The hills are alive

I have always been a sucker for mountains. For this reason, I have for years agonised over and even been secretly ashamed of not having explored the ranges of northern India.

Work has nudged me to different cities, some of which were utterly unremarkable in their sameness. An assignment to cover the India-New Zealand game in Dharamsala, the 900th one-day international, however, made me appreciate better the perks of my job. My infatuation with the hill town, which till then had been nurtured solely by second-hand images, bloomed into a full-blown romance the moment I saw the jagged Dhauladhar range that wraps Dharamsala in a protective embrace. Gazing at the landscape from the vantage of the small airplane's window was an unexpected early present.

Both prospectively and retrospectively, I made the right call to stay in McLeod Ganj, or "Little Lhasa/Dhasa" (a portmanteau of "Dharamsala" and "Lhasa") because of the large settlement of Tibetans. Nearly 7000 feet above sea level, McLeod Ganj is a suburb that served as the headquarters of the Tibetan government-in-exile. It was named after Sir Donald Friell McLeod, a lieutenant-governor of British Punjab and one of the founders of the Punjab University.

Although the HPCA Stadium was a nearly 12km ride downhill - I was cautioned against staying so far away, given the traffic on match days, and the influx of fans from the neighbouring state of Punjab - the distance turned out to be a smart trade for a cooler setting and the panoramic view. And in the end, fears of a traffic snarl on the day of the game proved entirely unfounded.

There were plenty of upsides. At dawn, my room on the second floor afforded at once a glimpse of the mountains, which stood like giant teeth under the blemishless blue sky, and the curving roads below through the dense layers of green.

The evening was spent at Tsuglagkhang, the Dalai Lama temple, and the Kalachakra temple. As Buddhist incantations echoed in the air and the sun set in the background, I watched the sprightly green of the coniferous trees slowly turn into silhouettes.

As the evening wore on, I set out for a long stroll with a group of fellow cricket journalists along a narrow road flanked by charming cafés on one side, and on the other, a number of small shops that sold everything from vegetables to handicrafts to artificial jewellery. Those journalists who had made previous trips to Dharamsala swore by McLlo, a restaurant where loud crowds, louder music and indifferent service seemed to coexist with delicious pizza in chaotic harmony.

What intrigued me the most was that cricket, which had so far seemed to be little more than a faint speck on McLeod Ganj's consciousness, was the chief attraction on the walls of McLlo. There were photographs of the restaurant's staff posing with Adam Gilchrist, Brett Lee, and other international stars upon their visits to the diner during the IPL or for international fixtures.

There would be some real cricket the following morning. We headed to the HPCA Stadium to cover the practice sessions of India and New Zealand on the eve of the opening game of the five-match ODI series. Constructed in the early 2000s, it took the stadium, which could accommodate around 23,000 fans, at least another decade to be declared fit to host international games.

Getting into the stadium wasn't going to be straightforward. The entrance for media personnel was through a gate that stood behind a schoolyard straight out of Malgudi Days. After navigating the terrain, an uneven amalgam of rock, mud and grass, for about five minutes, we were vigorously frisked by security before being let in.

The stadium was a magnificent yet labyrinthine structure that consisted of several near-identical blocks of concrete. Accompanied by a Bangalore-based journalist, who was also a first-time visitor to the stadium, my mission was simple, or so I thought. Needing to assemble at the corner of the playing field for Corey Anderson's press conference, one wrong turn led to another. Having perspired and panicked for about 30 minutes, we finally found the right way, only for the security officials to forbid us from going through the last, all-important door. It eventually took New Zealand's media manager to launch a one-man search party to track us down and usher us inside.

Upon getting there, our exertions gave way to a flush of exhilaration as the mountains, with heaps of snow for a crown, lorded over the stadium. Even Anderson, whose response to cricketing questions was largely perfunctory, was moved to gush about the gorgeousness of the city and indeed the stadium.

We next attempted to make our way to New Zealand's nets, having prudently asked for the route - though from the wrong people, we realised in hindsight.

Once we were in the vicinity of where New Zealand were practising, we were shooed away by a couple of policemen who wondered what reporters were going to achieve by watching players practise. During India's training, journalists had to try and squeeze their way past a posse of police personnel, who, with their faces squished against the iron railing, were unwilling to give up their front-row seats. "Hume bhi dekhna hai practice. (We want to watch the practice too)," one policeman protested when India's media manager requested him to make way for the press.

On match day, an impulsive early-morning walk became an unscheduled short day trip, as the aforementioned journalist friend and I crammed in a visit to the Bhagsunag Temple and the Bhagsu waterfall. We did make it to the stadium well in time, despite fears of traffic.

The atmosphere at the ground was markedly different to what we had been accustomed to over the last couple of days. There were considerably more people in the precincts of the stadium, cheering, waving India flags, and taking selfies. A fruit-salad of a hoarding, awash with shades of orange, blue, green and red, proudly announced that it was the 900th ODI that was being played on the day.

Inside the stadium, Anurag Thakur, in his last few days as BCCI president, had made his now customary visit to the media box to rally support for the board in the wake of the Lodha Committee's recommendations. As a long-time president of the HPCA, he could scarcely conceal his pride in the stadium, which he held up as an example of the BCCI's efficiency and professionalism. On more than one occasion, Thakur recounted the days when a piece of land, uneven and uncared for, stood in place of the stately structure, complete with a pristine red pagoda.

The game itself ended up being a thoroughly one-sided affair in India's favour, with Hardik Pandya claiming the Man-of-the-Match award. The fans went crazy whenever India scored a run or took a wicket, and remained stoically quiet when the opposition had their little moments of triumph.

On my way back, I stepped out of the car and quietly gazed at the cloudless night sky inhabited by small clusters of stars. The snapshots of the last few days were gradually recaptured - the long walks down McLeod Ganj's streets, the irresistibly tangy pahaadi aal, treading a slippery path downhill to immerse my face into the icy freshness of the lazy brook. Call me back, Dharamsala.