Original subtitles

NARRATOR: Nowhere else on Earth

are the natural and the spiritual worlds so intertwined as in India.

This is a place where fire and air,

animals and trees,

mountains and rivers are revered as gods.

One of the most powerful of these natural deities is the river Ganges.

She is a water goddess, who blesses the many faces of northern India

in a thousand different ways.

For millennia, she has brought shape and life to a parched land

and provided sustenance for both body and soul

to the countless millions who have lived and worshipped along her banks.

All around her, the great cycles of birth, death and re-birth

are endlessly played out.

And flowing through these natural and spiritual worlds is the Ganges,

India's river of life.

India has many sacred rivers

but it's the Ganga, or Ganges, that lies at the very heart of the subcontinent.

To reach its delta on the shores of the Bay of Bengal

the river has flowed for 1,500 miles

across northern India's hot and crowded plains.

But the Ganges starts life in a very different realm.

Cold and imposing, the high peaks of the Himalaya have another name,

Dev Bhoomi, the Land of the Gods.

It's here that the Ganges is born.

The source of the Ganges is a place of great significance.

But where, amongst these remote peaks and glaciers,

does India's most venerated river really begin?

In this mystical landscape,

divining the origin is as much a test of faith as of geography.

Ancient temples honour four streams as the sacred sources of the Ganges.

But which is the true source of the great river?

By winter's end, the answer is as elusive

as the Himalaya's most secretive hunter.

The snow leopard is a fabulous, ghostly presence in this frigid world.

Only a few now haunt the slopes,

tracking bharal, or blue sheep, through the remotest valleys.

After months of hardship,

even an old goat carcass can mean the difference between life and death.

And not just for scavengers, like crows and jackals.

But by the end of April, this icy world is set to change.

As spring creeps up into the mountains,

temples and villages abandoned for the winter start to thaw.

And so does the Ganges.

Released from the grip of winter,

water begins to flow again for the first time in months.

In turn, these streams set other journeys in motion.

These pilgrims are climbing towards the first sacred source of the Ganges.

They carry with them an effigy of Shiva,

destined for its summer home in the village of Kedarnath,

3,500 metres up in the Himalayas.

Unoccupied for the wintry months,

this thousand-year-old temple is about to reopen.

Pikas get a rude awakening from their long hibernation.

Kedarnath is a hard four-day climb from the low villages,

and the procession's arrival is a cause for great celebration.

In just a few days, the whole valley is magically transformed

as the countercurrents of water and people

ebb and flow across the slopes.

Through the short summer season, this lonely outpost will become the focus

for hundreds of thousands of pilgrims from all over India.

But while Kedarnath is revered as a sacred source,

in truth, there are many streams that begin far deeper into the mountains.

And all of them have a long journey ahead,

before finally becoming part of the Ganges far below.

And at these lower altitudes, spring has already arrived.

As the strengthening sun warms the land,

lammergeiers soar on the rising thermals.

They scour the forested valleys,

effortlessly covering 25 miles or more each day in their search for food.

Lifted on wings three metres across,

the lammergeier is one of the world's largest birds of prey.

Not that this intimidates the local crows.

Despite their imposing size,

they survive largely by scavenging on old bones.

The solitary youngster must spend several months

perched precariously on the nest's ledge

before finally being ready to follow its parents into the thin mountain air.

Bathed in spring sunshine, the valleys of the foothills are bursting with life.

Water-loving birds, like redstarts and forktails,

are busy attending to their hungry nestlings.

These lower slopes were once cloaked in rich forest.

Now this woodland is confined to just a few protected valleys.

The dominant tree here is the deodar.

These 60-metre giants are known locally as the Tree of the Gods,

an appropriate home for one of India's most divine creatures.

Langurs are revered as the earthly warriors of Hanuman,

the monkey god.

After a winter surviving on a meagre diet of bark and dead leaves,

the spring greenery brings an appetising change.

These mountain monkeys have occasionally been seen wandering the highest slopes,

which may have given rise to the legends of the Yeti.

In these magical forests, it seems natural that mythical beasts and gods

could be embodied in the same creature.

And at the heart of this awakening world

is the growing presence of Ganga, the river goddess.

With each passing day,

the spring meltwater surges down towards the plains.

In the lower reaches of the mountain rivers,

Himalayan mahseer are gathering.

The world's largest carp, these powerful fish cruise the rivers with the seasons,

migrating between spawning grounds in mountain torrents

and these more placid lowland waters.

But today these are perilous journeys

as poaching takes a heavy toll on their numbers.

One of the few sanctuaries now left to them

are the ceremonial steps, or ghats, at riverside temples.

Here, they grow huge on handouts from priests and worshippers.

The largest might be a metre long and weigh over 50 kilos.

But in these increasingly crowded valleys,

they have to share these sacred waters as the tributaries of the Ganges

are having ever greater demands placed upon them.

Villagers use every stream pouring down from the mountains

to irrigate tier upon tier of terraces carved into the precipitous slopes.

Winter-sown crops, like barley and millet, quickly ripen in the strong sun.

And come May, it's not just the villagers reaping the benefits.

Even as the crops are being cut,

troops of macaques are waiting in the wings

ready to mop up any overlooked ears and seeds.

Despite appearances, time is of the essence.

Almost as soon as the crop has been gathered,

these tiny fields are ploughed, then flooded and planted with rice

to be harvested in the autumn.

This intensive farming is only possible

because of the huge quantities of meltwater flooding down from the peaks.

This predictable and plentiful supply of water

is the Ganges' first great gift to northern India.

Without it, the entire region would be a wasteland.

Small wonder that for millennia

this gift has been seen as a blessing from the mountain gods,

and the river itself revered as a goddess,

possessed of abundant supernatural powers.

(PRIEST CHANTING)

By May, the mountains are bathed in summer heat,

and the first rush of meltwater is beginning to subside.

Shepherds drift their flocks up through the forests towards the summer pastures.

Their guard dogs wear metal collars,

vital protection against the lethal bite of the most feared forest predator.

Today, leopards thrive around these mountain pastures,

attracted by the goats and the chance of an easy kill.

And these goat herds have brought other changes to the hills.

Voracious and indiscriminate eaters,

their grazing dramatically slows the regeneration of the forests.

Rhododendrons are one of the few plants that appear immune to this onslaught.

And by June, they are in full bloom.

Migrating butterflies fuel up at the brilliant flowers,

while rose finches, tits and warblers

feed on other insects attracted to the flowers.

These tangles of rhododendron and the higher mountain meadows

are home to one of the most secretive creatures of the Himalayas.

Musk deer are shy and retiring, and for very good reasons.

They tend to emerge at dawn and dusk

to feed on the lichens which festoon these forest hideaways.

The males' tusks have more to do with fighting than with browsing.

But what really sets them apart are the musk glands under their tails.

Musk is highly prized by the perfume industry

and in traditional medicine,

so these tiny deer have been hunted for centuries.

Although now protected,

thousands are still illegally killed in the Himalayas every year.

Despite the idyllic surroundings, life in these high valleys is tough.

Casualties don't go unnoticed for long.

A lammergeier is first on the scene.

It won't be alone for long.

Plucky crows push to get in on the act.

But they're not the main threat.

Griffin vultures home in on the carcass from miles away.

And once the discovery has been made, others won't be far behind.

The solitary lammergeier doesn't have a chance

among these aggressive and noisy scavengers.

It must step aside and wait for scraps.

But it's the returning shepherds with their dogs

that settle the dispute once and for all.

Forty miles and several valleys to the west of Kedarnath

is the village of Yamunotri,

the second sacred source of the Ganges.

(TEMPLE BELL RINGING)

In reality, this temple marks the starting point

of the Ganga's sister river, the Yamuna,

and is not in any sense the true source of the Ganges.

But this stream and temple is still hugely significant for Hindus.

Before paying their respects, pilgrims must take a ritual bath

in the natural hot springs beneath the temple.

Devotees cook rice, as an offering to their river goddess.

But the real significance of Yamunotri

is what these steaming sulphurous pools say

about the deep and violent origins of the Himalaya.

Origins that stretch back into the mists of time.

For 70 million years, India has been drifting slowly northwards

and ploughing its way into Asia.

The land caught between the two converging continents

has been squeezed and folded upwards

to form the Himalaya, a 1,500 mile long crumple zone.

And they are still rising by about 5 millimetres a year.

As the mountains continue to grow,

the meltwater rivers must carve their way deeper into the rocks.

But thawing glaciers and melting snow are not the only sources of water

that feed the Ganges.

As the Indian summer progresses,

these mountain streams are about to get a very welcome top-up.

Mountains create their own weather,

and in the biggest range in the world, this can have a devastating intensity.

Sudden storms pepper the hills with hail,

returning the summer meadows to a brief wintry white.

Yet even as the summer begins to deteriorate,

pilgrims are still making journeys across the mountains.

Many are heading deep into the hills, to Badrinath,

the third of the sacred sources of the Ganges.

(TEMPLE BELLS RINGING)

Close to the Tibetan border,

the brightly coloured temple is over 500 years old.

But the site's religious significance goes back much further.

Animal gods carved into its facade are a reminder

of just how intertwined the natural and spiritual worlds are in Hindu beliefs.

Surrounded by some of India's highest peaks,

Badrinath attracts the worst of the weather

and some of the most determined pilgrims.

Those who can, walk.

Those who can't are carried.

The pull of these remote shrines is powerful.

To visit the sacred sources brings great blessings upon the pilgrims,

helping speed their journey to a better life.

But once again, as with the first two sacred sources,

this fierce torrent cannot be seen as the primary source of the Ganges,

at least not geographically.

The river at Badrinath is fed by thousands of rain-swollen streams,

tumbling down from some of the most remote

and awe-inspiring corners of the Himalayas.

Dominating the scene is Nanda Devi, India's second-highest peak.

Regarded as a goddess in her own right, she shelters the Bhiundhar valley,

one of the most magical places in India.

Covered in snow for much of the year,

the valley is transformed during the short summer

into a botanical wonderland,

the Valley of Flowers.

Who could not believe that this is a blessed place?

Every day, clouds wash over these high meadows,

coaxing new blooms from the rich glacial soils.

Over 600 plant species have been found here.

And by the end of July, Himalayan Balsam cloaks the valley in pink.

Through the short summer season, the valley is abuzz with activity.

Male monal pheasants are getting a little overheated

trying to attract a mate.

And in the warm air, newly emerged insects gather in mating swarms.

But for others, life in the valley is more relaxed.

Goral are small goat antelopes,

perfectly suited to life on the rugged, grassy hillsides.

Small family groups must make the most of the rich grazing

before the summer ends.

The profusion of meadow flowers provides the local hill people

with one of their most treasured harvests.

In these remote valleys, virtually everything has to be home-grown.

Watered by mountain streams and warmed by the late summer sun,

the village terraces are bursting with new life.

It feels like a high-altitude Garden of Eden.

But harsh realities are never far away.

In just two months, this village and hundreds like it across the high valleys

will be abandoned for the winter.

And even the summer nights hold an unwelcome chill.

After dark, the village takes on a siege mentality.

Stock is brought in, dogs are chained

and doors are bolted.

The villagers close themselves off from some very unwelcome visitors.

Asiatic black bears weigh as much as a man,

and late summer is the time for them to make the most of the season's bounty

as they stock up for the coming winter.

(DOGS BARKING)

The village terraces are irresistible.

And it's not just bears on the prowl.

Foxes take their pick of the fallen apples.

And in the shadows, an even more sinister presence is lurking.

Although the leopards are mainly attracted to the village dogs,

they have a darker side and are not above attacking people.

This isn't new.

These valleys have often been plagued by man-eaters.

In the 1920s, one male leopard killed at least 126 people,

many of them pilgrims en route to the high temples.

Today, such events are unlikely to be repeated.

The old foot trails have been largely replaced by roads,

which means thousands of pilgrims can now easily reach

even the remotest of mountain shrines.

And this one, the last of the four sacred sources of the Ganges,

is the busiest and most important temple of them all.

This is Gangotri,

the place where Hindus believe the Ganges first appeared on Earth.

As a goddess, Ganga originally watered the gardens of heaven,

but her purifying powers were needed on Earth

to cleanse the ashes of the dead.

Ganga agreed to come to the aid of humankind

but the impact of her descent would have destroyed the Earth.

So another god, Shiva, intervened.

At Gangotri, he caught the falling river in his hair,

cushioning her arrival and channelling the flow

into thousands of lesser streams.

The spectacular waterfall here is a very earthly reminder

of that tumultuous descent.

But even Gangotri can't be the true source either.

The river here is already wide and powerful,

fed by one of the Himalaya's largest glaciers higher up the valley.

Just a few hundred years ago, that same glacier filled this valley,

reaching right down to the village.

Now, in the face of rising temperatures, it's retreated over 12 miles.

Only the most determined make the final journey up valley

to the farthest extremity of the river.

Their destination is Gaumukh, the Cow's Mouth,

an ice cave from which flows a milky stream.

This cold and lonely place is considered by many to be the source of the Ganges.

For most pilgrims, it's a fleeting visit,

just time for a few prayers and a ritual bath in the frigid waters.

Yet even here, it's faith rather than geography

that is defining the source.

Higher still, up above the glacier, there is more running water.

If the source of a river is the point farthest from the sea,

then it's here, in the meadows of Tapovan,

that the spiritual and geographic origins of the Ganges

finally come together.

Surrounded and protected by the mountain gods,

nowhere could be more fitting as the birthplace of India's holiest river.

Few visit this wild place.

Only the hardiest sadhus, or holy men,

come to pay their respects at the very heart of the Hindu world.

These mountain slopes feed the true headwaters of the Ganges.

A thin covering of grasses attracts blue sheep, or bharal, down to graze.

Their phantom-like predator follows.

At over 4,000 metres, the summer heat keeps the streams running by day,

but at night, most freeze over.

This daily round of freeze and thaw

prises rocks away from the unstable slopes.

These landslips expose just what the bharal are looking for.

They're still shedding their thick winter coats.

In doing so, they lose minerals

which must be replaced if they are to stay healthy.

Freshly exposed saltlicks are sought out,

no matter what the danger.

For the unwary, these isolated meadows become a final resting place.

Hindus believe the source of the Ganges

is a crossing point between heaven and Earth.

By late summer, there's a very powerful meteorological reminder

of that mythological connection.

The monsoon has arrived.

These torrential storms contribute over half the total annual flow of the river

in just a few weeks.

A destructive power is unleashed across the Himalaya,

one that echoes the descent of Ganga from the heavens.

All this mud and rock, wrestled out of the mountains,

is destined to become the river's second great gift to northern India.

Over 2 billion tons of sediment is spread over the plains each year

by the monsoon floods,

creating and replenishing the most fertile soils on Earth.

Right across the mountains,

the floodwaters carve their way southwards.

On this tumultuous descent, streams merge and tributaries unite.

Each confluence, or prayag, is an auspicious place to worship,

marking points where Ganga's waters,

once dispersed by the locks of Shiva, are reunited.

The most important of all is at Devprayag.

But bathing here during the monsoon is a life-threatening devotion.

Devprayag is significant for other reasons, too.

The rivers that meet here are known only by their local names,

the Alaknanda and the Baghirathi.

But downstream from this promontory,

the larger river is officially called the Ganga for the first time.

The river may have reached the gentler foothills,

but there's life in her yet.

This region is known as the Shivalik hills.

These are the ancient remnants of mountains much older than the Himalaya,

rock the powerful Ganges has been wearing down for millions of years.

Now the river's character begins to change.

The rapids become separated by increasingly longer stretches

of deeper, more placid water.

The first large towns begin to appear on her banks.

The 120-metre long Lakshman Jhula footbridge

spans the Ganges at the town of Rishikesh.

Every day, thousands pass back and forth,

going about their daily business.

Although not everyone uses the more conventional route.

The chaos of the bridge is ripe for exploitation,

and the resident macaques know just how to work it to their advantage.

They miss little,

and there's nothing subtle about their tactics.

If begging doesn't work, direct action usually does.

They may not have the same protection of more sacred animals,

but Hinduism has a fundamental respect for all life.

And so they are tolerated.

Their antics just an accepted,

if annoying, part of everyday life around the town.

The Rishikesh macaques span two worlds.

With one foot in the Shivalik forests and the other in the urban jungle,

they are one of the many creatures that have adjusted well to modern life.

But just as the pace of life in the foothills is quickening,

the river begins to slow.

As the gradient slackens, the Ganges and her tributaries

begin to wander across an ever widening valley.

The animals of the high Himalaya have been left far behind,

and the river gathers a new cast of players,

animals better able to use the slower, deeper water of the main channel.

Forests now cloak the banks,

providing sanctuary for some of India's most distinctive animals.

Some will be intimately connected with the Ganges

for the rest of her long journey to the sea.

A few are thriving.

Others now have only a tenuous foothold along the river.

For the moment, smooth-coated otters can still enjoy carefree fishing

in the foothill streams.

But for how much longer is hard to tell.

As people press in on all sides,

these creatures must find their way in an increasingly crowded world.

Still only 150 miles from its true source above Gangotri,

the Ganges finally bursts from the last line of hills

out onto the plains.

Haridwar is one of the holiest places in India,

drawing Hindu pilgrims from all over the subcontinent

to celebrate and worship their divine river goddess.

Every evening, devotees gather on the temple steps

to take part in a mass festival of light, or aari, in her honour.

In many ways, Haridwar is where the Ganges really begins.

Upstream she is a wild and elusive river,

her sources shrouded in myth and mystery.

Only at Haridwar are those mountain torrents finally drawn together

into one potent, powerful river that truly befits her godly status.

Now the Ganges enters a very different, very human world

in which her sacred waters must now clean cities,

irrigate vast fields,

and nourish the bodies, as well as the spirits,

of over half a billion people.

These nightly gatherings are just a taste of what is to come,

as the Ganges embarks on the next stage of her epic journey to the sea.

At Haridwar, the Daughter of the Mountains has grown up

to become Ganga Ma, Mother Ganges,

India's river of life.