Suman K. Sharma
Jammu sizzles in the June heat. Schools are closing for the summer vacation. Business everywhere is low and the sun deters one and all to step out of shade even for a moment. Fans, coolers and air conditioners struggle to give a modicum of comfort till they run out of power, which is quite often. What better then to pack up and go for the cooler climes.
Go where? One destination can be Loran. It is cool, it is scenic and it is quiet. Loran has one more attraction. Across a not too demanding climb lies Srinagar; a picturesque trek of some 10-12 hours and you are in the Valley.
Jammu to Loran is about nine-hour drive. Buses may take 10-12 hours. You go to Punchh or Mandi on an early morning bus and then take a local bus to Loran, which is about 12 km from Mandi. There is also a direct bus plying between Jammu and Loran.
Buses run all day long from Jammu to Punchh, but it is better to start early. Missing the dubious pleasure of lolling in the bed for an extra hour is more than compensated by the sweet breath of an early morning breeze. Delicious paneer pakoras and rich, creamy burfi await you at the Kali Dhar. Or, if you would prefer a tongue-tickling brunch, then halt at Bhanwala, a few kilometers ahead. There is something for meat-eaters too. A road-side eatery, Sheru da Hotel, one and a half kilometers this side of Bhanwala, offers scrumptious desi chicken, makki da todah and timbar chutnee. The trick, however, is to go easy on the delicacies, for an overfilled stomach will grumble as your vehicle negotiates the steep inclines and deep slants that lie ahead.
By the late afternoon, there is discernible change in the temperature. The sun is on its westward decline and the air, not a scorching dragon’s breath any more, soothes like a mother’s blessing. The Punchh Valley, with its silvery water courses and quaint bridges is there, and so would be Mandi, in a short while.
Mandi, as its name signifies, must have been a trading centre or a place of some importance in the days gone by. It is still acclaimed for its ancient shrine of Buddha Amarnath. Mr Khajuria, the venerable Vice-Chairman of the trust that maintains the temple, narrates the legend linked with the Shiva temple. The sage Pulastya, he says, decided to settle here in his sunset years. In time, a habitation grew around the ashram to carry his name. ‘Pulastya’ became ‘Puns’ and eventually, the present day ‘Punchh’. Lord Shiva, the ever-caring deity of his followers, was moved by the sage’s austerities and appeared before him. “But you have grown buddha, old man!” Lord Shiva jested. “I’ve grown old in your service, Lord Shiva,” sage Pulastya recounted. Pleased with his devotee’s repartee, Lord Shiva decreed that the place be known as ‘Buddha Amarnath’ in honour of his aged devotee. Thanks to the efforts of the trust, the original canopy – known as ‘palki’ – over the Shivalinga has been housed in an earth-quack proof superstructure. The temple has a langar which serves piping hot meals to the devotees round-the-clock. Across the road, BSF has built a night-shelter for the visitors. Adjacent to the Mandi bus-stop is the town’s dak bungalow. It is a tastefully done structure, which evokes the ambience of Kashmir with a huge chinar tree in its compound and the Mandi brook gurgling by its backyard.
Like a temptress, the scenic roadway beyond Mandi beckons the wayfarers not to tarry, but move on. Loran is half an hour’s drive from there. Tall and shady walnut trees abound in these parts, but at this time of the year, the fruit is unripe. The terrain is undulating and every curve affords a breath-taking sight. There are one or two wayside springs of crystal clear water, a joy for the thirsty. Small shops, selling everything from biscuits and crackers to toilet soap are not hard to find.
The first landmark of the village of Loran is its dak bungalow. Caretaker Bashir is a local – helpful but with some attitude. One cannot blame him as he has to deal with all the bigwigs and small fries who happen to come this way. There is a Rashtriya Rifles company just across the road. A Tricolour flying on an Army monument adds colour to the grey sky. The place is surrounded all around by snow covered peaks. The air feels like a fridge left open.
A banner strung high on a building declares the existence of ‘All India Institute of Education and Training’, rather a high sounding name for a privately run institution in a remote village. The narrow road has a few shops on both its sides. The customers are few and wares still fewer. Another tri-colour – this time an Indian National Congress Party flag – flies atop the residence of the local MLA. People talk here in Potohari, Gojari and Kashmiri, as you please. Little boys with radiant smiles and round prayer caps on their heads and little girls covered from head to foot in white walk the road carrying school bags on their backs. They pose happily for the camera as children their age anywhere would. Inside the village, close to the government-run secondary school and the primary health centre, is a bare plot adorned with a 2-year old foundation stone for a ‘labour’ room. But babies have a way to be born in the village without waiting for the intended facility to come up.
Mobiles hardly work here. It is a lucky moment if one gets a ‘signal’.
At some distance from the dak bungalow is a hill named Danna. A serpentine road winds up to its top. It gives a bird’s eye view of Loran and its surroundings. Standing below the lofty mountains, human dwellings appear puny and insignificant. Yonder, at the foot of a hill, is the shrine of a venerable Sufi saint, Sain Ilahi Baksh, who died not many years ago. A bushy mountain on the left has the dhoks of the Gujjars. A well trodden path leads to the mountain. The track goes right up to the Kashmir Valley lying on the other side of the mountain.
A group of sightseers walks unwarily into the boundaries of a house. A youth from the family courteously invites the men from the plains to rest awhile in his courtyard. He makes customary inquiries about their health and the place they hail from. Presently, the matron of the house brings the visitors curd in gleaming stainless steel glasses and insists that it would do them good. Indeed, the curd is sweet, creamy and filling. People of the hills are a hospitable lot.
But a word of caution. Excepting the 2-bedroom dak bungalow – which generally remains occupied – Loran does not have any place for the visitors to stay. There is not even a dhaba worth its name to provide a meal, unless you want to subsist on Kashmiri kulchas. The cool and beauteous Loran, albeit, can prove a destination of choice for hikers and trekkers who love the terrain they walk on and know how to fend for themselves.
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