In Kullu, on the footsteps of the journey to ‘End of the Habitable World’
Painting by Nicholas Roerich. Photo: Sudheshna Rana
Personal Essay: In the exploration of a wondrous art museum and travelogue of the Western Himalayan region, Sudheshna Rana comes across time capsules that enrich the understanding of the region’s history, architecture, and mythology.
Who knew that Kullu, the ancient Rajput kingdom, was once known as Kulathapitha, meaning ‘the end of the habitable world’? Or that Manali was once just a hamlet called Dana, which means fodder, as it was the last place where beasts could eat before crossing the Rohtang Pass?
The Western Himalayan region is a rich tapestry of such stories and traveling to this place can inspire any history buff to delve into its many mysteries. For me, reading and travelling have always felt like a twin activities. In my childhood, pre-internet era train journeys meant grabbing an issue of Champak Magazine or Reader’s Digest from the railway station kiosk. Those early habits recently resurfaced during my annual Himalayan trip to the sister towns of Kullu and Manali.
I discovered the Himalaya as a graduate student at Delhi University. During my trekking trips, an obsessive fascination with the art and cultural history of the Western Himalayas arose, one which eventually led me to the art of Nicholas Roerich—reverently called the “Master of the Mountains.”
I was thus thrilled when the opportunity finally arose to visit the Roerich Museum in Nagar—a Himachali village located between the district centre Kullu and the tourist destination Manali. The museum, formerly known as ‘The Hall’, was built in 1880 by a British Indian Army officer and an influential landowner, Colonel Robert H.F. Rennick. Later, it was bought sold to the then Raja of Mandi, and finally bought by Roerich and his wife. Today, it is maintained by the International Roerich Memorial Trust in Kullu Valley.
Largely forgotten in the modern art world, Nicholas Konstantinovich Roerich was a world-renowned Russian painter, writer, philosopher, and archaeologist who spent his last days in this picturesque Himalayan settlement. His paintings from the trans-Himalayan expeditions have a unique meditative impression, an evocation of his shamanistic ideas. He painted these mountains through an otherworldly play of depth and lightness.
Roerich’s greatest contribution to the world is the Banner of Peace, a symbol of the Roerich Pact. This international treaty was dedicated to the protection and preservation of artistic and scientific monuments in times of peace and war. The recent war in Ukraine, the 2001 destruction of the Bamiyan Buddha by Taliban, and the deliberate destruction of cultural legacies in Syria are examples that go on to reiterate the importance of protecting cultural heritage in contemporary times.
Roerich’s son, Svetoslav, was also a painter. He married Devika Rani, known as the ‘First Lady’ in Indian films, and was also Rabindranath Tagore’s grandniece. The couple was instrumental in the establishment of the art gallery and museum.
Relics from Roerich Museum. Photo: Sudeshna Rana
Exhibits from their collection are an art nerd’s paradise, but it was in the gift shop where I found the most exquisite treasure trove of information in the shape of her little-known travel memoir, Kulu: The End of the Habitable World (1972). During his last step in India, Roerich was visited by the travel writer, Penelope Chetwode, known for Two Middle-Aged Ladies in Andalusia. She travelled through the Kullu-Manali as a girl in the 1930s and eventually returned during the Indo-China war of the 60s to write her travel memoir. Her travelogue recalls a time of European settlers, royal families, rest-house chits, and pony rides. She describes two India: one from her childhood during the 1930s colonial era when her father was the Commander-in-Chief, and another during the 1960s post-Partition period.
In contrast, my travels were Insta-friendly events, facilitated by online bookings. One thing, however, remained constant between these two journeys in these hills was the joy of befriending kind strangers, meeting old friends, and our strong affination towards the preservation, documentation, all with the strong belief in the relevance of the cultural heritage of this region.
Reading Chetwode’s memoir also helped me realize that travel is a very subjective experience. Race, class, sexual orientation, etc. play a huge role in how we “travel”. The lens of travel literature is a great portal to studying ways in which various cultures have merged, vanished, or flourished in a region.
In one of the most telling sections of the travelogue, Chetwode writes of meeting an Englishman on her journey,
I was filled with the deepest admiration for my countryman Ken Smith: St. John John Gore calculated in the nineties that it was impossible for an Englishman to trek in the Himalaya without a minimum of ten coolies. In the thirties I think we made do with three or four apiece, and now in the sixties I was down to one. Yet here was Ken, coolieless in Kulu, carrying his own pack on his back, tackling these really tough passes without map or guide or gun.
Her reverential descriptions of colonial expansions and expeditions were actually conducted on the backs of Indian labour. Her own journey was replete with her memsahib attitudes towards the indigenous population. Her passion for the study of temple architecture, borrowed from previous Dead White Male colonial scholars, administrators, engineers, and traders like Harcourt, Shuttleworth, etc. is tinged with an orientalist bias. Furthermore, she shows unease at ritual animal sacrifice practiced by the indigenous communities during village feasts, but is blind to the cruelty of big game hunting pursued by colonial settlers.
One of the best gifts of travel is getting out of the echo chambers of our minds. It helps us explore new perspectives, connect with others over art, literature, and cinema, or just replace our repeated playlists on Spotify.
On the other hand, her outsider’s perspective was also helpful in locating social phenomena in the hills that are usually absent from much of contemporary discussions. One such example is her close inspection of caste and the integration of indigenous gods into the Vedic pantheon. The book talks at length about the many legends of Jamlu, the presiding god of Malana and Harimba (Hidimba) of the Mahabharata—absent in the present Hindutva narrative prevalent in India.
The travelogue was like a mysterious time-capsule, enriching my understanding of the history, architecture, and mythology of this place.
Kullu’s natural beauty has become restricted to an influencer-friendly Instagram aesthetic on social media, a socio-cultural trend tracing its origin in the romantic escapism of Bollywood. It is important to see a place through new and old perspectives. At a time when the tourism industry is bearing the major brunt of the economic meltdown triggered by the global pandemic, we need to look at the culture that shapes the lives of the people of this over-commercialised tourist hotspot.
Chetwode’s deeply personal billet-doux to the hills and Roerich’s evocative paintings shifted my perspective about the Western Himalayas. One of the best gifts of travel is getting out of the echo chambers of our minds. It helps us explore new perspectives, connect with others over art, literature, and cinema, or just replace our repeated playlists on Spotify.
A chance meeting with a fellow traveller helped me discover the work of Tharah Kardu, a platform dedicated to the preservation of the culture and history of the Kullu. There is a great divide between contemporary digital narratives from urban and rural parts of India. Many influencers profit from stories of rural people and communities, who are unable to own their own stories. But behind the barrage of trending reels, there are platforms dedicated to amplifying the voices of local story-tellers as well—their voices need to be amplified to keep their cultural legacy alive.
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Sudeshna Rana is a writer, poet, and editor with an MA in English Literature from Lady Shri Ram College for Women, University of Delhi. Her work appears in the Narrow Road Journal, Feminism in India, Cocoa & Jasmine Magazine, and Red River Publishing. Her piece on female friendship will appear in an anthology published by Yoda Press. A recipient of South Asia Speaks 2022 fellowship, she is currently writing an ecofeminist account of Dhanbad, the coal capital of India. You can find her on Instagram: the_blackcottoncandy.
