I close my eyes and commited to defting conventional notions of success. To value every day as a new begining; to live every day to its fullest, to take the leap of faith and to celebrate the best in others. And settle back into the upholstery, dreaming away the centuries on the western slopes of the Himalayas and fight back the waves of nausea that well up within me. I am headed to Gurjakhani, with my very compassionate brother from different mother in tow. Till the date the villages of Myagdi district are unknown to the Travelers. Visitors were not welcome and local stayed untouched by privilege ideas.
There were no radios, no newspaper, no vehicles, no restaurants and bars … no worries worth worrying… It almost seemed that the shy and gentle Chantyal, the original people of Gurjakhani, had been of the very same bamboo shoots that loom everywhere and their merry laughter rising in the nippy cold air froze into sparkling stars that shine so clear.
Change is inevitable and it happened in Gurjakhani. It is difficult to fathom if the mountains call mountaineers, or vice versa, but the call and the pull is difficult to ignore. With mount Gurja and the mighty Dhaulairi in such close quarters, it was only a matter of time before the outsiders came exploring.
Perhaps the first stirring of change came with the recruitment of villagers on Indian and British army, but more likely by the appearance of foreigners for Dhaulagiri expedition. The numerous sub tropical forest hills passes, crosses rivers and valleys in this strategically important area drew the attention of the military authorities.