BULL KUMAR AND BARAHOTI
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“What is the mission, Sir?” I asked him, hesitatingly. 
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Chinese incursions across India’s north and eastern borders are well documented. And every such incident would spark off a memory within Bull Kumar. Why? Because our mentor, Col Bull Kumar, was the very man who led an expedition to Barahoti 1961, with the express purpose of making sure the Chinese didn’t come across the border.
Barahoti is a 1.5 square mile (3.9 km2) sloping plain in the Chamoli district of Uttarakhand, India - a disputed piece of land that goes back to the 1700s. We have been fortunate to hear the story of this expedition first-hand, from the horses mouth, and so here we are, sharing just a snippet of what actually took place.
And the story goes...
The Colonel had recently returned to Gulmarg from an unsuccessful attempt on Everest, and was, without any explanation, summoned to HQ in Delhi. Thinking he had somehow done something wrong, he spent the whole trip on tenterhooks.
Listen to Bull recounting this tale...
Barahoti is a 1.5 square mile (3.9 km2) sloping plain in the Chamoli district of Uttarakhand, India - a disputed piece of land that goes back to the 1700s. We have been fortunate to hear the story of this expedition first-hand, from the horses mouth, and so here we are, sharing just a snippet of what actually took place.
And the story goes...
The Colonel had recently returned to Gulmarg from an unsuccessful attempt on Everest, and was, without any explanation, summoned to HQ in Delhi. Thinking he had somehow done something wrong, he spent the whole trip on tenterhooks.
Listen to Bull recounting this tale...
It was early January 1961. I was a Captain at the High Altitude warfare school and I was training to become a Second Para in snow-warfare and skiing. When the signal came that I was required to meet at the army headquarters immediately. The next day we drove to Srinagar where Major General Anant Singh Pathania told me that “tomorrow a Dakota will be coming to pick you up and take you to Delhi.”
“Young man”, he said, “you have been selected by the Army Headquarters to carry out a task of national importance. Do not hesitate to ask me for any help that you may need. I will feel extremely proud if you can carry out the mission”.
“What is the mission, Sir?” I asked him, hesitatingly. The General gave me a hard look (young officers were only to be seen, not heard), obviously surprised at my question and answered, “So far everything is a secret. I too do not know what the mission is about”.
The plan was to have the young Captain Kumar (as he was then) lead a team for a lightning trip to create any army post at Barahoti, before the winter had passed. Which was at most 4 weeks away. Why? Because every year after the snow melted, the Chinese would come and occupy that area. On the India side, there was the treacherous 18,000 ft high Chorhoti Pass. On the Chinese side there were no difficult passes to cross to reach Barahoti. Most people thought it was impossible to cross the great Himalayan range from the Indian side before June-July. Crossing Chorhoti was the first step to reaching Barahoti.
My mission was to lead a party of 50 men across the pass while it was still under heavy snow and establish posts in Barahoti. I would have to go very deep into the mountains, there was no way any reinforcements could reach me if needed. I had only 15 to 25 days in which to plan the entire operation. Panditji’s aim was that we have to occupy Barahoti in winter before the Chinese came there – that meant by March/April. The Chinese usually moved to occupy it in June/July. Administratively, the venture had only a 10 percent chance of success.
Many people told me it was impossible, but my Kumaon Regiment training had taught me to fight and not to ask questions. I was given a free hand to pick my team, collect them from around the country and head off immediately.
Once on their way from Joshimath, they encountered issues with porters, lack of supplies, weather, illness and unreliable communications. Not to mention the crash of the supply plane, on its second trip bringing them much needed stocks of food and oil. Bull and a few others mounted a search for the plane, and when they had located it, they found that all six of the aircrew had died. Bull himself cremated the bodies and retrieved identifying personal possessions. One member of his climbing party died of exhaustion and AMS.
And, at the end of all this, an Indian Army post had been established at Barahoti.
And, at the end of all this, an Indian Army post had been established at Barahoti.
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The mood when I reached Delhi couldn’t have been more different. Army Headquarters was elated with the success of the mission, and I was given a hero’s welcome. A young insignificant Captain was presented to both the Defence Minister and the Prime Minister. Their words of praise and congratulations should have left me elated. I even got a pat on my back from Nehruji. But the only thing that occupied my thoughts…I had lost seven precious lives. I honestly didn’t feel like much of a hero. When I expressed my regret to General Kaul, his reply left me shell shocked: “The work that you have accomplished today Kumar, was worth 700 lives”. Captain Kumar was hailed as a hero and awarded the AVSM (Ati Vishisht Seva Medal), which is normally only awarded to Brigadiers and above
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MY EBC TREK TAUGHT ME THAT IMPOSSIBLE IS NOTHING
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We finally reach the downward trail - the last haul before reaching base camp. Clambering across dirty icy patches of land and rubble, we're finally there. Everest Base Camp. 
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Everest Base Camp is still about 45 minutes away at my trekking pace, and I have his strong urge to simply turn back. I am so tired, I don't think I can make that 45 minute walk across the ridge and the downhill trudge - the altitude isn't making it any easier. "Eleven years, Dilshad" I tell myself, "I've waited for this for 11 years!"
Everest Base Camp (EBC) was always my dream, ever since I came up with this crazy docu-reality show when I was with National Geographic Channel which sent five ordinary Indians to EBC with the Indian Army.
"Come on!" I yell aloud to the winds. "I've survived cancer, radiotherapy and three major surgeries in the last two years, I can bloody do this!" Khudam Bir, my guide, suspects my desperation, turns around to look at me, and says: "Just 15 minutes, come on!" "15 Nepali minutes," I mumble under my breath. It takes us mere mortals three times as much!
In February 2012, cancer came for me. I’d known it might, with my family history—a shadow lurking in the background, but one I never thought would actually touch me. I, like most of us, floated along in that fragile bubble of invincibility. The diagnosis shattered it in an instant. There I was, dazed in a sterile hospital room, reading a pathology report filled with words like “Desmoplastic stroma,” “neoplasm,” “lobular hyperplasia”—jargon that blurred before my eyes as I frantically searched Google, desperate to decipher what it meant. But one word jumped off the page loud and clear: carcinoma. That was real. That, I understood.
My first surgery took place in one of Delhi's top-rated hospitals, yet it left me right back at square one. Eventually, I found myself at the Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai. The surgeon reviewed my history with a wry smile and asked, “So, which part of ‘family history’ did you miss?” I liked him immediately. In that small moment, he broke the heaviness with a sliver of humor—a small reminder that even in the grip of disease, it’s possible to find something worth smiling about.
He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, but your surgery was incomplete. We’ll need to go in again.” So there I was, back on the operating table within three weeks, facing down this relentless foe. Two surgeries and thirty sessions of radiotherapy later, my body was drained beyond anything I could have imagined. I didn’t just lose eight kilos; I lost that unshakable optimism everyone knew me for. Friends used to call me “the eternal optimist,” but I wasn’t sure I deserved the title anymore. It was like I was struggling in a relentless, churning wave, just trying to keep my head above water, fighting for air. My nine-month-old baby and my devoted husband became my anchors in that storm, pulling me back from the depths each time I felt myself slipping.
A year later, the clouds began to break. I was back on my feet, and with newfound urgency, I knew it was time to chase my dream—one I had held for eleven long years. Life was short; I’d learned that the hard way. I put together a plan to lead a team to Everest Base Camp in May 2014. Training became my focus, even as I continued to take medications that caused everything from insomnia to joint pain, and carried the dreaded risk—a 0.2% chance—of sparking another form of cancer. I wasn’t willing to take that chance. Eight weeks before the trek, I went in for another surgery. I made one demand of my surgeon: get me back on my feet in six weeks. She did, and with two weeks to go, I was walking again, building up my stamina for the challenge ahead.
“Can I do it?” I asked my father-in-law, Col. ‘Bull’ Kumar, India’s most legendary mountaineer. I’ll never forget his answer: “At some point, my dear, your body will give way. And then, you will continue with your mind. That is what will carry you through.” His words echoed in my mind throughout the journey—prophetic and true, reminding me that the real strength lies not in our muscles but in our spirit.
My first surgery took place in one of Delhi's top-rated hospitals, yet it left me right back at square one. Eventually, I found myself at the Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai. The surgeon reviewed my history with a wry smile and asked, “So, which part of ‘family history’ did you miss?” I liked him immediately. In that small moment, he broke the heaviness with a sliver of humor—a small reminder that even in the grip of disease, it’s possible to find something worth smiling about.
He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, but your surgery was incomplete. We’ll need to go in again.” So there I was, back on the operating table within three weeks, facing down this relentless foe. Two surgeries and thirty sessions of radiotherapy later, my body was drained beyond anything I could have imagined. I didn’t just lose eight kilos; I lost that unshakable optimism everyone knew me for. Friends used to call me “the eternal optimist,” but I wasn’t sure I deserved the title anymore. It was like I was struggling in a relentless, churning wave, just trying to keep my head above water, fighting for air. My nine-month-old baby and my devoted husband became my anchors in that storm, pulling me back from the depths each time I felt myself slipping.
A year later, the clouds began to break. I was back on my feet, and with newfound urgency, I knew it was time to chase my dream—one I had held for eleven long years. Life was short; I’d learned that the hard way. I put together a plan to lead a team to Everest Base Camp in May 2014. Training became my focus, even as I continued to take medications that caused everything from insomnia to joint pain, and carried the dreaded risk—a 0.2% chance—of sparking another form of cancer. I wasn’t willing to take that chance. Eight weeks before the trek, I went in for another surgery. I made one demand of my surgeon: get me back on my feet in six weeks. She did, and with two weeks to go, I was walking again, building up my stamina for the challenge ahead.
“Can I do it?” I asked my father-in-law, Col. ‘Bull’ Kumar, India’s most legendary mountaineer. I’ll never forget his answer: “At some point, my dear, your body will give way. And then, you will continue with your mind. That is what will carry you through.” His words echoed in my mind throughout the journey—prophetic and true, reminding me that the real strength lies not in our muscles but in our spirit.
We finally reach the downward trail - the last haul before reaching base camp. Clambering across dirty icy patches of land and rubble, we're finally there. Everest Base Camp. I start to cry.
Am I crying because my 11-year dream has been fulfilled? Or was it a cry of relief - I don't have to climb anymore boulders, rocks and slippery slopes. I suspect it's a mix of both. I look around and smile at the other folks who’ve reached there before us. They smile back, and we nod our heads in a silent ritual of self-belief. We pick up a few stones and add it to the prayer wall in the center. We're at 17,229 feet and we can't stay there much longer. It's a three hour journey back to Gorakshep. We snack on our powers bars, fill up our water bladders and start to head back the way we came.
It's just 2.5 KM back, I tell myself. How hard can it be? Very. Bloody. Hard. After a long tiring nine hour day at high altitude, this return journey is a bummer. The cold winds are picking up now. I dig my hands deep into my wind breaker, keep my eyes glued to my boots and start to walk...climb, trudge, scramble, slip. I really can't remember how I make it back. All I know is, I stumble into the little tea-lodge and collapse into my friend’s lap and start to howl.
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The Everest Base Camp trek is a journey into beauty so profound, it leaves you breathless in more ways than one. For those who’ve only imagined it, the vision might be of towering brown mountains and snow-draped peaks. But there is so much more that awaits.
There’s the stunning Ama Dablam, an elegant guardian over the Himalayas, with her sharp, graceful peaks cutting through the sky. There’s the thrill of spotting Everest herself—peeking shyly at first, a fleeting glimmer behind closer giants, until she finally rises to meet you, revealing her majestic summit. Unless you've been here, you can’t picture the endless valleys dotted with little blue forget-me-nots, or the silver streams singing as they rush past. You haven’t felt the warmth of a baby yak tucked close to its mother, the loyal Bhutia dogs trailing alongside you, or the spirited, bear-like puppies yipping from their doorways. The memorial stones at Memorial Hill - breathtaking and heart-wrenching at the same time. The forests alive with pink, white, lilac, and yellow rhododendrons, stretching on and on, their colors painting the path in vibrant whispers. Range after range unfolds, each horizon more infinite than the last. This trek, it’s like no other—a boundless adventure calling you to step beyond the ordinary. And then, there’s something deeper. For years, I’d see the words “Impossible is Nothing” on Adidas billboards, rolling the phrase over in my mind, like a puzzle I couldn’t quite solve. Clever, I thought, but what did it truly mean? It was only here, on this trek, that the words took shape, teaching me how powerful the mind is when the body reaches its edge. On this journey to Everest Base Camp, I learned that “impossible” is only a word, a shadow to be overcome. Out here, impossible truly became nothing. |
Elizabeth Hawley & Mt. Everest: What Did They Have in Common?
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She had never climbed a mountain in her life, and yet, she is fondly remembered as the definitive authority on ascents, routes, records, and... doubtful or outlandish summit claims. 
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Climbers claiming any summits in Nepal, had to appear in her presence as soon as they returned. An explanatory interview at Miss Hawley’s Dilli Bazaar house was not something any mountaineer, no matter how tough, looked forward to.
The "interview" felt more like an interrogation. The diminutive lady would sit facing rugged climbers, armed with her clipboard and relentless questions. She demanded proof - summit photos, corroborations, verifications. At the start of each season, Miss Hawley would phone all the mountaineering agencies and hotels, asking what expeditions were coming, which mountain, when, the name of expedition leader etc. etc. Many people hardly had time to get their bags into their room before she was on the phone demanding a time for a pre-climb interview. Her iconic blue VW Beetle was often seen zooming around Kathmandu as she tracked down climbers, sometimes before they’d even unpacked.
Refusing Elizabeth Hawley was not an option.
What climbers initially found intrusive became the world’s most comprehensive Himalayan database, detailing summit times, camp locations, team members, and deaths. Now digital, it’s updated by those who succeeded Miss Hawley after her retirement in 2016.
Her assistant, journalist Billi Bierling, took up the torch in 2004. When Billi first applied to work for Miss Hawley, via an old fashioned handwritten letter, the reply she received was. “Good, be sure to bring a clipboard!”
One famous day Billi had been running late to get to Miss Hawley’s and the bike ride made her hair a tad unruly. Miss Hawley exclaimed “You aren’t thinking of going to see climbers like THAT are you? For God’s sake woman go into my bathroom and brush your hair!”
We still laugh about that more than 10 years later. And Billi still has that clipboard.
Even in her later years, Hawley's wit was sharp. When her estranged friend Barbara Adams died in 2016, someone asked the petite old lady how she was doing. "Well..." she quipped, "I’m better than Barbara Adams.” Classic Miss Hawley!
Elizabeth Hawley died in January 2018 at the grand old age of 95, leaving behind amazing chronicles of Himalayan summits that are maintained by Billi and her team till this date. These chronicles are now called "The Himalayan Database."
The "interview" felt more like an interrogation. The diminutive lady would sit facing rugged climbers, armed with her clipboard and relentless questions. She demanded proof - summit photos, corroborations, verifications. At the start of each season, Miss Hawley would phone all the mountaineering agencies and hotels, asking what expeditions were coming, which mountain, when, the name of expedition leader etc. etc. Many people hardly had time to get their bags into their room before she was on the phone demanding a time for a pre-climb interview. Her iconic blue VW Beetle was often seen zooming around Kathmandu as she tracked down climbers, sometimes before they’d even unpacked.
Refusing Elizabeth Hawley was not an option.
What climbers initially found intrusive became the world’s most comprehensive Himalayan database, detailing summit times, camp locations, team members, and deaths. Now digital, it’s updated by those who succeeded Miss Hawley after her retirement in 2016.
Her assistant, journalist Billi Bierling, took up the torch in 2004. When Billi first applied to work for Miss Hawley, via an old fashioned handwritten letter, the reply she received was. “Good, be sure to bring a clipboard!”
One famous day Billi had been running late to get to Miss Hawley’s and the bike ride made her hair a tad unruly. Miss Hawley exclaimed “You aren’t thinking of going to see climbers like THAT are you? For God’s sake woman go into my bathroom and brush your hair!”
We still laugh about that more than 10 years later. And Billi still has that clipboard.
Even in her later years, Hawley's wit was sharp. When her estranged friend Barbara Adams died in 2016, someone asked the petite old lady how she was doing. "Well..." she quipped, "I’m better than Barbara Adams.” Classic Miss Hawley!
Elizabeth Hawley died in January 2018 at the grand old age of 95, leaving behind amazing chronicles of Himalayan summits that are maintained by Billi and her team till this date. These chronicles are now called "The Himalayan Database."
Article Courtesy: A shout out to our friend Judy Smith for the above piece and anecdotes, without which Miss Hawley's amazing personality would never have come forth!
IF KASHMIR WERE A MAN!
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If Kashmir were a man...I’d be in love with him forever. 
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Be it in February, when we land in to catch the ski slopes in all their glory, or in July when all the tourists have left – for better or for worse, Kashmir is my ardent lover forever.
It’s the only place in India where strangers don’t speak to me in broken English thinking I’m a firangi. I’m never asked “which country you from?” The long Parsi nose and the fair skin make me blend right in. The 2-hour car ride from Srinagar airport to Tanmarg is never dreary – hey look, a new house has sprung up on the highway; ooh another dhabba on the highway; hmm...less military per square foot than there was the last time. So many thoughts just flash through my head while I sit forward, stick my head out of the window and let the icy February winds hit my face. Yes, once I land in Kashmir, I’m like my 4-legged children – no matter how cold it is outside, the neck must stick out the car window and the ears must flap in the wind!
Downhill Hill Restaurant in Tanmarg is a small little joint at the bottom of Gulmarg - the best place to begin your Kashmir experience. The most awesome wazvaan awaits – the succulent gushtaba, the fatty who-cares-a-shit-about-my-diet tabakmaz, yakhni and sheek kababs. Kashmir is a foodie’s paradise!
It's hard to truly understand the meaning of the word Kashmiriyat unless you come here, walk through the local vegetable market, chat with the shop owners and most of all get a warm hug from Yaseen Khan!
That craggy face hides so much pain and so much wisdom. Sitting around a warm bhukari I've often asked Yaseen...what do you want? His answer has always been the same: "I want peace. I want to be able to run my business, sell my apples, educate my girls and ensure my son Arif gets the best opportunities possible to represent India in the winter Olympics!" Arif today is a strapping 34-year old lad and the only Indian to represent India in Winter Olympics 2022. Skiing is a lonely and expensive sport, but this doesn't seem to deter him or his father.
It’s the only place in India where strangers don’t speak to me in broken English thinking I’m a firangi. I’m never asked “which country you from?” The long Parsi nose and the fair skin make me blend right in. The 2-hour car ride from Srinagar airport to Tanmarg is never dreary – hey look, a new house has sprung up on the highway; ooh another dhabba on the highway; hmm...less military per square foot than there was the last time. So many thoughts just flash through my head while I sit forward, stick my head out of the window and let the icy February winds hit my face. Yes, once I land in Kashmir, I’m like my 4-legged children – no matter how cold it is outside, the neck must stick out the car window and the ears must flap in the wind!
Downhill Hill Restaurant in Tanmarg is a small little joint at the bottom of Gulmarg - the best place to begin your Kashmir experience. The most awesome wazvaan awaits – the succulent gushtaba, the fatty who-cares-a-shit-about-my-diet tabakmaz, yakhni and sheek kababs. Kashmir is a foodie’s paradise!
It's hard to truly understand the meaning of the word Kashmiriyat unless you come here, walk through the local vegetable market, chat with the shop owners and most of all get a warm hug from Yaseen Khan!
That craggy face hides so much pain and so much wisdom. Sitting around a warm bhukari I've often asked Yaseen...what do you want? His answer has always been the same: "I want peace. I want to be able to run my business, sell my apples, educate my girls and ensure my son Arif gets the best opportunities possible to represent India in the winter Olympics!" Arif today is a strapping 34-year old lad and the only Indian to represent India in Winter Olympics 2022. Skiing is a lonely and expensive sport, but this doesn't seem to deter him or his father.
Gulmarg is where we usually go – the ski slopes are one of the best in Asia and I was forced to learn skiing many years back, when my 5-year old whizzed past me down the slopes calling me chicken! Skiing down the slopes of Kongdori feels like...freedom! Just me and the wind whistling in my ears. I am also perfectly happy simply sitting on top of the slope, with a flask of kawa and delicately sipping my tea while I watch everyone barreling down! Gulmarg has the world's highest operating Gondola that takes you all the way up to almost 13,000 feet, and right here, there's a cozy restaurant where you can sit with a book, sip some ginger tea, and snigger at the skiers struggling with their boots and skis in an attempt to stay warm and dry.
But Gulmarg in the summers is my favourite! The sun is warm, the skies are blue, the iris, roses, buttercups and sun flowers are in full bloom. I’m guessing when Khusro called it paradise, this was what he was talking about! Our treks in these green meadows start in June and carry on till September.
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A night’s stay on a houseboat on Sringar’s Dal Lake is mandatory on the way back. Choose your houseboat with care – take the ones that are out at the back – they are bigger and better managed. The early morning vegetable and flower market shikara ride is surreal the first time you go. It’s a 6:30 am wake-up call and your houseboat caretaker will tuck you into a shikara with a blanket and some hot tea and you float towards the central market area where boats just spilling over with flowers and green vegetables float all around you – it’s a shot that no camera could ever capture!
Kashmir is a place we keep going back to. There’s so much to see, so much to explore, so much to discover! You can ski, trek or just simply laze around. Kashmir just lets you be. Like any good lover should! |
Article Courtesy: Dilshad Master, our Founder and Lover of Kashmir!
