Returned from Kachchh earlier this month.

Glad to have met old friends but the trip remains sad and I fear what the future has in store for this most wondrous of places. Within hours of reaching Bhuj, I also learnt about the fire that apparently wiped-out Musabhai’s Bhunga and all his worldly possessions, including his flutes.

The Rann Festival will probably become one of the greatest threats to the sensitive eco-systems of this region – and nobody within the Sarkari Raj is concerned as long as the ‘Khushboo Gujarat Ki’ becomes global. Sadly, the Kachchhis themselves seem oblivious to the impending catastrophes that face them and, I don’t just mean the flora and fauna. Who is allowing high-rise buildings to be constructed? Haven’t enough lives been lost in 2001?

“I hope we are able to spot Flamingos,” my friend had said, the morning we left for Kala Dungar. It was his first visit to Kachchh and happily, the lakes, water-bodies and marshlands were full and we did spot many birds.

The Rann too would be filled with water! However, my elation wilted a little by the time we reached Bhirandiyara. I was visiting after five months and the place was now teeming with vehicles, food and soft-drink outlets; and infested with garbage and flies. The friend looked around at the area pockmarked with hoardings, bric-a-brac shops and other trappings promoted under the guise of tourism and reluctantly accepted the offer of a ‘tea-break’.

*

Past the bizarre police check post-cum-permit collection point and on the Khavda road, I notice more tourism banners and a sign pointing to a handicrafts bazaar. Curious, I drive the vehicle down the kachhā road and find a large rectangular area with an assortment of handicraft stalls. I catch sight of Ibrahimbhai – master crafts person, lying within the confines of his small ‘maatikam area’ – his goods displayed in the open.

“Nobody comes here!” he said despondently.

As always, I promise to visit his Khavda home to meet his family and coax my friend to buy some terracotta items.

The landscape is pockmarked with billboards announcing the latest Kachchh Festival and its trappings. We swing-off the main road and head towards Kalo Dungar. By 2008-2009, a huge tract of land after Dhrobana village had already

been scarred by bulldozers to create an open-air theatre for tourists.

It is a ghastly blot on the landscape now – larger than before with massive lime/white-paint lettering broadcasting the name of the festival with current year. Am sure the writing is large enough to be seen from the moon! Village children are selling plastic sachets of water and the Indian Jujube bushes shamefully display their latest plastic wrappers.

*

I was further mortified as we made the final approach to Kalo Dungar. What has happened to the place? More buildings with colours of putrefying festival confectionery and then we were greeted by the ridiculous sounds of ‘Kolaveri’ screeching out from the handicraft shop selling glitzy artefacts.

I avoid looking at my friend’s face as we walk towards the temple. Garbage is littered everywhere and the wind carries the plastic bags to the Great Rann. What are the temple Trustees doing?  What is the mahantji doing? What are these Indians doing?  Why can’t we keep our country clean?

I think it was Robert Redford who once said that, “the environment should be put in the category of our national security.”

Can we as a nation ever rise above our hypocrisy, internal strife, party politics, ineffectual ‘sustainable tourism’ policies and cliquishness?

There was more! The forest department in all its wisdom has not only constructed ghastly paths

But, 462 m above sea level; bone piercing cold wind – have also kept 4 Emus in a pathetic approximately 30′x20′ enclosure.

These birds were not here in July 2011.

Whose stupid idea was it? They are not looking well and faeces is different coloured and diarrhoeal. The hordes of tourists who are carted up to this once serene and quiet place screech at the Emus and feed them ‘ratlami sev’ and other stuff; throw pebbles and generally add to the trauma of the captives.

The BSF personnel scowl at the ‘hujoom’ and clean their weapons with great vigour. I sight a familiar face and accept his, “Sirji! Chāi peeke jaao.” I ask the army men about the Emus and find that most are unhappy about the Emus being kept there and the expansions planned by the Forest/Tourism Departments. They tell me that one of the birds had escaped but couldn’t manage the unfamiliar terrain and had ultimately entangled itself into a thorny bush and grievously injured itself.

There was still one more nail for the coffin. The wild jackals have gone too. The number of these jackals has been dwindling slowly and for the first time in 25 years I saw only one animal – that too for  a few seconds. Even the Prasad quantity has decreased.

I have said this earlier – and would like to validate again – I am not a theatre person. This is a tag that has been given to me by others along with the much woolly label of being ‘multi-faceted’…whatever that means! Most expect me to break into a ‘song and dance’ on demand, whilst all I can do is to look at them and squirm with discomfort. Cursing them and then myself.

I have never thought of myself as a theatre person. I use theatre and drama as a medium of instruction – period!

So, what/who am I? At the risk of derisive sniggers, I would like to be known as a sensitizer and an educator. Who? What?

I would also like to be known as a wild-life person. What! Who?

*

Last month, a bevy of newspaper reporters looked at me with nothing in their eyes or words and asked inane questions with well-practised mediocrity. Some didn’t even know what they were talking about; few were prompted by seniors with clout; others wanted printed sheets of information only – nobody wanted to meet the children concerned or talk about education per se. Their questions baffled me:

“Sir, are you working with the psycho of children?” How am I supposed to respond to that? ‘Psycho’ is an offensive term. Does she mean psychology or psyche or what?

“Uncle! What is the politics of your theatre?” Uncle!!?? $#*! My theatre? Politics?

“So, what message are you giving to society?” Duh!

“Don’t you think street-plays would help Annā’s cause?” What has Annā got to do with my project here and what really is his cause? And anyway, aren’t his dramatis personae playing the streets?

“Halloji! Theatre aur media ka samajik role kya hai?” Ask Arnab Goswami, Barkha Dutt and Company!

“What has theatre got to with the Tiger?” Grrrrrr……Snarl! Chomp, chomp! Yuck! Spithooie!

“Tell us something about yourself.” ???????????????????

They were all looking at me with the intensity of a bog pit. This is why I think that ‘art critics’ in the larger sense of the term are a great requirement – but there is a lacuna – we don’t have any. Most read a few books, watch random movies and plays, fraternize the hotspot cultural venues/cafes – and become critics. They fundamentally have no idea what ‘art’ means and here more so – what is theatre for children and young people? What is drama therapy? Why is it imperative? How powerful it can be? What it can do? What does education mean?

 *

This particular post is significant. The 60-odd days workshop-cum-production, laden heavily with incongruous holidays, at a Jalandhar school, brought back memories of what I technically call the Urvakshi/Arti/Sanjay/Anisha/Meghana/Nikhil et al days; and, I am sure if they are reading this they will know what I am talking about and nothing more is required.

 *

Jalandhar again after three years. Still opulent, sprawling bungalows with an obscene mixture of styles and architecture displaying only the wealth of the owner; additional malls and branded outlets; more vehicles than human beings; loud, aggressive and filthy; people ever ready to get into an argument; abusive; closet conservative and viciously competitive at the social level……..

Like any other city and town in India?

But something happened here, this time. Beyond the smooth-talking teaching and non-teaching personnel, inadequate working hours, parental manipulations, public holiday for Karva Chauth, Valmik Jayanti and more, roaring SUVs and souped-up mobikes and radio mirchi propagating “Dulhan wahi jo piya man bhaye, patni wahi jo karva chauth ka vrat nibhaye”…. I connected with the lives of thirty young people. For some extraordinary reason they kept reminding me, of me and Shiv Niketan.

Learning is a basic human activity, and it occurs all the time. But the early years of childhood are the most significant period of life in the context of learning. By and large, the home and the school provide a powerful learning environment for children in their impressionable foundation years.

The inclination to learn from life itself and to make the conditions of life such that all will learn in the process of living is the finest product of school. Hence, education means the enterprise of supplying the conditions which insure growth, or adequacy of life, irrespective of age. Since growth is the characteristic of life, education is all one with growing; it has no end beyond itself.

The instinctively mobile and eagerly varying action of childhood, the love of new stimuli and new developments, too easily passes into “settling down”, which means aversion to change and a resting on past achievements. Only an environment which secures the full use of intelligence in the process of forming habits can counteract this tendency.

In order to help our children learn we need to force ourselves into intellectual discomfort.

 *

Unfortunately, in our country (in the best of so-called schools), the development of educational drama is painfully slow and mostly neglected. It was with this broad scenario in mind that I decided to develop a concept that would not only stimulate, educate and nurture the minds of the participating young people but also give the audience an opportunity to witness a true theatrical event enabling them to think about and appreciate a performance that had nothing to do with television soaps, reality shows and ramp-walks.

It talked about children and young people – their Being, their life stories, their threats, their awakening, their freedom, their coming together and their Hope.

It requested the world to look at them; to be aware of their aspirations; to empathize with them; to let them spread their wings on a foundation of respect and understanding; to give hope to their freedom and thoughts and allow them the independent flight – their udaan.  It has always been perceptible to me that most children live under tremendous anxiety, arising from the insurmountable expectations from their adults – be it parents or teachers. Add to this the peer pressure and you have a potential crisis not only of identity but survival of the spirit. How long do you think a young person can cope with the continuous pressure to achieve; make no mistake; not fail their parents or teachers; always be first; always succeed; never stop studying? Add to this the burden of restrictions, more so on the girl child!

As such, the project ‘Neev Se Udaan Tak’ was the story of a child’s journey of transition, to find and choose his/her own destiny. Asking for an enlightened education in the apt sense of the word. To listen to their unspoken voices!

 *

As for my gang of 30! ‘Tony’ will always cherish their smiles; treasure their tears and learn from their perseverance.

For them and all those who have touched my life, Observation by W. Hart-Smith

Now and then concentrating

on the very small,

focusing my attention

on a very small area

like this crack in sandstone

perpetually wet with seepage,

getting so close

to moss, liverwort and fern

it becomes a forest

with wild beasts in it,

birds in the branches

and crickets piping,

cicadas shrilling.

Someone seeing me

staring so fixedly

at nothing

might be excused

for thinking me vague, abstracted,

lost in introspection.

No! I am awake, absorbed,

Just looking in a different direction.

]]> http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/the-psycho-of-children/feed/ 8 bichhubooti 'Tony' and his gang of 30! Goodbye 'Tony' http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/the-ballad-of-bakersgunj/ http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/the-ballad-of-bakersgunj/#comments Sun, 20 Nov 2011 16:43:53 +0000 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/?p=627 ]]> “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!

 *

Getting there, however, was not so exciting. Spent two miserable days on the train to Haldipur and then 20 kilometres by road. The place was surrounded by hills, their tops covered with thick grey clouds. Not wanting to get caught in the rain, my eyes scanned the primary health centre, few shops, some dhabās, deserted looking hotels and the post office!

“Give us a call from the post office when you arrive,” another letter from the school had mentioned.

“Ah! You must be the new teacher,” beamed the fat man sitting behind a table, “will you have some tea?” And before I could answer, he majestically over-ruled my obvious hesitation, turned his head and bellowed, “Master Saab ke liye chai lao!”

I mumbled my thanks and enquired as to how long would it take for the vehicle to come from the school and pick me up?

“Long enough for you to have tea,” said the fat postmaster whose name turned out to be Laxmanji.

“Are you a Christian?” enquired he.

“Does it matter?” I shrugged with a little annoyance.

“No, but…” he was interrupted by the entry of a woman, “the post office is also my home,” continued Laxmanji, “and this is my wife.”

The woman put the tray down and I prepared myself to take in the greasy tea and some tri-coloured methai.

A strange thing happened then.

“Master Saab is going to stay with Pag__, Wilson!” Laxmanji informed his wife and ‘heh, heh, hehed’ with great pleasure, his huge stomach jiggling and shivering. I noticed that his wife had stopped suddenly at this apparently significant and mysterious remark and given me a quick second look, then departed.

“Who is Wilson?” I asked, “And Laxmanji, how do you know where I will be staying?’

“Master Saab, this is a small place and most of our work is with the school,” he said and added dreamily, “you should see this place when the parents come. They have made arrangements for you to stay at Baker Nivas.”

“But,” I questioned again, “who is Wilson?’

“Ask Andrew, the driver,” was the jiggly-giggly reply as a green and white van stopped in front of the post office.

 *

The clouds hung like swollen udders, threatening to burst open as the vehicle made its way through an old cemetery pock-marked with tombstones – most crumbling or covered with lichen. Lightning flashed in the distance and crowned the clouds with an eerie glow and the ever-darkening sky seemed to add a malicious touch to the gloomy weather. Suddenly, with a sigh the clouds gave way and visibility became so bad that Andrew was forced to stop the van.

The unknown Wilson, the cemetery, the rain and all the horror movies I had seen were doing wonders to my over-imaginative mind and just as I was about to ask Andrew to move on, he said, rather apologetically, “I hope you didn’t have to wait long, Sir.”

“No,” I replied, and keeping my thoughts stuck firmly on what seemed to be the theme of the day, asked, “Who is Wilson?”

“So! Laxman has been talking, eh?”

“No,” I said again, with some irritation, “Laxmanji has not told me anything except laugh,” and sounding like a parrot asked, “who is Wilson?”

Andrew peered out, shook his head at the deluge of water flowing down the windscreen, sighed heavily and turned towards me.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself un-necessarily, Sir,” he said, “People talk all the time. They have nothing else to do and gossip keeps them occupied.”

He then continued to give me a history lesson, informing me about some Englishman named L. M. Baker, who had disgraced himself by marrying an Indian woman. Commissioned out of the army and not desirous of returning to England, Baker and his wife had moved to this place. Some years later his wife had started an elementary school for the village children.

 *

No one really remembered the original name of the place or when the first Missionaries made their presence felt. It didn’t really matter as the area and its people flourished, untouched by the revolutionary atmosphere that had begun to spread in the rest of the country.

More families settled down in what was now known as Bakersgunj. Many Englishmen sent their families here whilst they themselves stayed over in the plains of India, desperately trying to keep the Union Jack flying. Many, like Major Baker, had fallen in love with India, or its women, or its very essence and didn’t want to go back – and Bakersgunj was the Retreat.

Times changed, people died, forgot and many did leave, and while Bakersgunj as a place ceased to be a Retreat, the school prospered and gained a remarkable reputation as an educational institution.

*

“Most of the land over the years,” continued Andrew “has been bought by the school.”

My blood pressure had by now reached an alarming level and desperately controlling an urge to commit a homicide I said, “Yes! But who is Wilson?”

Oblivious of my murderous intentions, Andrew started the engine and said, “Oh! Didn’t I tell you?” and ignoring my maniacal whinny continued, “He is the last of the Baker family and is a little mad!”

Success at last! And then it struck me. Mad?

Pretending absolute nonchalance and what I hoped sounded like normal clinical curiosity, I said, “Oh! Mad, Uh hunh! Ah! That’s interesting…ummm…how mad?’

“Not much,” said Andrew, “But people consider him a Pagla. He’s really safe though,” He added giving me a knowing look.

“The house is right next to the school,” continued Andrew, “There is a woman who does the house work and looks after Wilson.”

The rest of the journey was passed in silence as my mind sought to adjust to the idea of staying in a house occupied by a raving lunatic! In a very perverse way, my ever fertile mind conjured-up images of sudden attacks, wild screams and insane laughter. To my horror, and no pun intended, I realised I was looking forward to this meeting.

 *

How does one describe Wilson? It has been years since this incident and I still can’t describe him the way I want to……because from this point onwards I do not have any pages left. It is just another crypt in my memory bank – about a man’s body, walking around and reacting to the world with a mind of a young person.

He was dark skinned, balding, had a slouch, small hint of a hump, dragged his feet; couldn’t always control the saliva that sort of dribbled down the side of his mouth when he spoke or shovelled-in and simply swallowed food; large bulging sly eyes that focussed on you knowingly but in very different and minute ways. It was as if, the body had not one but two or three characters inside. Was he afflicted by split-personalities? Nobody knows. I didn’t but I felt that there was more to Wilson that met the normal eye.

 *

Unbelievable mood swings, disregard for personal hygiene and two really revolting predilections.

He had this habit of sitting on the sofa watching television and for all practical purposes, focussed on what was happening on the screen but still absent. During this time he would constantly and diligently explore the depths and innards of his nostrils with great deliberation – his finger a probe – like the tongue of an ant-eater, would latch on to the smallest bit of the never ending stock of snot, pull it out carefully and with his eyes still glued on the television screen, roll the excavated material between his thumb and index finger….rolling, rolling till it turned into a dark mass of ugly, sticky rubbery ball which then he would carefully fuse to the sides of the sofa and wipe his fingers, momentarily glancing to check if there was anything left on his thumb and before you could say “yuk”, he would be scooping-out again.

It was an absolutely unbearable sight, which meant that I spent most of my time in my room or building an invisible barrier when he was around.

His other great artistic resourcefulness; much to the increasing exasperation of his caretaker and chagrin of the senior nuns, was his mastery of wiping his hands on the walls after crapping. There wasn’t a day when the shrieks and curses of those cleaning his bathroom did not reach the ears of the Mother Superior.

 *

I was told he could have received professional help when he was young but his condition was kept obscured by his parents who were ashamed to have given birth to Wilson, the Pagla. So, till the physical age of ten he was deprived of outside human contact and medical advice. Soon after that the father deserted – never to be heard of again. The mother, became a born-again Christian (not because she really believed in it), but primarily as an excuse to leave Wilson in the hands of those who served God. Somewhere down the line she re-married and left the place.

It was found much later that the mother had bequeathed the house to the school. Eventually, the ground floor of the house became Wilson’s domain and the first floor a hostel for neophyte nuns.

 *

Many years have flown past and today as I attempt to sift the torn pages of this diary trying to recreate and remember what I had scribbled then – I wonder if I am doing justice to Wilson and the fabric of those lives interweaved with and around him. I am sure that my words and feelings are not as potent as earlier.

Of course, there are plenty of images. Not many of the actual teaching but it must have been appreciated because I was offered a permanent position there. I do remember some of the students and definitely remember the wonderful bunch of nuns running the school. For someone with no religion to speak off, I have always wondered about the devotion and zeal displayed by nuns. Also, not once during my seven months stay there did a single person tried to convert or thrust Jesus unto me. There was a beautiful old church that I visited occasionally for the sheer pleasure of listening to the choir and at times sitting quietly in the pew to have my senses bathed by the exquisite waves of organ music played by Father J.

Then the ever-affectionate, ever-understanding Sister Y. They were a tough lot – no doubt about – tough and sharp as nails with hearts of pure treacle pudding!

 *

Being the rogue I am and I am sure they knew it – I invariably landed-up doing things that would have probably sunk a ship! But the nuns took it; literally, in Great Spirit (I think they welcomed this intrusion not only because they secretly enjoyed my antics but also because they could pray for the salvation of a ‘gone-astray’ person). There was this Sister S…..tall, thin, severe person who never allowed any emotion (except censure) to grace her face. She was sort of omnipresent, waiting for me to commit a sin or have a misplaced thought. She was also the librarian and I think I really tested her patience and sense of propriety.

I used to secretly, just for the fun of it, sneak into the library at odd hours during her absence and leave a red rose on her table ever day. It went on for nearly a-month-or-so with breaks. At the end of it everybody knew – from the gardener to the students to some senior nuns to some of the priests and Mother Superior! I can’t explain why I did it and wonder if I would do such a thing today. Also, doubt if there are still any nuns of that calibre left.

Sister S would fume and fret and wave the rose in the assembly whilst we all sat gravely with the right expression of concern and horror on our faces. I made it a point to avoid Mother Superior at all times and like a wayward student was petrified of being summoned by her. It was like a secret pact that all had signed. Eventually, and sensibly I terminated ‘Operation Rose’ (as it came to be known).

Sister S had beamed at me the day I was leaving. I don’t know if it was a smile of relief or happiness that I was leaving to plague elsewhere. I have often speculated if she wasn’t part of a concordat playing her part with great finesse! But the highlights of my stay were the events that followed the arrival of Felicity’s younger sister, Gracie.

 *

Felicity was Wilson’s caretaker-cum-warden. She was overworked and forever seemed to be at the verge of a nervous breakdown, trying to handle Wilson. She was also managing the house and taking care of her two young children. Her husband worked in the village and made monthly trips, primarily to take money and go back to his drinking binges and paramours.

I don’t know how old Felicity was, but she came across as an extremely tired person – neither beautiful nor attractive – with all the hard lines, folds and imprints that life had offered her. Gracie had been summoned from the plains to assist in the household chores and she oozed sex!

Gracie and Felicity couldn’t have been the products of the same consummating adults. The genetic material was so contradictory. Both women were poles apart in looks, style and behaviour. Not a very scientific observation but there you are!

The Kama Sutra would have a lot to say about Gracie and still find it difficult to put her under any category. Voluptuously plump but with no noticeable excess fat, burnt golden-wheat skin tone, thick hair, coarse round face, thick lips and with breasts and buttocks representing the classical Indian figure of women.

She was smart and first established herself as a well-behaved, properly dressed and dutiful person in the eyes of the novice nuns and then went on to convince and strengthen her place to others – as to how assiduous she was in her conduct. But she was a blatant, shameless, titillating tease.

Long sleeved blouses, decorously covered bosom, polite and eyes not making any contact, never glancing at any man – all very thoroughly acted out. She didn’t fool me though and I was wary of her from day one, when she tested me out by letting her dupatta slip down….Oh! So verrry sloowwwwly as she served tea, staying in that position long enough for me to fix my eyes on her cleavage. Then bashfully adjusting her clothing and with eyes bombarding trailers of ‘further attractions’ had walked away with those buttocks twitching and swaying.

I wasn’t going to fall for this. Never had a roving eye nor interested in such liaisons. She tried some more tactics later and realised that I had seen through her. I also made sure that her entry into my room was banned and never allowed myself to be alone in the house with her. We dismissed each other but there was Wilson.

 *

Little did I realize but too late that she had already tickled his fancy and he was hooked – line and sinker – the suppressed testosterone stimulated. He had no idea that it was just amusement for Gracie. And, nobody ever found out who really was playing this dangerous game? Was it Gracie? Wilson? Those that lurked within him?

Felicity was just too relieved, I think, to have her workload lessened and Gracie the nymphet did not lose a single opportunity to ensnare Wilson ever so more. I was out most of the day so am not aware of the going-on’s during my absence. But I perceived that Gracie was like a limpet around Wilson.

The changes in Wilson’s behaviour were so subtle that even I missed them. At first, they didn’t register but slowly and surely I noticed that there was something amiss. Most obvious was the fact that Felicity had, more-or-less, surrendered her duties, as far as Wilson was concerned, to Gracie. Wilson on the other hand, looked clean.

I was in the veranda one afternoon and happened to look through the window, into the room where Wilson was sitting in front of the television. I wanted him to turn the volume down a bit but saw that he was actually not looking at the screen, but rubbing his crotch with great fervour looking at Gracie who was standing at the kitchen door caressing her breasts! What was I supposed to do? Go up to Mother Superior and say, “Excuse me, but I would like to tell you that Wilson sits and masturbates whilst Gracie watches him doing it!” Nobody would have believed me?

Then, one afternoon I came back early because classes were cancelled for some reason and met Felicity on my way back to Baker Niwas. She along with her children was going to a nearby village for two days to attend some function. “What about Wilson?” I queried and got the reply I didn’t want to hear. Add to this the fact that the nuns were in Retreat.

Entering my room, I opened the connecting door leading in to the rest of the house. I thought Wilson was napping as it was rather quiet, but then heard these soft silly laughs, groans and sounds of splashing from Wilson’s bathroom. It was Gracie giving him a bath and other ministrations.

 *

If I were of the Christian faith – it would have appeared as if the devil had sent the Whore of Babylon to this little corner of India. The situation was getting to be rather dicey and I decided to report this matter.

However, things never happen the way one expects and life has these unexpected twists and turns. The same evening Felicity’s husband arrived and everything changed. Gracie the great manipulating temptress found a soul mate – two absolutely debauched individuals coming together like magnets. As far as Gracie was concerned, Wilson did not matter anymore; she had had her fun and couldn’t care less!

Wilson’s was in love with the woman who had aroused his sexuality. For him, Gracie was his and he could not comprehend the unique sickness of her mind. The sudden neglect and brusqueness first confused him and then put him in instant rage.

There was no sign of Gracie the following morning. Wilson went and knocked loudly on the door of the outhouse and returned furiously.

“She….she is inside….with him!” he snarled through his froth. I mumbled some utterly ineffectual soothing words, put his breakfast on the table and left.

What happened during the day remains pure conjecture till date.

 *

I generally returned to the house late afternoon and the moment I opened the gate, I knew something was wrong. Even today, I can taste the fear, horror and my absolute alienation from the scene.

The door of the outhouse was ajar and I moved as if walking bare feet on broken glass.   As I crept closer, I thought that there were people inside – talking. Then, heard thuds, snickering, mutterings and more conversations. Warily, I peered in.

There was Wilson with a sickle hacking away on the already mutilated body of Felicity’s husband. Gracie lay in a pool of blood on the ground. Jealously and rejection had triggered all the switches in his mind and he sat there chuckling and talking to himself, occasionally nudging Gracie’s body with his foot. The most creepy thing was the different voices coming from someplace within him. All I could hear or understand through my mental miasma were voices talking about love. Like a bloodied spectre he rose, and limped towards me. There was no retreat or escape, so I waited. He shuffled close enough and peered at me. There was a metallic stench and then a combination of odd voices said, “Hainnnnaahennnanhaaarrunnn!” or something to that effect.

I don’t think I was able to move even after he made his way out of the house towards the grove.

The rest of my stay at Bakersgunj and the school was uneventful and an anti-climax to say the least. The rains came down making it impossible for anybody to follow and search for Wilson. The local police were helpless and senior officials and investigators came-up from the valley. They really couldn’t do much and for them it was an ‘open-and-shut’ case of ‘sexual madness’!

 *

I was questioned along with numerous others and the school community clamped down on thrill seekers and newspaper reporters. We all knew that something dark had descended. Somehow, I had a feeling that the investigators didn’t believe a word of what I told them and thought that I too must have supped on the overflowing cup offered by Gracie. I showed them the notes I had been scribbling but they remained indifferent and unconvinced. They didn’t have any proof though and the general verdict piled against Wilson’s insanity was greater and more convenient than the damage that Gracie had instigated.

And, Wilson, the Pagala – he was not difficult to track down. They found him more-or-less naked, raving, and unpredictable. I am told it took a couple of men to overpower him and he bit a few. He was beaten rather badly. Where was the real madness?  I heard he was later sent to the Agra mental asylum.

I didn’t pursue the generous permanent position offered by the school and they never asked again. Que será será.

Was I the only one who heard the different voices that came from Wilson? Why did I sense them? Are there others in me?

Hillo-hillo ray, Hillo-hillo ray

Pagaley ka janam

Ab sunno-sunno ray.

Diyyo-diyyo ray, Diyyo-diyyo ray

Vilsonwa jo

Huvvo-huvvo ray.

Khello-khello ray, Khello-khello ray

Mariyam godi

Sutto-sutto ray.

(Remains of a popular regional ditty – from the chewed pages)

]]> http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/the-ballad-of-bakersgunj/feed/ 2 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/10/18/jaggars/ http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/10/18/jaggars/#comments Tue, 18 Oct 2011 12:34:40 +0000 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/?p=612 ]]> “Over the centuries we have transformed the ancient myths and folk tales and made them into the fabric of our lives. Consciously and unconsciously we weave the narratives of myth and folk tale into our daily existence.” – Jack Zipes

My previous post produced two official comments; an expected roar of silence from some; one empathizer from offspring; and, a surge of emails from others – with varying tones of advice, gripe, commiseration, vacuity, analysis of my psyche and fascinatingly oblique commentaries – the latter leaving me with one single bemused thought: I would be a darling of the shrink community and if I had the money, would keep at least a few occupied and financially secure for some years!

There was also a flurry of links to blogs with humorous posts. Taking the hint, I did make an attempt not to be darkly dismal and reverentially gawked at Humour for a long time waiting for it to tickle my Muse, but she of the whimsical kind and devoid of the lighter vein, ultimately skewered him with the acerbic end of a funny bone. Woe is me!

But thanks for the insights and here is a toast to all – cheers – which has joie de vivre associations.

 *

Was preparing for a journey and witlessly looking for something; found an old chewed-up diary.

Rather pleased to stumble upon it because it was my ‘Ballads and Bards’ chronicle once retrieved from the slobbering chops of the dog-that-passed-inadvertent-wind. Then, kept so carefully that even I had forgotten its location and eventually thought it had been thrown away (like so many other documents) by the mater.

Unfortunately, unable to salvage much and crucial pages are missing. Am in the process of trying to pep-up images from my mind and reword some narratives.

 *

The movie links to this post were filmed years after the first notations and are fairly amateurish – but it is a documentation of sorts. I am also making copious use of information sent in 2007 by Rajesh Panwar of Kaladhungi.

The performers had been invited specially to explain the ‘Jāggar’ tradition to a group of city children who were part of an Outward Bound Programme. It was extremely poignant for me, to watch ‘Dās’ Nanda Ballabh perform in such an bizarre setting with a buffet table behind him and trying to maintain the ancient dignity and sanctity of the custom.

In Europe, those who practise varying traditions of story-telling and similar styles of performances are generally called Shamans, Bards or Versifiers. Such practitioners known under different names can be traced and still found within many ethnic cultures from all over the world, e.g., Bakhshi in Central Asia.

In India, professional storytellers are traditionally called Kathāvāhchak, Vyas or Dās. Kathā is an Indian style of Hindu religious storytelling that involves a ritualistic performance. It is primarily a recitation of Hindu religious texts such as the Purānas, Rāmayan or Bhāgwat Purāna often interspersed by a commentary known as Pravachan.

Shiv and Pārvati/Shakti find great veneration in the Kumaon and Garhwal hills of Uttarakhand. These divine figures often become the focal point of all commentary and are in due course revealed as the protagonists in their various Avatārs or reincarnations.

 *

In spite of being worshippers of Shiv and Shakti, the people of Kumaon also have a rich tradition of folk deity worship. It is believed that Kumaon once had a custom of

Yaksha (kind of demigod; also associated with Vishnu) worship. Besides worshipping the usual gods and goddesses associated with Hinduism, the people of Kumaon believe in Kul Devatās (family gods), Gram Devatās (village gods), Nāg Devatās(snake gods), Bhumi Devatās (land gods) and Veers (the brave heroes).

The Veers are brave men of some long forgotten age who in due course of time assume super-natural powers and become folk gods. Their heroic deeds grow to be more potent through innovative narratives and continue to maintain time-honoured beliefs of the people.

Folk gods have separate stories attached to their names and each one is remembered through some peak, temple or Jāggar. The presence of ‘Nāg‘ or snake worship is an indication of the reverence given to the brave.

 *

Jāggar falls in the category of ghost and spiritual worship, in the form of a folk song or at times combined with dances. Sometimes, Jāggar may also be in the form of Puja folk songs and sung in honour of the various gods and goddesses.

I have no idea whether ‘Dās’ Nanda Ballabh is still alive or not. He was rather frail and aged when I last met him. The noteworthy thing about him was that he unremittingly refused to convert his Jāggar into the extreme ritualistic and frenzied voodooist/witchcraft/Ojha style.

It will not be fair to term the hill people as being the most superstitious communities I have come across, but it is a fact that those inhabiting the hill, forest and desert areas are more susceptible to spirit lore.

In Uttarakhad and Himachal regions, I never knew when any of my drivers, trackers or kitchen staff would suddenly become morose and ask to be relieved with pay for a few days off. Why? Because they had to get back to their village and rid themselves of ‘it’. They would become disagreeable and even abscond if leave was denied. Fortunately, such occurrences were far-and-apart.

A fascinating trivia dated July 25, 1838 from the pages of ‘Wanderings of a Pilgrim in Search of the Picturesque, During Four-and-Twenty Years in the East; With Revelations of Life in the Zenāna’ by Fanny Parkes (Published 1850):

“. . . The Hill-men are so alarmed that they run away from service. My paharīs came to request I would let them all depart….at length they agreed to remain, if I would give them a kid to sacrifice the angry goddess who resides in the mountain….they are extremely superstitious. . .”

*

I once enquired about the process of getting rid of ‘it’ and was told that on reaching their village they approach the priest who would then arrange for a Jāggar.

Once the decision to perform Jāggar has been made, a time is set and a large fire lit. The villagers and family members gather around it, waiting for the Dās to invoke the spirit. A Dhol (Drum), Hudka ( hourglass shaped drum/damaroo associated with Shiv) and Thāli (Salver) are used as instruments.

The hypnotic sound of singing, beating of the drum and the salver compels some of the gathering into a stupor. A few shout and leap; at times ripping off their clothes. ‘Possessed’ they move around the fire, and the Dās begins to address them by the name of the spirit or spirits summoned. He asks for answers to the questions that have been communicated to him and seeks remedies. More often than not the spirit will insist upon a sacrifice of a goat or a bird. The spirit is then sent back to its Himalayan abode and the spell is broken.

There is an interesting Hindu Proverb that states – ‘The Three great mysteries: air to a bird, water to a fish, mankind to himself.’

I started on this path of blogging because I had thought and hoped it would be therapeutic for me! Don’t think it has, and actually, I am very close to that adieu post.

Everything dies…come to a conclusion and at times, terminated. Also, I see no reason why I should keep on encumbering others about my travails. People anyway forget words and deeds and if I am to be remembered, for whatever reason, I would want it to be for any sensitivity that I may have been able to kindle in them – a feeling that they are able to embrace with the strength to continue.

Maybe, I need to put an end to this. And, considering the terms used to define this final moment – wouldn’t it be just great, fantastic and bizarre if I were to sort of cop it; go away; be no more; conk it; kick the bucket; expire; walk the plank; rest in peace; stop living; drop off; croak; be taken; breathe my last; pass away, go to my heavenly abode; put out the lamp; move on to the next level; go off; mar jāun; swarg ko sidharun; cross the threshold; meet the grim reaper; say hello to the maker; khallās etc. soon after this post….now that would be droll!

 *

Thirty-one years ago, my father died aged 59.

Technically, I have been travelling for half-a-century and eight years now and trying not to dwell on the observable. I feel as if I was 25 just yesterday but I am sure I look plum-for-my-prime now. I can see it in the eyes of the people, their body language and the way they react. None, unfortunately, are able to perceive the bemused reaction within me.

Strange, how death is not all about numbers essentially.  It is a process that begins quietly and many a times masquerades into your living moments, biding its time and watching every breath inhaled and set free.

Now, for those who have not been able to comprehend or translate from Hindi, the title in Roman English reads as ‘Tutatā kyon nahin dard kā silsilā?’ A crass translation would be: Why doesn’t the chain of pain break?

And everything revolves around making sense of the dard and silsilā (the chain of events).

Some simply call this process – ‘pain’ (also the fore-play of death), which the medical world very modestly defines as a sensation that hurts. There are innumerable meanings of the word ‘pain’ available on the net. But I am talking about dard (दर्द) – an awareness difficult to pinpoint and one that can be worse or better than pain. Nor can this word be really translated satisfactorily. It is well neigh impossible to do so….just as the word angarai (अंगड़ाई ).

As Sophocles has said, “…it is worse to want to die, and not be able to.”  And, a combination of pain and dard with a dollop of angarai makes for a lethal progression. My permutation is slowly becoming difficult to manage. I sometimes wonder if it is also the loss or erosion of my moral and ethical code. Affix to this my inability to be shameless, dodgy about finances and futile attempts to move on with the subterfuge of the human world. It all reinforces the silsila.

*

There was a time I wanted to die in Binsar – leaning against a huge pine tree, inhaling the smell of moss and looking at Nanda Devi and its peaks. I am not going to achieve this and chances of my going to Binsar now are remote.

Then once I had sought to relinquish life, as it were, in the arms of a loved one – fairly romantic and in retrospect, rather ‘filmy’ – but true, considering my heart at times used to flutter abnormally at the mere sight of her.  However, she beat me to it and strengthened the silsila.

Wouldn’t it be great if one could just find a place they would like to die? I mean, you can’t do anything about your birthplace but death? I still think that the best place to die is in a forest. One is rid of all the tamasha. Nobody is inconvenienced nor is there any pretence.

Have you ever thought of the things people have to pretend to do when somebody dies? The hassle that ‘demise’ can cause? That it happens mostly without a formal intimation leads to the social dilemma that alters death into a sad travesty of public display rather than a remembrance that is private.

Let us say, you never liked a neighbour or somebody living nearby or a relative or even someone closer. You have not exchanged pleasantries for ages; studiously ignored each other; mentally glared, spat and cursed whenever possible. The moment this ‘favourite’ individual of yours dies – what do you do? Chances are that with folded hands and covered head, sanctimoniously you will visit the house of the deceased to pay your last respects. I mean how hypocritical is that? Last respects for somebody you don’t respect or care for!

On the other hand, if there was bereavement at a personal level, what is the point of all the religious ceremonies, the burial grounds, the crematoria – name it – the relatives, instant well-wishers and scholars of rituals – everybody giving unsolicited advice! All you want probably is for these things, these nuisances, and these glitches to just get over. Isn’t that what ‘death’ is – to get over – to end. Oh yes! Death of a loved one will make you shed tears; you will miss them for a very long time but do we need to create such a nonsensical fanfare about death? An oriental philosopher has rightly commented that, ‘life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.’

 *

This giving up the ghost thought is not new to me and has nothing to do with the fact that I am getting old. I have reflected upon ceasing to exist even as a child, and relax…it has not been an obsession.

Death is the only thing confirmed about life and begins the day we are born. Every living nano-second of our time on this planet is ultimately taking us to that final moment. Like a damaged lung there are parts of us that never regenerate however much we may wish them to and death then comes as freedom – both from pain and dard.

I just want to die now – quietly, in a place that is totally unknown –or at least, where there are no lies. I am just so tired of everything and everybody and blame nothing and nobody.

It would be a release.

So, will   the real ‘Death’ raise its arm, please!

And,

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn’s rain,

When you awaken in the morning hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

 - Anon

]]> http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/09/18/%e0%a4%9f%e0%a5%82%e0%a4%9f%e0%a4%a4%e0%a4%be-%e0%a4%95%e0%a5%8d%e0%a4%af%e0%a5%8b%e0%a4%82-%e0%a4%a8%e0%a4%b9%e0%a5%80%e0%a4%82-%e0%a4%a6%e0%a4%b0%e0%a5%8d%e0%a4%a6-%e0%a4%95%e0%a4%be-%e0%a4%b8/feed/ 2 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/08/24/breathing-with-the-chitals/ http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/08/24/breathing-with-the-chitals/#comments Wed, 24 Aug 2011 17:02:18 +0000 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/?p=573 ]]> “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.

Those days, people like us – who couldn’t afford the luxury of hiring taxies or jeeps – would always take the solitary bus that departed from opposite the CTR office at Ramnagar. I can’t remember the name of the old man who used to drive the bus…think we called him Rawatji. One could also get back to Ramnagar in the same bus if so desired. It was extremely convenient and very reasonably priced. The bus service was always a thorn up the derrieres’ of the jeep-wallahs and their cronies (in and outside the CTR office), and was terminated ages back and I have no idea what happened to the poor old man and the conductor.

 *

Getting to Dhikala is now an expedition which costs phenomenal.

It actually feels like a place of incarceration now, with its solar fence enclosing the heartless concrete buildings that have replaced the beautiful log huts, guest houses and the rustic dormitory.

The wooden floor of the open air cinema hall behind the tourist guest house and restaurant has been replaced with cement. The observation platform around the massive tree in the centre of Dhikala overlooking Ramganga has collapsed. The library is no longer the quiet place where one could sit and browse through books in the evening hours. And, Kaleji’s Dhabha, has moved to the centre of this ‘detention mall’, housed within  an ugly four walled enclosure that is dirty, smelly and fly-infested. The gypsy-jeeps cartel rules the place along with the willing forest/wildlife officials who are so unmistakably hand-in-glove with the drivers and agents. Hardly any tame elephants left either for the morning and evening safaris. Everyone is surly and sour-faced. Shamelessly greedy and artificial smiles are visible only on the arrival of rich guests; political big-wigs; entourages of erst-while maharajas and resort owners with political connections.

The Dhikala, I write about in this post, used to be a beautifully temperate place with wonderful smells and sounds of the forest.

*

Ramnagar too was a sleepy little town in those days. It was a walk from the station to the local bus-stand. The Corbett National Park (as it was known then) had its main office close by and we had to wait there till they opened for the collection of relevant permits and other official documents.

I was there with Anudeep, Sandip and a group of young people. It was a new awareness for the children to walk through a small town that was just about waking up. Then, reaching the one-and-only chai shop opposite the bus stand and gulping down ‘rusks’ dunked in piping hot sweet tea! The eyes of the children would pop-out with excitement as the locality gradually filled-up with the racket of the early morning buses leaving for Almorah, Pithoragarh and other places. We would be back here in about a week’s time to board one these buses that would take us to Kalimath.

 *

We had encountered a tusker between Sarpaduli and Khinnanauli. It was a standoff between the tusker and the bus with the stalemate continuing for over twenty minutes. Eventually, after two false charges and registering its superiority, the tusker had moved away into the bush going down towards the Ramganga River. So, the kid’s were on a definite high by the time we reached Dhikala.

We all had accommodation in the old dormitory that had bunks and a very small enclosure for people to pee during the night.

The reason behind this, at times whiffy and tinkly place was that the actual bog/outhouse/privy/dunny was situated a little away from the dormitory; with all doors of ‘evacuatory’ places facing the forest. Nobody would want to ‘go there’ in the dark. There was electricity but most of the light bulbs outside were fused and generally they were never replaced. And yes, it could be little uncomfortable if you were trapped within the confines of a toilet! It had happened to me once, in the past, when an intense call of nature, had me scampering to the toilet…and, then I couldn’t get out for a long time because there was some animal outside. Probably a wild boar digging for succulent roots, but the fact-of-the matter was that if you had to go – you either went before going to sleep or hung-on till day-break. Many-a stomach rumbling and other mild snoring, grunts, groans and curses were the standard lullabies!

 *

Anyway, it was our third or fourth night at Dhikala. We had just gone through a series of electrifying ghost stories. With all the kids, except Samira, duly huddled in their sleeping bags, the three adults – Sandip, Anudeep and I, decided to go outside for a stroll. We didn’t want to tell the children that we were actually going out for a smoke (not that they were unaware). So, we told the children that we were going to check that everything was all right with no wild animal (read Tiger), around.

Samira, all of eleven years – not necessarily the oldest of the group but the most experienced of all the children, as-far-as wildlife trips were concerned – looked at me with eyes that said, “Give me a break!”

I parried this with my best outdoorsy-father stare and held it with, “You are in charge till we return and latch the door from inside and don’t forget to let us in later.”

“Darna nahin, hanh!” said Anudeep in a much embroidered manner, “Hum bāhar jā ke, idhar-udhar check kar ke āte hein. Sab ko safe rakhana hai na, isee liye.”

Samira’s indignant snort accompanied us as we stepped out of the dormitory. I waited for her to latch the door. She knew that I was on the other side, because I could hear her fierce whispering, “Not fair! Not fair!”

 *

It was around 09:45 pm when we crossed the large open ground in front of the dormitory; past the library; the little road and then towards the bulwark that overlooked the Ramganga. Except for a few guards there was nobody around. Most of the tourists had already tucked themselves in for the night. The guards knew me from my earlier visits and so we stopped to update our mutual jungle grape-vine and talk about this, that and nothing!

The northern side of the Dhikala complex overlooks the Ramganga River and there is a fairly elevated parapet from where one gets a spectacular view of the river and the grasslands on the opposite bank that merge into the forest that eventually leads to the North Zone Ranges. (Steps going down to the river bank have now been blocked)

A small section of the open-air cinema extended away from the parapet, like a deck of a ship and was generally our favourite place during the day and even night. We picked-up chairs and made ourselves comfortable. It was a cold but clear night. The forest was peaceful, the Crickets were chirping and the night birds made occasional swoops down to feed on insects and other tit-bits.

We spent some time softly discussing the following day’s plan for the children but soon all conversation came to a natural halt as we sat there, quietly enjoying the sights, the smells and the sounds of Dhikala.

I was satisfyingly tired but didn’t want to fall asleep there, and part of my mind was still with the children. We had been away for about an hour and I wanted to get back. I knew Samira would be awake and waiting for us.

“Let’s go,” I said to the others and then it suddenly hit me.

There were no sounds.

The crickets had gone silent and the forest was still. We were about to get up when the sharp cry of a Red-wattled Lapwing from across the river ripped the fabric of the night. We strained our senses but could neither hear nor spot anything….but it was time to get back. I asked Anudeep and Sandip to move towards the dormitory whilst I put the chairs back.

 *

Jungle-lust is a very persuasively perilous passion. A craving of sorts, that keeps you wanting to linger a little more, to hear a little more, to watch a little more. So, I lingered.

“Whrraou!” barked the elusive and shy Kakad (Barking Deer), followed by the “Wouw Eiu” alarm call of the Chital.

Even though there had never been any recorded incident of a big cat coming up over the parapet, I thought it prudent to start walking back. With my insides liquefying, I cut across from behind the restaurant kitchen and keeping to the right of the Field Director’s Dhikala residence, quick-stepped back to the dormitory. I paused to catch my breath once I reached the metalled road that cuts through Dhikala and lingered again…..listening.

I could see the lights of the dormitory.

The sharp “Dhankk” of the Sambar Deer shattered the night. The call came clearly from the Eastern Chaur just a little away from where I was.

 *

Events in the forest are astounding and magical. One always hopes to sight the tiger – it’s a great thrill – but there are other things that can also leave an indelible memory.

The tiger is one of the deadliest and most feared predators in a forest. Their art of stealth hunting is par excellence and even though, I had this great yearning to hang around on for a few more moments; be able to catch a glimpse (who was I kidding!), at the back of my mind I knew that it would be extremely foolish and that the barbed wire was in no way any barrier, if the big cat decided to come towards me and, I didn’t want to be its meal.

“Dhankk!” called out Sambar again.  This was to be taken very seriously as unlike the Chital or Kakad, the Sambar’s repeated call is a sure indicator of a predator.

Then, I heard this weird scrambling-rumbling-reverberating sound…not exactly a pitter-patter of feet but more like a patter-pitter of hooves!

With the dormitory approximately 30 metre away from me, I aimed the beam of my heavy-duty flashlight towards the chaur from where the sound was coming. The tall grass seemed to be heaving with dark objects. It was a herd of Chital loping full speed towards me.

I knew what they were running away from and I couldn’t move. Not because I was frightened but because I was amazed with this sight! And, even before I could really grasp the enormity of the situation, the Chitals had leapt over the fencing and I was surrounded by – I don’t know how many – Chitals. I was transfixed!

 *

Unbelievable but true! Here I was – middle of the night, surrounded by a herd of Chital as panicky as yours truly – with all of us now looking towards the eastern chaur. Was the wind blowing towards us?

I didn’t know what to do? I could smell them. I could hear them breathing. I could see that their tails were up and not one of them was looking at me. As if, I did not exist or was it that my own fear had made them momentarily bond with me? I was not the threat and I could have stretched my arm and caressed the heaving sides of Chitals around me. My blood was rushing so strongly through my veins that I thought I would faint.

Mind you, all this happened within seconds. It seemed like a long time but not even half-a-minute.

I suddenly realized that I was holding my breath and then abruptly, “Dhankk” went the Sambar; “Eiu” went the Chitals and “Hahhai” squealed I.

The Chitals, en masse turned and sprinted away to the west and I followed suit with maladroit leaps of my own, to the dormitory.

 *

To use a clichéd term – ‘making haste slowly’ – I tried to get my system under some control before entering the dorm. The door, mercifully, had been left unlatched for me and all seemed to be asleep – except Samira!

With a huge wacky grin across her face, she gurgled, “Did you hear those calls? Anything…..hunh? Anything?” And, I just stood there looking at her with the breath of the Chitals still rippling through me.

How does one paint these happenings? These ‘anythings’? How does one explain that these are inimitable and have to be experienced at a personal level, for there are really no words to articulate the undulation of the soul.

 *

Maybe one day, I’ll remind Samira and Arjun about some of their trips with me – travelling on top of a bus; walking through Ranthambhore; the Sagai forest….and then ask, “Anything?”

]]> http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/08/24/breathing-with-the-chitals/feed/ 6 bichhubooti 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/07/25/pa-kate-vanota-2/ http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/07/25/pa-kate-vanota-2/#comments Mon, 25 Jul 2011 13:36:58 +0000 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/?p=534 ]]>  “And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of the true wise friend called Piggy” – William Golding, Lord of the Flies, Chapter 12

It was late afternoon and the khānchās (lanes) were fairly deserted. However, saw people attempting to peer out discreetly. The thug-faced man supervising the demise of a part of Kachchh’s history looked at me with suspicion and nervously shifted his buttocks that were resting on a mobike. Trying to control the anguish mounting inside me, I pointed the camera towards the blatant ruin of the heritage building in Mandvi.

“Aey!” Voiced the man threateningly, “Photo lena manā hai.”

“Kyon?” I asked, and continued to click.

The workers paused and lowered their implements as the man moved and caught hold of my right arm.

Wrong thing to do – especially when I am on a short fuse.

Reaching out with my other arm I grabbed his left ear and jerked the earlobe up. Startled and yelping with pain, he let go and stumbled back. A few residents had come out and thinking I was a journalist scoffed as to where I was when the building was sold.

“I don’t live here,” I said, “But where were you when this was being planned? How come nobody raised a voice and stopped this then?” I was also agitated because this was the first time ever that I had to be aggressive with anybody in Kachchh.

There were no answers and as I walked away the sound of sledge hammers proclaimed the advent of a mall/shopping complex in Mandvi – 56 km south of Bhuj; quaint old port town established 1581; population approximately 50,000. I didn’t even want to think what was going to happen to the old building nearby. Not too difficult to get another permission from the Archaeological Survey of India.

The ashes of freedom fighter Shyam Krishna Verma and his wife, specially brought to Mandvi from Geneva by chief minister Narendra Modi, are kept in the ancestral house – not too far away from this locality.  Khushboo Gujarat Ki!

 *

My association with Kachchh goes back nearly 15 years and I have been a frequent visitor …… not only because I am a survivor of the 2001 earthquake, but also because I care for the land and its people. Post-earthquake winds of change have been disturbing and each visit is filled with trepidation.  I am almost scared to find something else gone – and the erosion of the Kachchhiyat – the asmitā of the land, is disheartening.

By 2005, the earthquake had become an industry – a vast commercial venture. The face of Kachchh was changing drastically as the land was raped by uncaring developmental passion and the sensibilities of the people contaminated with promises laced with vested interests.

Same year, I was sitting with an elderly Kachchhi, watching the construction of a Bentonite factory just outside their village. Prime agricultural and grazing land had been taken away.

I can now sadly comprehend the question asked by this old man, who after witnessing the invasion of the ‘no-good-organisations and other friendly hands’ had dolefully commented, “Pa katè vanotā, Arunbha? Pa katè vanotā?”

The forlorn voice asking me, “Where are we going?” still rings like the sledge hammers being heaved in Mandvi and many other places.

 *

This trip was after a mere gap of 8 months. A delightful group of people accompanied me and I am glad they were unable to infiltrate my demeanour.

There were places I didn’t take them because nothing is left anymore. There has been a decline or an end to the traditional way of living and the craft typical to that area.  Many have been swept-away by trendy design houses and become totally euro-centric. Their work is only for the foreign market and accordingly the colours, designs and patterns have lost the fundamental nature of its origin. Innovation is required and an essential part of artistic growth but not at the cost of its identity – its roots.

I am so privileged to know those exceptional few who have maintained their integrity and are continuously evolving their work and designs; remaining faithful to their ancestral distinctiveness.

Chapter 10, Lord of Flies floods my mind  – “We was on the outside. We never done nothing, we never seen nothing.”

The overall saffronization of Kachchh is more-or-less total. Along with the sprouting of innumerable, grotesquely painted temples, has come the abject neglect of Muslim shrines and localities. My dear friend, Musabhai’s house near Dayapar remains deserted. I have no idea about his family’s welfare.

Plastic and other garbage has taken over the Banni and even the sea has not been spared. Stuff lying around Pragmahal and there seems to be no money for the maintenance, upkeep or reconstruction of heritage sites.

No money to clean the lakes; no money for schools and health care centres in remote areas. Of course, there is money for tourism extravaganzas and charging a fee to see the ‘whaite rann’; money for the new Swaminarayan temple built at a cost of 1 billion Indian Rupees on 5 acres of  land; money galore for lignite mining; chemical factories; cement factories; excavations for sampling; outright sale of agricultural land for housing colonies where if you ‘buy a plot you get a Nano free’!

Were these the ‘colours’ and ‘khushboos’ Mr. Amitabh Bachchan couldn’t find? As for, ‘where else can you leave your fingerprints on the past?’ How about, Lakhpat – to start with?

Sometimes I wonder if the Kachchhies really know or care what they are slowly losing.  

 Kitè vanotā? Going where?

 This image ought to represent everything!

]]> http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/07/25/pa-kate-vanota-2/feed/ 6 bichhubooti 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/06/21/dancing-with-demons/ http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/2011/06/21/dancing-with-demons/#comments Tue, 21 Jun 2011 17:53:00 +0000 bichhubooti http://bichhubooti.wordpress.com/?p=518 ]]> “Language…has created the word “loneliness” to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word “solitude” to express the glory of being alone.” – Paul Tillich

This may rouse those once again, who were somewhat stirred by ‘My Way’. I was pleasantly surprised by their reaction after that posting…but none commented on the blog site!

Two themes that were the quintessence of most emails – “Is blogging like an online personal diary for me?” and, “How could I be so open about myself?”

I have thought about these aspects at a personal level and continue to do so. And, even though, blogging may be mildly interesting for me, let me assert that I am not the ‘diary kind’ and there are many things I don’t share and probably never will. So, the question of a personal diary – online or otherwise – does not arise.

Also, if I were to really be unfettered about my views……

So, watch out for the posting that ends with a farewell!

 *

However, one of the many things I have speculated about myself is my character imperfections. For example, it irks me no end as to why the hell do I help others without a ‘return gift’ in mind; steer clear of unpleasant scenes at the risk of it being taken as a weakness and the inability to really let my dark side take over – be able to guiltlessly lie, plot, bamboozle, exploit people – be a real bad arse! Behave in the way most people conduct themselves….with the lies, subterfuge and the constant lust to control.

For years you think you know the person and one day you realize that you don’t. It was a sham. So, I blight myself for not being on the ball within the human arena. And, then there is no point really asserting that I never forget nor forgive!

 *

Somewhere for some inexplicable reason, the tagline from the movie ‘Primer’ keeps prodding me in a hackneyed manner – “If you always want what you can’t have, what do you want when you can have anything?”

 *

Here is a situation: Imagine you are living very close to a septic tank that leaks. The seep-out and the stink can be tapped but it is somebody else’s job to do it, not yours. The ground reality is that you cannot leave because there isn’t any other place to go. What will it take for you to convince the other beings that the septic tank is their responsibility and it needs to be plugged?

Their answer always is, “We have no problem and if you don’t like it, leave or get it repaired.”

The plain and simple ‘dadagiri’ – the asli India that is incredibly shinning steadily. So what will you do? Will you get it repaired by spending money from your pocket and then curse your inability – your cowardice – or continue living next to the septic tank that leaks and stinks?

 *

It is said that there are these vicious and virtuous cycles/circles.  I really hate myself for not being able to cross-over to the realm of the dark side – the vicious circle. Why is it that when matters can be solved amicably, there are those who refuse to listen to reason and take the hard-line. And, why am I not able to let go the beast in me. I know it is there, for it has crept out on occasions in the past. I have always seized and controlled it.

But it is there gathering strength and I am troubled that it might just pass through conveniently.

Really dark days and still refusing to open that inviting door.

The beady-eyed clerk/flunky/official of the Archives Department looked at me with great suspicion. His mouth with protruding paan-stained teeth was more offensive than the open grave I had seen in Pratapgunj.

My first thought, then, was – would we ignore such despoliation around any crematorium/burning ghat or garbage disposal close to a mere stone painted orange and kept under a tree?

Second thought was, as to why nobody around (mostly well-off and erudite), appeared concerned and was this neglect and vandalism really a well-thought out plan to eventually grab the land?

Third thought…what about all the Muslim families and individuals living in this residential area?

But who dares raise a voice in Gujarat now?

 *

During my university days, the burial ground used to be a massive mound and surely it was conveniently haunted! There were stories of a ‘Begum Sahiba’ and her qabar …so, most of my friends at some point of time, took their choice of begums – current or otherwise – for a late evening stroll past the mound. Invariably, quite a few returned with ‘spirited and angelic’ faces!

 *

Anyway, I finally decided to document the knoll before it was razed to the ground. Armed with a camera and laden with memories, I clambered through thick bristly bushes and under the wary eyes of its sole guardian – the Indian Garden Lizard – scrambled over the inner wall.

At least ten graves, if not more, lay under piles of leaves and undergrowth. This was an old graveyard.

Then I saw this tree trunk that had over the years wrapped itself around a tombstone.

The epitaph was in Persian and had “survived the vicissitudes of time and politics.” But what did it say? Still under the impression that this had to be Begum Sahiba’s grave, I hunted around for scholars who could help in translating.

Vadodara the ‘Sanskar Nagari’ was reticent.

 *

Eventually, I was directed to Professor S. Hasan Mahmud, Director, UGC Academic Staff College, Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi – whose help has been invaluable. It goes without saying that over the years he is the only person who has been most patient and supportive. I am really grateful to him for translating the inscriptions.

Went in search of a Begum and found a Nawab! My curiosity was stirred further.

During this period I also realised that a solitary grave (South-East of the main burial ground), formed a corner of the Pratapgunj club/ground. Littered with tons of garbage and subject to neglect, I recently managed to get the area cleaned.

The epitaph was in Urdu and the translation, a revelation! This is the grave of Nawab Saiyyid Sadr-ud-Din Husain Khan, a descendant of Nawab Saiyyid Nur-ud-Din Husain Khan Saheb Bahadur, who rests within the mound.

I was like a hound with the scent of the fox enticing the senses. Who were these Nawabs? What was their Vadodara/Pratapgunj connection? What happened to the family? What all has been razed to flatten Pratapgunj?

 *

Not too difficult to trace Baroda’s history. It was interesting to learn that before the Gaekwads captured Baroda, it was ruled by Babi Nawabs, who were the officers of the Delhi ruler. Mughal rule came to an end in 1732, when Pilaji Rao Gaekwad brought the Maratha activities in Southern Gujarat to a head and captured it.

So far so good….and then the aide memoire, as it were, that corruption is not only ‘ghotalas’ but of the mind and attitude too. I mean, how difficult can it be? Well, as difficult as in procuring a Ration Card; filing a Right to Information application or hoping that someone will respond if you dialled any of the various Helpline numbers provided by the authorities!

Pratapgunj as it is known now was once Nawab property and their private qabristan.

Contacted the City Library, City Survey Office, local Archaeological Survey of India Office, Vadodara Urban Development Authority, Pratapgunj Society Office, the Gaekwads, Baroda State Archives…. where the beady-eyed clerk/flunky/official had looked at me with great suspicion and asked, “Nawab ki jankari kis liye? Gandhinagar se permission hai?”

I should have known better. Years ago, I had approached the same office for some information on the English explorer Captain Sir Richard F. Burton of the 18th Bombay Native Infantry based in Gujarat. I had had to sign various forms and get them validated by a ‘reliable’ government person (!) or someone from the History Department who would vouch for the authenticity of my research (does it always have to be research? What has happened to a citizen’s interest in the history of his town?). Anyway, after getting all the silly signatures and stamps, the forms had been submitted and when the permission did come from Gandhinagar (after 4 months) – I was no longer in Vadodara; nor interested in finding out about the said Englishman – and, the authorization to access the archives was only for 7 days, holidays included!

 *

So, even though I have tracked down the present day, largely divided ‘Nawab’ family, I don’t really have anything to write about the Nawabs because I have not been able to secure satisfactory data. No one wanted to help and mostly they were curious to know why a ‘Hindu’ was interested in ‘Muslims’. Even put-in an appeal on Baroda-online (who did not find my request worth their time). Between Mahmud Begada and the Gaekwads, Vadodara’s history finds no mention of the Babi Nawabs. At least, that’s the way they want it to be.

To quote a friend, “I experienced the difficulties that you are facing for 25 years of my stay in Baroda.  I could not lay my hands on the documents of pre-Gaekwad and early Gaekwad periods in Persian that I know are in the Baroda State Archives.

There was no help from anywhere within the city either – not even from the Muslim community. Disturbing state of affairs, more so, because many of those approached are known to me, well-placed and influential within the community.

At the end of it all I felt such a fool being passionate about our history, heritage and trying to record what is left and fast disappearing. Very true, those who asked me the question – maqsad kya hai? The Hindus questioned my interest and the Muslims questioned my interest. In the eyes of both – I was not to be trusted.

Where do I go in this country of mine? Where is home – the oft asked question?

 *

However, some interesting links did materialize through various search engines:

A small rundown portion of the  ‘Nawab Manzil’ still exists.

The other sections have over the years been converted into ugly concrete apartments. How magnificent they must have been!

Another piece of  historical evidence was located at the Library of Congress, Washington. Really impressed with their Asian Division, who responded within a day of my query and have been kind enough to mail me a copy of the said item. I am thrilled!

 *

Coming back to what really is my ‘maqsad’?

Would it be sufficient to say that apart from my passion for history, I am trying to develop rida, tawakkul, sabr and mohabba.  Haven’t reached there as yet.

Nearly two years and nobody seems interested. No time for the living – why the dead!

They are…gone!

Even though, my parents had a house at the Railway Staff College, Lal Baugh – my Baroda (as it was known then), address in the early Seventies was, ‘44 Pratapgunj’ – where I had a large room on the first floor and paid the princely amount of Rupees One Hundred per month as rent, inclusive of electricity charges.

Never did I imagine that nearly 41 years later, I would be witnessing the slow death of the retreat that was Pratapgunj.

Those days, Pratapgunj was a copiously wooded area with large bungalows peeping magnificently through Neem  (Azadirachta indica)  trees or Limdo as it is known in the Gujarati language; Yellow poinciana (Peltophorum pterocarpum); Indian Laburnum/Amaltas   (Cassia fistula); Common Crape myrtle (Lagerstroemia indica); Tamarind/Imlee (Tamarindus indica) and Banyan/Vad (Ficus benghalensis)……but it was mainly the Limbdo that ruled. I remember, once, I was helping a group of architect friends conduct a survey [1974 - 75?] and we had counted over 187 Neem trees between Adyapak Niwas and Natraj Talkies.

All images (except the BW/Sepia), were taken in the year 2009. Since then, more bungalows have been razed to the ground, more trees cut and new high-rise apartments created.

Aldo Leopold has rightly said that, “The oldest task in human history [is] to live on a piece of land without spoiling it.”