They say you can't recreate magic. Especially after 10 years. Which is why when we mooted the idea of visiting the same place, viz Sangla, with the same lot of people and, camping in exactly the same spot, exactly 10 years on this summer, friends thought we were crazy.   Well, in defense, I can only offer one explanation: if you're lucky to've chanced on a fabulous, almost spiritual experience once in your life, it's worth replicating it, even if you have to wait 10 years for it. For Sangla (Sang=light, La=pass) is literally light that is shown to the chosen ones, just once in a lifetime. Only to those who're blessed however, can it be offered, maybe once more. Condition is, they need to have the spunk to go get it! Flashback to 10 years ago when a young couple undertook the daunting task of driving 530 km from Delhi in their Gypsy carrying tents, sleeping bags, stove, provisions and two boys of 9 and 5. With tonnes of first-time bravado and little more than a Roja tape for entertainment, they camped enroute at Mashobra (off Simla) and Sarahan before pitching tent in Mastrang. around 20 km ahead of Sangla village, and just 6 km short of Chitkul, the last frontier where civilians are allowed, before the Indo-Tibet border in Kinnaur district of Himachal Pradesh. That, with due apologies to the Kashmir loyalists, was heaven if there was one, a magical glade of pinewood trees strewn with huge boulders at 10,000 feet, set in a valley in the shadow of the mighty Kinner Kailash peak, with mountain springs flowing right through it, rushing off into the sprightly clean Baspa river. And flashforward 10 years to the same gang, on the same route. The Gypsy's given way to an Innova, the kerosene stove to a gas-fired one, and the Roja tape to an iPod connected to the car's music system. The tents are new, and the provisions now reflect the taste of the er, grown-up members. Of course, the experience of hindsight ensures we plan the journey better, allowing for just one night-halt at Sarahan, but the spirit is the same, the quest identical. The big question in our minds is: Will it be the same? {mospagebreak} Foreplay Nothing adverse to report, for the journey upto Sarahan, the site of an ancient Bhimkali temple, where we spend a comfortable night. But scarcely do we leave Bushahr district on NH 22 the next morning, that the adrenalin begins to pump. The road narrows, traffic thins and the terrain dries up to present us with awesome, rugged, rocky mountain sides of Kinnaur - a sight that's to be with us for the next 90 km to Sangla. No, nothing's changed, so far. We heave a sigh of relief, but a trifle soon, perhaps? For what hits us next is the big fight between man and nature, and the modern Shakespearean dilemma: to develop or not to develop. And this is the theme that stays with us along the graffiti-laden signposts reading Jaypee Go Back that flank the hydel-power projects up the Sutlej, cropping up regularly in the last 30 km or so stretch upto Karcham. We pontificate if damning the dam will indeed, preserve the environment: a lesson made tougher by the kachha road rendered slippery and muddy by innumerable work-trucks of the Jaypee Group, that's seemingly harnessing the power of the river and gifting it to civilization.  Weariness with the tedious driving gives way to momentary elation in the form of a rainbow at Karcham: this is the spot where the Baspa meets the Sutlej, and the fine spray from the mighty man-made waterfall designed to run the turbine refracts the sunshine into a surreal arc that superimposes itself on the makeshift tenements and parked trucks that make up the Jaypee camp. This is also the spot where we leave NH 22 and enter the Baspa, or Sangla, valley, to negotiate the last 40 odd km to heaven. Whereas 10 years ago we were gasping at the raw, untouched beauty of Sangla valley as we negotiated the treacherous one-vehicle road in 4-wheel drive, the overwhelming thought this time is, how to pass oncoming trucks! And yes, we miss the gushing, clear Baspa that flowed deep down the gorge-for now, there is simply no river flowing there! Why, we wonder? Only to be hit by the realization that development had reared its ugly head even in this Shangri-La-and sure enough it's confirmed as we approach Sangla village. For there before us, stands a monumental man-made wonder-in-the-making: a dam across the charming Baspa! Stopping it rather rudely in its tracks, damning its vivacious spirit right there, before it could run down to meet its lover, the Sutlej at Karcham. Shed a tear, as we did, or marvel at the power of man and his machines, at this juncture: it's your choice, but watch out for those jeeps driven by locals with recently acquired jobs blaring the latest Hindi-film music as they recklessly hurtle down the road to their nemesis. And that's not all. Dams create not only jobs, but also civilization around them. A fact that's slammed into our already numb minds that are crying for turning back. Sangla village is now bigger, more populated. Sure, the tourists are there, as are the natives, both Hindus and Buddhists, just as they've coexisted for centuries. But there're new breeds of humans you encounter: young, brash youngsters buzzing around on their motorbikes in snazzy windcheaters and of course, the omnipresent Bihari migrant labourer. Indignantly we make our way past the the Saffron Farm, the Tibetan wood carvings centre and the quaint little  houses, temples, and gompas. But what strikes us as we drive past is the visibly greater number of ‘hotels' ‘guest houses', and ‘camps'. Is this the end of Sangla as the final frontier? Even as we despair and drive on, the chilly nip of the evening wakes us to the scene beyond Sangla. And thankfully, here's the countryside we're familiar with- flora that rears rare herbs and spices including the exotic black cumin seed, besides apples and chilgoza-and yes, the Baspa, flowing as it's been for years, and should. With smiles returning, we cross the descent to the Banjara Camps, and continue to put distance between us and Sangla. Past Rakcham, a tiny village halfway between Sangla and Chitkul, which was  reportedly burnt down some years ago and has been being painstakingly rebuilt, on towards Mastrang. By now, there's no traffic on the narrow road, and as the suns dips, we begin to wonder if we'll find the exact spot we're looking for. I don't know if it's fading memory or the approaching dusk that's playing tricks: for each turn opens into a clearing that could've been it-but we plod on, trusting our gut more than anything else. Finally, the road turns and dips and we see the lonely ITBP checkpost, and we sense we're almost there. Another turn, and there it is: a level clearing surrounded by majestic mountains, with swaying pines and huge boulders strewn around, and of course, the characteristic twin mountain streams flowing right through-our glade@Mastrang. One always wonders if one'll be able to recognize heaven when, and Lord knows, if one reaches there, but it's not difficult to recognize this piece of heaven, even after 10 long years! {mospagebreak}  Ecstasy@Camp Mastrang
Camp is swiftly setup: tents hoisted with the help of our powerful torches, as it's almost dark, and kitchen established, in the same alcove as it was, all those years ago, and God knows, probably with the same stones. Night is soon upon us, as we sip our brandy and soup, cooking noodles, with the boys lighting up a campfire. As expected, we are visited by someone from the nearby ITBP camp and surprisingly, it's the Commandant, with his dog. As we tell him about ourselves, he warns us about wildlife in the area and offers any help we might need. We thank him and tell him we're prepared, and remind him that we'd actually ‘been there, done that', Now, I daresay you've marveled at the night-sky in the hills, but here, it's even more awesome. There is nothing, repeat nothing close to us, and yet there's a feeling of being nestled safely in the cradle of God's creation. Yes, it's scary to know that panthers and bears roam about in these parts, but there's also a bravado that stems from a strong dose of Déjà vu. Painstakingly, we take all precautions that our now grown and responsible boys advise - packing all remaining foodstuff and even the refuse in the car, extinguishing the campfire, and zipping ourselves into our two 4-men tents (we're big boys, see!). Sleep does not come immediately, despite the tiredness, and before we zip up our sleeping bags, we spend quiet moments communing with our innerselves, and The Omnipresent Being, Somewhere Up There In the Night. Morning breaks early, too early, grumble the boys. Ablution and brushing are dispensed with at the Washing stream (as it's nicknamed) while chai is made using water from the Cooking stream (which is where we also place our milk, juices, wine and beer to cool). It's amazing how different we city-folk can become, in the wild: but then that's what camping teaches us! The other amazing thing is the simplicity and repetitiveness of simple life: and if you don't find this part juicy enough, it's because the next three days were spent doing nothing, by our usual city-standards. Cooking, eating, cleaning, reading, lazing, walking around: what else can you do in a place such as this? The high points? Yes, there're quite a few, if you consider them so: trekking down to the river for a dip in the icy cold water of the Baspa, then stretching out on the boulders to dry, nay sunburn ourselves to a crisp red; collecting deadwood from all around for the campfire at night; walking down to Rakcham to replenish a few of the provisions we inevitably miscalculate getting, driving the car into, yes, into the stream and washing it at leisure, just as the truckers do, and adventurously altering the flow of the stream by building dams with gathered stones-we do them all! The morning after
A day before it's time to wind up and head home, we debate the difference between our last visit and this one, in the evening. Sure enough, talk veers around the environmental degradation we've witnessed all the way upstream from Karcham and the transformation of Sangla village, thanks to Jaypee's dam on the Baspa. And is it our imagination, or has the traffic on this last stretch of the road actually increased (it used to be just one minibus traveling up to Chitkul and back in the day, and a solitary shepherd with his flock 10 years ago).

As we wonder what it'll be like 10 years hence and if we'll ever return, we get a second visitor to the camp. This time it's not someone extending a helping hand, but a ranger from the Forest Department. And boy, is he a party-pooper: apparently we're camped on land that belongs to the Department and locals from around the place have raised objections. He wants to see an authorization, failing which we must leave immediately. No amount of explaining that we're being extremely careful and not harming anything or anyone, and in any case we've done exactly the same thing 10 years ago, cuts ice with him. Obviously, the man's hankering after a quick buck, and though we're tempted to close the matter quickly, somehow that doesn't seem appropriate in that almost pious place. Ultimately, an assurance that we'll pack off in the morning sees him off and we heave a sigh of relief. Though we're determined to enjoy our last night in the wilds, and set about it in earnest, with drinking singing and laughing late into the night, we know the bubble's been burst. Next morning as we take down our tents in our 3-day stubble, and look at the place that's been home for a brief nanosecond in our crazy lives, we can't help but recall the events of the evening before with a tinge of sadness. But then, sadness is an appropriate feeling to leave any glorious place, we remind ourselves and begin our  slow descent from heaven towards civilization. And if you're still asking the question if we'll go back there again, 10 years from now, you already know the answer. Maybe it's possible to keep your first love for 10 years, but more than that? Hell, we're human, after all!