Along a ghost town...

On the top of nowhere, surrounded by inaccessible forests, mountain ridges, dams and rocky terrain lies every smokers’ paradise, Malana. A trek to this mountain was interspersed with new friends, trusting my intuition and killer views.

On my way back from Manikaran, my travelling partner for then - green shoe Srini - decided not to do the trek with me. The thought of doing it all alone was intimidating but not one to ever turn back from a step once taken, I decided to go ahead. It was one of my best decisions ever!!

Alone and no one to ask any thing, I learnt to talk to strangers on the road and in the omnipresent teashops. Armed with half a handful of information, I realise I cannot walk, rather trek all the way to this grassland from Jeri. I decide to cheat my way into there.

I hop into a taxi that I finally get after a lot of others refused. And the driver, Rakesh Sharma, was a mine of data. Even as we haggle over prices, I learn about the terrain, the damage the dam is doing to the area and police check-posts (no points for guessing!).

Taking all the twists and turns on a rocky-muddy road, I reach Brijpur. One of the points from where the 2.5 hour trek begins. My taxi driver-cum- guide agrees to come at least half way. Steep steps and ganga-crunching babas keep me company the other half. And in between, some others who said "take the collar of your dog or else they wont let it in", "Don't touch anything there, they will penalise you"...

The climb is tiresome but the sound of the gurgling stream soothes my frayed nerves and maybe the smell of the weed. It did nothing, how ever, for my stretched hamstring, aching ankles and shin.

The village doesn't just pop into view. Like every thing with something to hide, you slowly meander into the village in such a way that everyone can see you arriving.

And I enter a ghost town... a town that looks like it has been ravaged but also had been forgotten by the rest of the universe. Covered in filth, blue-eyed and golden-haired children run around in wellington boots and crocs. That is how far globalisation has touched them. Men and women seem to be conspicuously absent. The ones present seem to be preparing a meal at the centre of the village and a few of those who have seen life, crushing the weed.

A wooden-doored temple takes up my view as I turn around a corner. Carved with intricate designs and stuffed animals on the lock, they seem to lure any tourist only to be stopped by an alert that says - Do not touch!

They seem to take their purity too seriously... The people of this village believe themselves to be descendants of Alexander the great and do nothing to defile themselves. Is it a sham - well, maybe it is just a business trick!! Pique your curiosity and get stoners to come to the mecca of weed!!

As I stroll across the valley in search of someone to talk to I walk till the end only to be stunned by the view of the valley beneath and the mountains ahead.

And as I give up my search for some one local, a man appears out of one of those wooden house lined all along the village. Emaciated, but clothed in lamb wool he beckoned me to a stone bench to get to business... Though I was a walking rupee sign for him, he refused to touch anything I had and always had everything covered in crinkly plastic...

Did I do business with him? Did I smoke a spliff? Did I buy more than a T from him? Do I have my own peddler now with his name and number intact? Maybe yes and maybe no!

For those lazy souls who want to reach Malana, but do a shorter trek, you can take the taxi up to Nerang. The walk is just over an hour but just as picturesque as I did it downhill.