The Ballad of Bakersgunj

“Can you hear the voices? Can you hear the cries? Do you know they’re here with me? Watching you through my eyes?” – Angel of your darkness

He was the smartest retarded person I ever met and for some obscure reason reminded me of the dog in ‘The Zoo Story’. He disgusted and fascinated me. His real name was Wilson but people called him Pagala!

I remember the day I met him. It was a cold winter morning, and I had huddled in the bus that groaned itself towards Bakersgunj – its last stop and my destination.

“What a name!” I had thought when I received the invitation from the Mission school. I was thrilled, as the residential school was well known. But to teach in a girls’ school run by nuns?

“Shit!” I said to myself, confirming my own realization that I would have to watch my language there.

The letter from the school had very politely informed me that my “name had been recommended by Fr. J____,” and would it be possible for me to “accept this short assignment”. The fee wasn’t much but everything else was provided for and as I was between projects, I sent in my acceptance looking forward to Bakersgunj – which incidentally, had nothing to do with bread, cakes and biscuits!

 *

Breathing with the Chitals

“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”
- Chief Crowfoot

This incident happened 17 years ago, when Dhikala wasn’t the monkey-infested, jeep-cartel ridden, dirty, noisy place that it is now. It was always great to reach Dhikala after the long and exhilarating drive from Dhangarhi gate. Ignoring the tourism department’s restaurant we would head straight for Kaleji’s Dhabha; sit under the thatched roof waiting for aloo paranthas that would be washed down with steaming cups of tea and, checking what was being planned for dinner.

Mrs. Naja naja

The term ‘beasts’ belongs properly to lions, leopards and tigers, wolves and foxes, dogs and monkeys, and all others (except snakes)….’The Peterborough Bestiary’.

I wonder why? I mean, why not snakes? They can be fairly beastly.

I am not saying that I find them repulsive; it’s just that I am not particularly enchanted by the serpentis species. Incommodiously, they slink around with great stealth; you can’t hear nor smell them, and snakes….they have this hissterical effect on people!

Then, there are these incredible myths and legends and stories and superstitions attached to them, e.g., cobras mate with rat snakes; some snakes grow a beard as they get older; if a snake is killed its partner (invariably the female) will trace you – no matter wherever you are; snakes drink milk; snakes carry a diamond in/on their forehead; flying snakes can pierce somebody’s forehead or put out their eyes; there are “two- headed” snakes, and so forth!

The Village of Wails

“Fear is only as deep as the mind allows.” – Japanese Proverb

There was no doubt that I was being followed. The only question was how long could I continue to run? This was a chase where the rules were changed at random. It was just a matter of hours and exhaustion was setting in. The desire to lie down and sleep was great but the sharp trilling giggling sounds and an occasional wail was never far. I had to find shelter before sundown. For they were at their grabbing best when it became dark!

*

Leaning against a tree I tried to control the rasping that was lacerating my chest. Not a leaf moved. Holding my breath I checked the trail behind me and strained my senses to capture the sounds that I had learnt to recognise. Nothing!

Releasing my breath slowly I carefully moved towards the spot I had identified earlier. From a distance the cluster of rocks and the dark area within had suggested a cave. Anything – I would have burrowed into a hole in the ground – backwards like a wild boar.

*

By the time I reached the rocks, the sun was about to kiss the treetops goodbye. What I mistook for a cave was actually a jigsaw of boulders and rocks piled on top of each other. A landslide in the past had created this niche with a natural roof and everything was knitted together with roots. There was a large chunk of rotting tree trunk that I dragged and gathered as many dry sticks I could.

As it happens in the mountains, the sun suddenly disappeared and it became cold and quiet. Shivering slightly, I squeezed myself inside between the huge rocks and settled down to lick my wounds.

Fumbling in my small rucksack’s pockets for the matchbox, my fingers slid over the smashed camera case and the doll. What If I just let them have the camera and film rolls?

Would they leave me then?

*

Dried sticks spluttered flames and carefully I coaxed one end of the trunk to burn itself.

The gases trapped in the thick log exploded with a sharp ‘pffhsssthak’ sound and splattered hundreds of pieces of cinder all round – like a miniature pyrotechnics display. The wood burned steadily now and the flames created shadows that changed shapes and danced hand-in-hand with the gathering darkness.

How in the name of whatever did I get into this situation?  Why couldn’t I have just…….?

*

The Mission

“…the privilege of absurdity, to which no living creature is subject but men only.” – Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

The alarm shattered the stillness of the night and rudely jolted him out of his sleep. Automatically, his arm groped for the ‘off’ switch. Click!

Peace prevailed and he slowly slipped back into slumber land – but not for long.

Someone was persistently trying to twist his foot to another angle. Groaning, he got up, opened his eyes and in the dim light of the night-lamp saw two ghostly faces floating inches away from him. This cleared the cobwebs and also shot his adrenalin to a high level.

“It’s time,” mouthed one ghost in a familiar voice.

It took him some minutes to recognize the sister-in-law and the mother.

“Urrrrgh…” he cleared his throat and tried to protest feebly.

“It’s time.” Hissed one of the faces again with great intensity.

“Eh?” he said, wondering what really the time was and sat there with his mind blank and mouth open. The sister-in-law sniffed disdainfully and lanced the mother with her usual ‘Explain-to-this-imbecile’ stare. The mother flinched and then impaled him with her usual ‘How-can-you-do-this-to-me’ glance. Then, as if on cue, they both turned and threw looks at him that would have made Yamraj hide his face in embarrassment!

The Tera Tigress

“Do not blame God for having created the tiger, but thank him for not having given it wings” – Indian Proverb

There was a backlog of pending ‘kill reports’ that day. I had already logged-in three calls on Sunday, bringing our total to five from different areas – one, as far as Azamgarh. For the uninitiated, a ‘kill report’ here, stands for any incident of cattle being attacked and/or killed by the big cats (tiger and leopard). Based on the inspection and confirmation of a kill case by the team, an interim relief amount is made to the owner.

It would be a tough day for the staff and I wasn’t sure if we would be able to cover all locales.

Adding to my problems was the managements desire to turn serious conservation work into some kind of ‘tamasha’ for doddering, cowboy hat wielding, hung-over trustees – who wanted to be part of a team responding to any such report. We had unwarrantable instructions not to move out till the ‘venerated’ individuals dawdled down to our office.

So, there we were, on a Monday morning waiting for ‘six shooter’ and ‘jungle drums’ to arrive!

Footslog’s Uttaranchal Diary

“…when an Aboriginal mother notices the first stirrings of speech in her child, she lets it handle the ‘things’ of that particular country: leaves, fruit, insects and so forth. The child, at its mother’s breast, will toy with the ‘thing’, talk to it, test its teeth on it, learn its name – and finally chuck it aside. We give our children computer games; they give their children the land.” – Bruce Chatwin ‘The Songlines’

Joshimath, situated on the confluence of the Saraswati and Dhauligana Rivers, is probably better known as a junction point for those going to Badrinath and/or Hemkund Sahib. The winter ski-slopes of Auli and the hot spring source near Tapovan too, have to be approached from Joshimath. It is also from this town that people travel to the Valley of Flowers within the Nanda Devi Biosphere Reserve and the Nanda Devi National Park.

To reach Joshimath, one has to travel via Chamoli. The bus drive from Chamoli to Joshimath can be nerve-wracking. There are landslides everywhere and the mountains seem to be giving in to gravity. Hardly any tree cover left. The construction and widening of the state highway to cater to the Yatri season is killing the place. So is the Hydro-electric Project of J.P. Industries. Tons of rubble from the tunnelling work by J.P. and the road-widening work are being dumped into the Alaknanda River. The river is a mass of angry, boiling, muddy water. The place is a potential environmental time bomb and one day Joshimath itself, may collapse!

How do these projects get sanctioned? Or is it a redundant question to ask in our country?

But Joshimath is still here and so is Bhavishyabadri!

Very few people, however, make their way to Malari and other areas upstream of the Dhauliganga – the Niti Valley – that has remained practically alienated from the mainland.

There are no buses to Malari and those without their own vehicles, are totally dependent on the share-taxi or rather share-jeep system. No fixed timings either. The jeeps leave as and when they are bursting with passengers or one could just start walking and hope for a ride. Hitchhiking may not be possible as the ITBP drivers will ignore you and there aren’t any ‘touristy-kinds’ on route and the jeeps are full anyway! Wouldn’t recommend rooftop travel either. The roads are rough and bumpy, the driving furious and boulders attempting to put their signature on your scalp!

There are no hotels or forest rest houses on the Joshimath-Malari section except for the PWD rest house in Malari. Plenty of places to pitch tents though and most villages have a ‘Gram Panchayat’.

Be sure to check the road conditions before taking the Malari road. This section is reasonably motorable only after May and even then, the melting glaciers can force the Dhauliganga River to change its course and swallow large sections of the road. One could be cut-off (like me), for days!

Once Upon a Time on Elephant-back

dew

like dripping light sprinkled my body.

and a Khalij startlingly drew a

black line with its flight.

the lantana used its thorns to

protest against the invasion;

the shrike balanced on the tip of the

overloaded sarkanda…

somewhere the king moved and the langur

hacked its warning in tune

with the barking dear.

the jungle froze and with bated breath

i wait.

the moment passes.

It was getting a bit annoying – not being able to do our work because of the hordes of tourists that seemed to take over the place! No elephants were available for us to cross the river. The garbage around the riverbanks had to be cleaned soon.

Looking at the human animals, I wondered about the Homo Sapiens’s selfish and unreasonable fight for space with the world’s wildlife, which has to contend with hunting, poaching, pollution, pesticides – and most important, the loss of habitat. Very often, determination of dedicated people is all that stands between an endangered species and extinction. But why do they bother? Why should we bother about the tiger? Does it really matter if the tiger becomes an extinct species in India? Yes it does. Every animal and plant is an integral part of the environment… with a major role to play in maintaining the ecological stability of his or her delicate environment. Conservation is very much in tune with our own survival… the world would be a lonelier, poorer place without them.

Hoots of shrill laughter interrupted my musings. Looking across the chaur, I spotted Anarkali, the cow-elephant returning from the forest with a group of tourists.

“Kuch dikha?” I asked the mahout, as the elephant came towards me.

“Sirf hiran aur junglee sooar”, whined the man in the designer jungle-suit, “Hum toe tiger dhekhne aaye theh!”

Anarkali blew an agitated “paruuff” and I exchanged a private look with the mahout. His dark and angry face betrayed his thoughts. How could these people ever expect to see anything with the noise they must have made during the trip? They were lucky to spot the ‘hiran and junglee sooar’, and also fortunate that the mahout had been able to control Anarkali’s nervousness.

I feel that all those who visit National Parks, Sanctuaries and Reserves must undergo a day’s orientation programme on ‘human behaviour’, before they are allowed to enter.

Anyway, here I was with time on my hand and tigers on my mind.

Well, one particular tiger!

Rahim Chacha, Rambha’s mahout had spotted Badshah’s pugmarks across the north chaur towards the watchtower. Yes, THE Badshah! There was general excitement in the air as

Badshah was the elusive tiger – a massive beast known for its majestic size and craftiness. Few had sighted him but many had heard his roar that curdled the blood and turned firm legs into jelly! Known for his stealth, this big cat’s stories were narrated by the elderly mahouts. It was believed that Badshah was a forest spirit. Remarkably, there were no stories of Badshah ever attacking any human. The old hands of the jungle gave him the respect he deserved.

Those who were fortunate to spot Badshah spoke in hushed and awed tones of its size and power. Rahim Chacha was the only mahout who had seen the animal. According to him, the tiger had materialised out of no-where and looked at him, as if asking a question – wanting to know what Rahim was doing in his domain?

Chacha was the one to give the tiger the name Badshah. He would also whisper a prayer each time he narrated this incident and in the same breath blessed Rambha for standing firm.

That night, little Razia, Chacha’s granddaughter came over to inform me that Rambha would be free the following evening. I was overjoyed with the prospect of the tourists leaving and the elephant available. I had been rather dismayed with the authorities’ decision to deny us the elephant. More so, because the re-allocation was based on the fact that it had ‘politically more important’ trips to undertake… daughter of some high-ranking government official was on a visit with her incredibly noisy Hindu College classmates. Later, a mahout had complained of being thrust into a potentially dangerous situation during a forest trip, when the said collegians disregarded the mahout’s advice.

There was another VIP family too, with a gun-toting security guard. It was ludicrous to watch the overweight MLA and his entourage being followed everywhere by the gunman!

By 3 o’clock in the afternoon the forest seemed to settle down. I made my way to Chacha’s house. Rambha had just returned from the river after her bath and her skin was glistening. She had been given a good scrub by a stone. Her eyes were twinkling and her gait was sensuous. She kept blowing air gently and stayed as close as possible to Chacha. I have always marvelled at this wonderful relationship between the elephants and their mahouts!

“Huzoor! Nadi kal paar Karengay,” said Chacha, “Charakat bimaar hai aur jungle janaa parega.”

I was still contemplating this new eventuality, when Chacha asked, “ Aap saath chalengay?”

My blatant glee was so obvious that Chacha could not suppress his smile and tried to hide his amusement by filling his mouth with tobacco.

We set out on Rambha around 4 o’clock and crossed the slightly elevated ridged valley that has the river coursing through it, breaking into many subsidiary streams running in all directions to cut-up the sandy, shingley valley bed into innumerable little ridges and ravines. The nullahs and ravines that go deep into the tree forests are of great importance to the animals. These hold brake of bamboo along their margins and also thick shrub growth, useful both as fodder and as cover.

Chital scattered out of our way and then cautiously resumed their grazing. A wild boar snorted somewhere and a jungle fowl scuttled in the undergrowth. It felt good to be here. I shifted my position to adjust to the elephant’s gait and slowly allowed myself to listen to the forest.

Into the thick Sal forest, Rambha ambled through thick and thorny lantana, occasionally pausing to inspect an interesting tree. Her trunk would then coil around to snap-off juicy branches.

Suddenly, I realised that the forest had become very silent and Chacha’s quick hand gesture held me back from asking any question. I saw him tighten his grip on the rope and push his feet firmly behind Rambha’s ears.

The sound of the langur’s hack made my hair stand on edge. Chacha pointed to his right and I strained my eyes to see what he had seen. A sambar called out a warning adding to the langur’s agitation. Rambha was nervous and Chacha bent forward to murmur soothing sounds into her ear. The forest went deeper into a strange silence and I crept close to Chacha.