Khajjiar in Pictures and Some Random Interesting Stories

A capacious, dish-shaped meadow—concealed within the beautiful western Dhauladhar mountain range—with a lake smack-dab in the middle of it, and its outskirts being guarded by altitudinous pines. What’s not to love about Khajjiar, one would think. It is a dream setting, turned into a nightmare by hordes of tourists. Half picnicking, and the other half panicking by looking at the ones picnicking without care or concern, determined to make the most of their holidays. And then there are the hawkers and vendors, and horsemen, even more intent to take you for a ride both literally and figuratively. To put a pin on one problem would be unfair; it’s all a big clusterfuck. There is no off-season left anymore. And the peak season is always peaking. Looking back at the Khajjiar pictures now, I count myself incredibly lucky to have run into a “relatively” empty lot.

That was 6 years ago, in October 2018. You might encounter something else entirely different than the pictures (and stories) about to follow. Make the best of what you get, is all I am left with in the name of advice.

Khajjiar – The Swiss Connection

In 1929 Mahatma Gandhi spent about two weeks in Kausani, Uttarakhand and called it the Switzerland of India. Auli, the famous Skiing Destination, in Uttarakhand is also referred to as the Mini-Switzerland of India. Chopta in Uttarakhand is also referred to as the Mini-Switzerland of India. So are Gulmarg and Baisaran in Kashmir. And I’m sure there are more that are being sold to hapless tourists across our country. Tourists whose very idea of the concept of “Pristine Beauty” begins and ends with Switzerland. Tourists who have never travelled to Switzerland except vicariously through Yash Chopra’s films. Who take one look at distant snow and the greenery and are sure this is how Switzerland must look like. Which is why, as of circa 2024, there are more Switzerlands in Northern India alone than there are in the entire world. It’s all a business, and the business is a-booming.

Khajjiar, too, more often than I care to hear it, is referred to as “‘the’ Mini-Switzerland of India.” But unlike other Mini-Switzerlands of India, Khajjiar is able to support its entitlement. According to hpchamba.nic.in, it was on 7 July 1992 that the then Swiss Ambassador christened Khajjiar — “Mini-Switzerland”. As per records, a stone from here was taken back to Bern, Switzerland to become a part of a larger sculpture. There is also a signboard, as Google search quickly revealed, put up in Kalatop, a place I happen to skip in exchange for a trek I’ll talk about later. The signboard is more of a “Certificate”. And reads, verbatim:

There also are a lot of websites and blogs, some of them quite renowned, which have mentioned that Khajjiar is among the 160 places around the world to have been designated “Mini-Switzerland”. A lot of them seem to be circulating the same information, copied from one another, pasted and then paraphrased to avoid plagiarism. For the record, or rather lack of it, I have also done the same. To be fair, I tried, quite extensively, to search for any official list (if there were any) issued at an authoritative level or other aforementioned records that can back this claim. I did not find any. The search is still on. In case you do, do enlighten me as well.

Khajjiar – The Blue Umbrella, and Two Love Stories

Ruskin Bond’s novella “The Blue Umbrella” might have been set in the Garhwal region of Uttarakhand. But Vishal Bhardwaj’s film adaptation of the same was largely shot in Khajjiar. And having watched it several times—it is among my favourite films of all time—I couldn’t wait to reimagine its scenes on location. Call it the combined magic of Gulzar Saab’s poetry, Vishal Bhardwaj’s music, and Sukhwinder Singh’s voice. Or call it the vividness of my imagination that had me singing a song from the film titled “Barfaan”, which roughly translates to “Winter Snows”. Perhaps it was both that made me feel a very real chill run down my back. The kind one only associates with stark Himalayan winters even though it was the month of October and everything was still very green. For reasons you now know, that is my short and personal love story with Khajjiar.

The other “Love Story” belongs to Vidhu Vinod Chopra, and he set it in the year 1942. If you haven’t been able to put two and two together, some scenes from the film 1942: A Love Story were also shot in Khajjiar, including parts of the song “Pyar Hua Chupke Se”. There is no larger purpose to this section of this story other than a cinephile cinephiling. Because, why not?

Dainkund – The Witch’s Pond

Only, there is no Kund (Pond), which is sad. And the Witch (Daayan/Dain) is long dead, phew! Nobody in their right mind would want to cross paths with one. But I digress. Anyway, what you do have is a beautiful meadow-like topography overlooking an even more gorgeous deodar-dense scenery on one side. And a rather expansive, stunning-looking view of the Pir Panjal Range of the Himalaya on the other. Including that of the mighty and much-revered Manimahesh Kailash Peak, one of the Panch (Five) Kailash. Once you are at the top of the Dainkund Peak, that is. We could also spot a bunch of paragliders high up in the sky and I couldn’t help but wonder if the tourists knew they were paragliding next to the Manimahesh Kailash. That would make for one hell of a story to narrate over future bonfires or house parties, for years to come.

The uphill walk from where the taxis drop you on the road to the top of the Dainkund Peak is easily under half an hour. It could be more if you find yourself enchanted beyond expectation by what you see around you and decide to take multiple halts along the way. I recommend the latter. The paved path will take you right to the Pohlani Devi Temple, which is sort of the official endpoint of the whole Dainkund attraction. After paying your due respect to the deity, and perhaps praying that no long-lost witch catches you off guard and claims you as her “necessary annual sacrifice”, you can climb the small hillock left of the temple. Weather permitting, you can get an unobstructed view of the Manimahesh Kailash Peak, and the rest of the snow-covered Pir Panjal Range from here. As did I.

But why am I choosing to talk about Dainkund in a story about Khajjiar?

Khajjiar-Dainkund Trek – A Failed Attempt

Because my friend and I, and that means mostly I, decided we were going to walk from Dainkund Peak down to Khajjiar. “If we can do it, it will be something not many tourists do.” I tried to persuade him. He agreed, albeit reluctantly. It was an educated guess; we could see parts of Khajjiar from Dainkund Peak, and so I thought the walking distance couldn’t be more than 4 kilometres. And the fact that we would be walking downhill meant it would neither be as tiring nor as time-consuming. But we were already nearing sunset, so we decided to head back to Dalhousie and come back the next day in pursuit of some non-touristy heroics. Before calling it a night, I decided to run a final Google search on the trek only to find a surprising lack of clear information.

This was six years ago. It was October of 2018 and unsatisfactory search results on Khajjiar-Dainkund Trek meant that there was an opening for me to write about it and get some web traffic. All the more reason to embark on this little trek, I thought. Bright sunshine greeted us the next morning in Dainkund. After asking around a bit, it became clear that there was indeed an hour or so of walkable path between the two places, and that it went through the jungle. The Jungle. The alarm bells did not go off. Yet. And so we started. After about 20 minutes of walking downhill, the paved path disappeared and gave way to trodden trails. Those, too, disappeared after a while for larger sections before magically appearing again out of nowhere. We were lost, but I did not want to tell that to my friend.

Withdrawing from my share of experiences of trekking in non-script places where even off-the-beaten-tracks seem to abandon you, we decided to reach for the next human settlement and make our way from there. It took about 45 minutes to see another human face, a local who lived nearby, and whose house we could see, along with a few others. Safety, at last. We asked for directions which would lead us to Khajjiar. It was through the forest that now lay ahead of us. Dense, almost primaeval. And there were bears, he told us. Second thoughts had started to seep in. And scary thoughts; nobody else going in that direction anytime soon. And doubts, if we could make it back in time to Dalhousie. More importantly, alive. If only we had a “Swiss” Knife.

We had to catch a bus to Delhi later in the evening. And a lift to catch from Khajjiar before that. So, we caught caution from the wind instead of throwing it in its face and took a different trail, as advised by the same local. It would end on the road, he had told us. It did, at some point between Dainkund and Khajjiar, after walking for a little under an hour. Luckily, we were able to get a vacant taxi that was heading towards Dalhousie. The driver, very kindly, offered to drop us there at merely 100 bucks per person. It has been 6 years since this little adventure. My friend and I often question the place of fear in this little escapade. The pendulum always seems to swing from “having an overreaction” to “just being sensible in the moment”.

In hindsight, given the number of mishap stories I have read over the years of trekkers getting lost or other harsher realities, it does seem we made the right call in the moment. It is not a strenuous trek by any means. It is just that we happened to be the only two people who decided to do the trek on that day, without a guide nevertheless. Let this little adventure serve as a mini cautionary tale for you. Unless you are Bear Grylls and don’t mind getting into a John Wick-styled hand-to-hand combat with an actual Black Bear.