my legs for 18 Himalayan expeditions. When I’m not practicing law, I investigate and document the religious traditions
of the western Indian Himalayas. Unlike many Westerners
who journey to the East, I’m not seeking a higher spiritual
truth. My impetus is a keen desire to understand a culture
that boggles my mind with its beauty and ferocity.
IRONICALLY, I WAS INDIFFEREN T TO THE RELIGION WHEN
I FIRST VISITED THE HIMALAYAS. I hurried through the villages to get to the untracked wilderness and high mountain
passes that left civilization far behind. Gradually, my interest shifted from crossing mountain passes to exploring the
secluded valleys into which they spilled. I grew intrigued by
the religion practiced in these valleys, which is unconcerned
with the metaphysical pursuits that most Westerners associate with Eastern religion. The mountain religion struggles to
subdue the unforgiving forces of nature — the flash floods that
wash entire villages away, droughts that cripple the local agricultural economy and diseases that afflict loved ones. Such
dangerous forces call for forceful gods, and the mountain
gods are fierce and commanding and often exact blood sacrifice in return for their blessings. These domineering gods, the
devatas, upended my understanding of Hinduism as a creed
of spiritual salvation and devotional love of benevolent gods.
They set me on an engrossing trajectory of research and study
that landed me, 20 years later, on Sakiran Peak.
There are at least 300 devatas in the vicinity of the Seraj
and thousands in Himachal Pradesh. They have a bewildering array of identities and make this Himalayan strain
of Hinduism polytheistic to the max. Some devatas, like
Shringi Rishi, are known by the names of mythical Hindu
sages. Others are addressed as nag, a title that signifies that
they’re snake gods, and reveals the devatas’ deep animist
roots. People believe that the devatas are alive and present and vest them with authority that extends far beyond
religious life. Each devata is regarded as the chief of a specific geographic place, a vestige of pre-independence India,
where the devatas were seen as landholders and the villagers
as tenant farmers who tilled the land. The devatas weigh in
on community affairs through a human medium, a gur, and
their positions hold so much weight that locally elected governing officials must heed them.
Not all devatas are equal in influence and prestige.
Nearly every cluster of villages has its own devata, but the
real power players, including Shringi Rishi, exercise authority over the territories of lesser gods. These paramount
gods battle for supremacy through rivaling factions of villagers, who claim to be carrying out the devatas’ inviolable
commands as spoken by the gurs. Yet even the mainstream
Indian media portrays these hostilities as deities at war,
not conflicts instigated by men. On October 15, 2013, The
Times of India reported that Shringi Rishi and his rival, Balu
Nag, “have locked horns for the last many years,” and local
authorities “put them under house arrest in their tents” at a
festival to prevent simmering tensions from erupting.
BUT THIS INTERNECINE STRIFE WAS A DISTANT THOUGHT
ON THE TREK TO SAKIRAN PEAK. Children scampered
uphill, while adults adopted a steady rhythm of breath-to-step that kept pace with the god’s. Men plucked wildflowers
from high mountain pastures and tucked them into the
handwoven borders of their flat-topped Kullu caps. The procession swelled as villagers from mountainside hamlets kept
pouring in. It was a sea of locals streaming up the mountainside, with the exception of my blonde Western head.
Shringi Rishi led the way and was represented by a
small metal image of a face, a mohra. These faces, although
less than 12 inches high, have immeasurable religious
significance. They not only symbolize the devatas but are
also suffused with the devatas’ divine essence. Normally
stored in temples under lock and key to safeguard them
from theft, the mohras are brought out and elaborately
adorned when the devatas take to the road. Shringi Rishi’s
mohra, burnished to a high sheen, was dressed in a long red
cloak that made him nearly lifesize. He glided uphill in his
priest’s embrace like a Japanese Bunraku puppet moves in
the arms of its silent puppeteers.
Outside the hamlet of Chaini, the trail narrowed as we
passed through fields of young green wheat. The long ribbon
of people walked single file to avoid trampling the precious
Opposite page:
Hundreds of villagers
make the final ascent
to Sakiran Peak. This
page: A priest carries
Shringi Rishi’s mohra
on the uphill trek to
Sakiran Peak.
