The mystical magic of Mechuka

The moment I decided to leave the urban frenzy of Mumbai for the unspoiled serenity of Mechuka, Arunachal Pradesh, the plan had a certain whimsy to it. I wasn’t looking for grand monuments or bustling markets this time; I was on a quest for solitude, natural beauty, and a chance to see how far north I could go within India’s boundaries. Mechuka, a place I’d only ever seen in mist-laden photographs, seemed perfect—a valley tucked away in the folds of the Himalayas, on the doorstep of Tibet.

My journey began with a flight to Dibrugarh, Assam, where I could already feel the air growing cooler, softer somehow. I spent a night there, the city buzzing with excitement as it often does, especially when conversations drift toward tea and cricket. The next morning, I hopped on a bus to Pasighat, a bumpy, dusty ride. The roads were an adventure unto themselves, with every turn revealing new greenery or a cliffside drop that made my stomach lurch. Sitting beside me was an elderly man, wrinkles deep enough to map the entire region, who leaned over to say, “You look like you’re new to this terrain.” I nodded, laughing, admitting my city-boy naiveté.

With a toothy grin, he began sharing his own stories—of how the region had changed over the decades, how he’d once been part of a project to build roads here, back when such efforts were monumental feats. “Back then, there weren’t so many travellers like you,” he said, a touch of pride in his voice. “Only the curious or the crazy would venture this far.” He gave me a knowing look, as if to say he’d already figured out which category I fell into.

Arriving in Pasighat, I took a brief pause. I found myself at the Siang River, where the waters were a strange, calm blue, seemingly untouched by time. I sat on the bank, watching local children splash about. It was here that I met Rajesh, a young boy of about ten, with an infectious grin and a knack for skipping stones. He challenged me to a competition, and we spent the better part of an hour trying to out-skip each other, though I was no match for his practiced flick of the wrist. As he collected his “winnings”—a couple of my spare coins and a pack of biscuits I’d bought earlier—I asked him if he knew Mechuka. He shrugged, “Only stories.” His eyes grew wide, though, as he asked if it was true that mountains there touched the sky.

The next leg of my journey took me further north, and it wasn’t until the evening of the third day that I finally reached Along, or Aalo as the locals call it. The little town was nestled in between hills and felt as though it had a rhythm of its own. A local tea stall owner, Reema, had a kind face that made me feel instantly at home. She poured me a cup of steaming chai, spiced just right, and as we chatted, she confided that the best way to see Mechuka was not by any rushed means, but to soak it all in slowly. She even offered me her uncle’s contact, an army officer who, she said, could help me navigate the area.

I took her advice, and before long, I was on the road again, this time in an old Jeep, courtesy of Reema’s uncle, Captain Thapa. With every mile, the landscape became more surreal, transforming into vistas that seemed pulled straight from a dream. I felt like a tiny speck in the vastness around me, the sky stretching above, mountains rolling out endlessly ahead.

As the road wound higher, the air thinned and cooled, and there were moments when I could hardly believe my eyes. The landscape kept shifting—sometimes stark and craggy, other times lush and green. Captain Thapa was a quiet man, but every now and then he would break his silence to point out something interesting. At one point, he stopped the Jeep and pointed to a tiny clearing ahead. “That,” he said, “is where I once saw a snow leopard.” He didn’t need to say anything more; the look in his eyes, a mixture of awe and respect, was enough to convey the gravity of the encounter.

When we finally reached Mechuka, it was late in the afternoon. The sun cast long shadows over the valley, making everything seem both vibrant and ethereal. There was a sense of stillness there that I hadn’t experienced before. I took a deep breath, feeling a sense of fulfilment and peacefulness settle over me.

I stayed at a small guesthouse run by a woman named Tenzin. Her family had lived in Mechuka for generations, and she was eager to share stories of the valley’s past. One evening, as we sat around the fire, she told me about her grandmother’s belief in the local deities who protected the valley. She explained that every peak, every river here had a spirit, and that they had to be respected. “It’s why we live simply,” she said, looking around at the modest room, “so we don’t disturb the spirits too much.”

Each morning, I would venture out to explore. One day, I stumbled upon a small monastery, perched high on a cliff overlooking the valley. I spent hours there, mesmerised by the monks chanting, the air thick with the scent of incense. A monk named Sonam, noticing my interest, invited me to share tea with him. He had a calm presence, and as we sipped the butter tea, he spoke of his journey to Mechuka. He had come from Tibet as a young boy, seeking refuge and purpose. His voice was calm, steady, as if nothing could disturb the peace he had found here.

On another day, I found myself at the banks of the Siyom River. I sat watching the waters rush by, the sunlight catching the ripples in a mesmerising dance. A local woman named Pema joined me, carrying a basket full of wild herbs she had gathered. We got to talking, and she shared that the people of Mechuka often gathered these herbs for medicinal purposes. She picked up a leaf, crumpled it in her hand, and offered it to me. “For colds,” she said with a smile, “and sometimes for heartache.”

I felt an odd kinship with her at that moment, perhaps because we both seemed to understand the healing power of nature in our own ways. We walked along the riverbank together, sharing stories in broken English and Hindi, laughing at our mutual struggle to understand each other. Yet, somehow, the silences between us were just as meaningful as the words.

By the time my journey was nearing its end, I realised that Mechuka had a way of revealing itself slowly, layer by layer. It wasn’t just the stunning views or the crisp mountain air; it was the people, the stories, the shared silences. There was an unspoken connection that ran through everyone I met, as if the valley itself had woven us all together in some invisible tapestry.

On my last evening, Captain Thapa took me to a hilltop where we watched the sunset over the valley. The colours were unlike anything I’d ever seen, as if the sky itself were on fire. He looked over at me and simply said, “This is why I never left.” I understood completely.

As I made my way back to Mumbai, the memories of Mechuka lingered in my mind like a vivid dream. I carried with me the faces, the stories, the quiet moments that had made this journey so much more than just a trip. It was a journey into a world that felt timeless, where life moved to a different rhythm, and where every moment was infused with a quiet, profound beauty.

In Mechuka, the food was as much a revelation as the landscape. The flavours were earthy and simple, but packed with a warmth that could only come from dishes prepared by people who truly understood their surroundings. Tenzin, my host, invited me into her kitchen one evening, where the faint scent of burning wood mingled with the aroma of simmering spices. She was cooking thukpa, a noodle soup filled with fresh greens, tender chunks of meat, and a broth rich with ginger and garlic. It was hearty and nourishing, the perfect antidote to the chill that settled over the valley each night.

I also got to taste momos, the beloved dumplings that seemed to be everywhere. They were steamed to perfection, the dough thin and slightly chewy, with fillings that ranged from minced meat to local vegetables. Served with a spicy, tangy chutney made from chili and tomatoes, they were utterly satisfying. I found myself savouring each bite, appreciating how something so humble could be so deeply comforting.

One day, Pema, the woman I’d met by the Siyom River, invited me to join her for a meal at her home. She prepared zan, a traditional porridge made from millet flour, served with a variety of pickled vegetables and a side of smoked meat. The flavours were robust and a bit unfamiliar, yet they had a grounding effect, as if they were meant to connect you with the land. As we ate, she explained that meals in Mechuka were often communal affairs, where families and neighbours came together to share food and stories. It felt like a fitting metaphor for the valley itself—nourishing, communal, and deeply connected to the earth.

The writer is a freelance travel journalist