In the lap of the inner Himalayas, in April while the valley floor is a dull golden brown and the mountains around still wear a mantle of snow, Mechuka looks like the last Shangri-la. Technicoloured tiny houses, prayer flags whipped by the wind and peacefully grazing ponies dot the countryside. We take a drive beyond the town into snow-covered deodar forests, past one of the oldest monastery in Arunachal looking benignly down at the town. The valley narrows and at the confluence of the Yargyup Chhu and a stream shaded by rhododendrons we cross a bridge festooned with fluttering prayer flags. A gurudwara lies on one side of the road and a Tibetan temple on the other. Sacred to two religions, there is a strange energy to the place. A rhododendron rooted on a giant boulder blooms a scarlet red and the tiny temple twinning with the flowers abuts the rock. Inside the temple, the stone bears clear indentions of Gurunanak or Padmasambhav’s back. Depending on whose version one believes one of them sat under it to meditate.