caught it ourselves, we were more than happy to undertake the practice session.
Let’s not go into the details of our not-so-successful fishing hour, but words fail me when I sit down to write about the camp experience and the fishing lesson. Another mistake we made was not taking any light woollens with us. The night temperature of 12 degrees Celsius was enough to rattle our bones.
There were plenty of other things we could have done, such as visiting the Jalori Pass and Great Himalayan Park, to name but a few. However, there were time constraints. The next morning, we were ready to bid adieu to the Himalayas. Needless to say, none of us wanted to leave so early, but better things awaited us at the other end. We were now better acquainted with the route and also had garnered fond memories of the time spent in the Valley.
The drive back home held nothing of interest, for parting is never pleasant, especially from such pleasant and magical environs as the Tirthan Valley. Delhi soon welcomed us back home. The country roads did bring us back home, but not really.
In an aside, I would like to modify that famous saying. ‘Give a man a fish, and you at least feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he eats herbs for dinner!’
BOX GETTING TO TIRTHAN VALLEY
By Air: Nearest Airport-
Bhuntar (2 flights a week, to and from Delhi), 90 minutes’ drive to the valley
By Rail: 8 hours drive from
Ambala station, 7 hours from Kiratpur station
By Road: 550 km from Delhi
(11-12 hours’ drive)
OTHER USEFUL INFO
Altitude: 2000-3000 meters
Best seasons to visit: March- June, September- November
Places to see: Great Himalayan National Park, Gushaini, Shoja, Ghiyagi, Banjar, Jalori Pass
Popular for fly-fishing lessons, camping
CAPTION
If there can be a car with space for everyone and everything, then this is it, this is it, this is it.
1. Some trout-catching, on the rocks.
2. The tent and other knick-knacks emerged from Jazz’s magic boot
3. Pretty lady climbing up the winding roads to Tirthan Valley
1. Nearest filling
station being 20 kms downhill, paying Rs 60 for a litre in the valley wasn’t a bad deal
2. With rocky terrain and marijuana bushes on road-sides, the valley was the perfect place for ‘Rock and Roll’.
BLURB
THIS WAS ALSO THE TIME FOR VARIEGATED VERNACULAR POETRY ON THE BACKSIDES OF TRUCKS, MUSICAL POWER HORNS AND THE JAZZ TO surreptitiously TRANSFORM INTO ‘JAJJ’ IN PUNJAB!
