Shyama's Cattle: Ode to a Himalayan friendship
Yamadwar Glacier - Photo: Aman Panwar
Photo Essay: Deep in the mountains, the seeds of mutual loneliness evolved into an unlikely camaraderie. Aman Panwar writes about his friend Shyama—a cattle-herder and shepherd—in the Har Ki Dun valley.
I was in 10th standard when I first heard the story of an ‘auji’ (drummer) who faded in the Har Ki Dun valley playing the ‘dhun’ (sound) of Shiva or Hari, and was never to be seen again. Back then, the beautiful hamlets of Sankri and Taluka weren’t so popular, and some locals still seemed skeptical about visitors from cities touring their villages.
Time came when I had a chance to chase the echo of that music myself. I visited Har Ki Dun for the first time four years ago—and since then, I’ve kept my promise of visiting the valley every year, irrespective of the season (although, it mostly ends up being in the summertime). Situated in the Garhwal Himalaya in Uttarakhand, Har Ki Dun literally translates to the ‘valley of gods’, but legends often speak to a second meaning, of the ‘sound of shiva’.
I vividly remember how these slumbering giant mountains laid beneath thick blankets of white, in dreamless sleep, as the eons seemed to tick by like the second hand of a clock. Down below, there were grassy plains and clear streams; a perfect dine in-setting for Shyama's cattle.
The photographs here are from the summer, for this range is only naked of its snow from June through early September. The rest of the year they are as white peaked as any storybook mountains. But my most recent revisit to the valley wasn’t to experience the splendour of the mountains alone; it was to fulfil a promise I had made to Shyama 34-year-old shepherd and cattle-herder, and the last of his clan. Shyama had a shaggy face, midnight black hair, dark brown eyes framed with graceful brows and tanned skin, the features of a seasoned nomad.
I'm yearning to escape from this prison to graze his sheep in those meadows, to listen to his stories, to devour the best bhat-daal & rai-roti cooked on wood fire by him, and to sleep peacefully waiting for another beautiful dawn. It would be a feast of colour for eyes that have seen nothing but grey for so long.
I also owe my life to him. One day, I slipped off a rock while crossing the river, and couldn’t get a hold of something. I was pushed by the furious river currents and began to drown. My had lungs had filled with water when Shyama came to my rescue. Thankfully he had a—jhudkha—a sort-of rope, to throw at me. I got a hold of it while he pulled me out from that raging river.
Shyama and I were always captivated by the views this place had to offer us. We would sit for hours and identify the peaks as the sheep grazed. Shyama’s favourite was the Kalanag peak (6387 m). He always told me how these peaks aren’t just mountains but deities to be worshipped. He would sing folk songs dedicated to ‘Nag Devta’ or the serpent god, and I would sit there, thoughtless, finding comfort in the motherly love of the Himalaya.
Apart from our love for mountains, it was the seeds of mutual loneliness which burgeoned the tree of our camaraderie. Shyama lived in a small house of stone and clay with wooden doors & windows adorned with beautiful designs carved by his wife. He had lost her, unfortunately, to the wrath of nature only a year after his marriage. Every summer he would wait for my vacations from work so I would revisit, and we could once again graze his cattle together while sharing stories and talking about life.
For us, this place seemed perfect to live in a dreamscape. With mud on our shoes and winds tousling our hair, I learned farming techniques from him, while he was always curious to learn how to write on paper. We had it all—time for work and time for play—a perfect balance.
One of the perks of being friends with a shepherd is that you get to see beautiful places. We would take the herd and explore these unknown villages of Vitari, Kashla, Leowari, Jakul Paon, and Kotgaon, many which still remain hidden to the outside world.
I've been working as a tour operator and trek organiser in Mussoorie for the past two years, traveling to places, establishing connections with locals, and running workshops on community development and eco-tourism. The lockdown has strongly affected the tourism sector, and we are yet to see any help from the government. Tourism is the major source of income for people like us, and it gets difficult to earn bread specially when you have a startup. Things get chaotic and days are hectic living in four walls.
Isolation never feels good in a room. I wish I would've gone to Har Ki Dun before the lockdown, so that I could plant peas, work in field savour fruits like kaafal, plum and chullu. But I’m quarantined now, sitting at home, writing to keep the memories alive. My mind traces its way back to these meadows, mountains, valleys and sitting beside the Yamdwar Gad (river). I can hear Shyama's voice rolling over the hills in sorrowful waves as he always sang his losses, pain and pathos. Even then, the songs were soothing, as if they were promises of a better tomorrow.
I'm yearning to escape from this prison to graze his sheep in those meadows, to listen to his stories, to devour the best bhat-daal & rai-roti cooked on wood fire by him, and to sleep peacefully waiting for another beautiful dawn. It would be a feast of colour for eyes that have seen nothing but grey for so long.
Har Ki Dun Valley. Photo: Aman Panwar
Kalanag Peak. Photo: Aman Panwar
Near Osla Village. Photo: Aman Panwar
Someshwara Temple - Photo: Aman Panwar
Someshwara Trishul, Har Ki Dun. Photo: Aman Panwar
Swargarohini Peak. Photo: Aman Panwar
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Aman Panwar is a Mussoorie-based adventure tour operator, photographer and writer. Born and raised in the lap of Himalaya, he is currently working to promote eco and community based tourism in three Himalayan states. You can follow him on Instagram at @vagabond_24.
