The tale of the heaven !! (Part II)

The day begins early for me to leave Kargil. I shall visit Sapi valley today. The weather continues to be gloomy even in late May. Grey clouds are floating aimlessly. As I climb above 14,500 ft they have chosen to confine themselves closer to the earth below; passionately they embrace me for a little warmth that I can offer to them. The lone pass, Sapi La, lies motionless. The snowing has been intense; flakes taking both granular and feathery shapes only differing in how quickly they melt. A strong wind is usual at the top of any mountain pass, but it has become too gusty and pretty chilly. Standing outside is not a good option. I take refuge inside my car with window pane opened. It takes quite a long time but I keep on waiting as the mysterious environment prevents me to leave. Gradually, the whiteout evades to let outside a little brighter. I ascend to the top of the pass. I can see the valley beneath my feet. A small hamlet, another behind it—a bit above along the slope. Kazimbhai says to have a friend in the second village, but doesn’t remember the exact home of the fellow. But he wishes to meet him. It brings immense joy for me. Kazimbhai yells in full volume calling name of his friend. But none responses. He smiling says his home may be on the other side of the river or maybe, none is there at home now. We walk down along the narrow trail half-heartedly clinging the slope. Getting a little nearer, he shouts again in louder voice. None still responses; nothing echoes back. The sky above has turned azure to brighten the prospect of the day. The series of mountain have started to make their presence felt by revealing their white crowns adorned in fresh snow, as if saying, “Take my photo, please.” I keep on clicking, but suddenly a veil of mist again envelops the sky. Kazimbhai has descended upon a cliff jutting out of the mountain. A snaky rivulet is flowing on that side of the mountain like a silver ribbon. I smile at her, but she hasn’t; she has no time to spend, her anxious face tells that a long journey awaits her. She runs faster down the valley, never knows where to go and whom to meet. I decide to move down to Kargil and explore my favourite town.

The dawn is dazzlingly bright today. I decide to drive to Sonmarg. Chandrass is a tiny hamlet that lies on the way. Gurjar Shepherds are walking to Kargil from Jammu with long queues of flocks of goats and sheep. Gurjar is an ethnic community in Kashmiri. Their children are mounted atop horses; mothers holding the bridles. Hundreds of animals following; dogs are maintaining the line. The journey is seemingly endless, restless. From an era to another, the migration is recurring without much change in schedule, nature and motivation. Only time accompanying through history to enrich the purpose of their life. Life is simple and tuned to less than basic needs. There is no haste in the pursuit; flowing like a stream, neither to attain for nor to abstain from. Just an endless flow. The migration commences in early May and takes the reverse route in late September before winter tightens its grip. The journey eats up another two months. It is uncertain to define whether life signifies the journey or the journey glorifies the life. But there is no exception to the destined events of life. Suddenly, two of them come up running towards our car. They need some painkillers; someone has headache, some other has body ache. I offer whatever medicines I have had; prescribe when and how to take those. Their ingenuous smiles convey more than what my soul have so far experienced in minutes of life. “Sukhriya, Bahinji; Namaste bhaishab.” The queue moves on towards a distant world—unknown to the civil face of society and mankind. 

It shall again be a phase of riding through countless fascinatingly beautiful valleys. There is certain beauty, which is so immaculate and so divine, cannot be explained in words. Kashmir is the queen of such beauty. Soon comes Mataine, another tiny hamlet. This part of valley appears almost like the plains. A little ahead a small restaurant awaits us with its neatness and peace. Draupadi kund is just a walking distance. We have now been closer to Zoji la—the high-altitude pass, which separates Kashmir from Ladakh. The features of Zanskar range and Karakoram with little flavour of the main Himalayas all mingle in passionately. A long convoy of army trucks is ahead of us; the unwritten rule of the place is none should overtake. The laziness in movement is although enjoyable as I can savour the beauty of the places around. Long down runs another road through the valley like a river. That goes to Baltal. The faces of the valley and mountains are all draped in snowy apparel. Numerous streams are seen to have descended from those hanging glaciers between almost every shoulder ridge. I love seeing that small giggling brooklet, just born out of a sea-green glacial split. What if she is just a kid, her sparkling laughter has amused the hills and vales in abundance and her dancing down has stupefied all in awe. The river below has flung open her arms to welcome; as if whispering, “Come to my lap, my child.”

The weather changes on the other side of the pass. The clouds are heavier, denser and reserved in appearance. They play with decaying light of the day, though composed in manner. Between moments irrigating mind, time takes me to Sonmarg. The sunshine has already been wiped of the western wings of valley; it shines the upper range in gold. Sonmarg is a small town mostly crowded by tourists. I check in my room; the lonely window has opened her mind to me and shares the beauty of the mountain in afternoon glow. A small batch of young clouds is engaged in playing with greener slopes. Aged sunlight is affectionately brushing its colour upon the slender lines of trees. A solitary horse is still grazing in the highland above the valley. A tall man is hurrying down from the jungle with loads of woods on his shoulder. The light is disappearing fast; the usual afternoon cold breeze has started blowing. Night is not far away.

Today I shall walk through Thajiwas glacier. Sonmarg has just risen. I have a plan to leave for Srinagar or other valleys on the northwest. So, started early at 7.30. One of the local boys is accompanying me; he knows the trail. The sunlight is still soft and faint. The ascent is gradual; the gradient is comfortable. After a steady climb, I am face to face with him, who has made the Himalayas my second home. “Hey, surprised?”, standing with an elegant smile. It makes my heart swell and tears bursts out for the first time in this trip, “Here too, the Lord of my life?” HE smiles and holds my hand. Tears rolling out; HE is my eternal companion; an inseparable entity, an omnipresent friend in my life. HE has taken the bridle of my life to let me explore the beauty of the universe. HE too has nothing more to do than taking care of me, perhaps. “Didi, roh rahe ho? Yeh, Himalaya hain.”, the soft arrow of voice revives me. I come forward and hold his hand. “Where have you come from?” “Calcutta se. Kya naam hain tumhara?” “Faizal; is it your first visit here?” “Hain, beta.” “Didi, is side, left. Yeh dhara jo dikh rahi ho yeah woh glacier ka pani hain.” “Parte ho?” “Eighth class, didi” “Who are there at home?” “Papa hain lekin woh bimar hain. Hamara do bada bhaiya, maa, tin bari bahin bhi hain. Two elder sisters have been married off; the rest will be this year.” “What does your brother do; working or still studying?” He doesn’t respond. We are endlessly walking through the wide valley; green meadow neatly severed by a blue net of glacial stream while mountain on one side is snow-covered. They all are coming closer as if to invade my own world; as if nearing me to ask, “Hey, take my photo.” I keep on clicking. None should be left. “Look, forget me not!” I see a small branch with fresh leaves swaying gently above my head; staring at me. I remember not how time flies. Suddenly I realize Faizal is not around. Looking behind, I find him a little away; looking vacantly towards the path beaten. I walk towards him and ask, “Faizal, what’s happened? Tum kyun roh rahe ho?” He is a just a boy; hasn’t lost the innocence of a kid yet. He hides his face by two small palms and sit down. Once comforted he continues to tell the tale of his small life. His brother was studying in the village school. One day he went to the field after returning from school. Didn’t come back. Faizal has heard his father murmuring, “They said he had become a terrorist” None believed it; at home or in the village. His father had searched for him in the neighbouring villages, places of those distant relatives, at the door of the powers that be, all other places he could imagine and know, where his young son could have gone. He has neither been found nor his body has been located anywhere. His father has gradually sunk into depression; an acute one. Sometimes, police come to home; enquire into, ask newer and newer questions. His father doesn’t allow Faizal to go to school alone. He accompanies him both ways. After eleven years, they still believe that the loving boy shall be back home one day.

“Didi, chalo, late ho jayega.” Faizal has held my hand. All sense of delight has vanished unknowingly. My legs seem heavy and unsteady. Faizal pauses. He takes out a photograph and shows it to me. “Mera bada bhaiya!”, he whispers. Two bright innocuous eyes, smiling face. I can’t see it more. My soul breaks in intense pain and tears flow down.

I can see Thajiwas glacier in close proximity. Seemingly similar to other Himalayan glaciers; split and full of crevasses. Now the valley seems a little crowdy; locals have set up tents, hither and thither, to server hot beverages and snacks. I sit there facing the glacier; Faizal seated by my side. Suddenly the glacier and Faizal merge into oneness within my mind; never knowing who remains who. His soul and that of the glacier have both broken; breaking everyday unnoticed. The human mind and the Himalayas are both decaying and the world is utterly indifferent.

  

We have started descending along the mountain track. I look back. HE is gazing at me; the Himalayas. I fold my hands and seek permission to leave. “Come again”, as HE always says. “We are not well; take pain to come again and pray to the Lord for us.”

As we reach the plains down, I see Kazimbhai waiting for me. I see one aged person is sitting upon his knees. Faizal says, “Abbajan.” I greet him with folded hands; he, perhaps, whispers something. He gestures Faizal to come nearer and says something silently to him. Faizal again takes out his brother’s photograph, hands it over to me and says, “Abbu has asked me to give it to you. If you find my brother anywhere, convey his father remembers him and awaits his return. But you cannot identify him without his photograph, no?” Oh Lord! Are you listening?

I get into my car. The azure sky, white puffy clouds, cold sweet northern breeze and sunshine; all ingredients of pleasure in the mountains are generously present. I love listening to music while in car. Kazimbhai has turned it on. No, nothing soothes my soul; nothing pleases me today. There is so much to see around; the yellow field of mustard, green and red fresh leaves of Chinar, the silent banks of Jheelum—everyone is calling me. But I cannot find pleasure in responding as I do and love to do. I wish them back only waiving my hands. Kazimbhai parks the car in front of a small hotel and says, “Madam, have your lunch here. Should we return to Srinagar or drive through Naranang valley towards Gulmarg.” Idea suits me; I need silence—absolute silence.

Clouds gather again. Soon starts raining. We have driven a long way. The beauty of the valley has somehow eluded my soul today. Kazimbhai breaks the silence. “Look there, behind the hill is Gulmarg.” The darkness of evening clouds has veiled it. We climb on along the circular path. It has been raining quite heavily now. Within a few minutes, we reach Gulmarg. Up above, the sky is little clearer. Clouds smilingly wander above and float away. The field in front of us is verdant in its prime time. One tiny flower suddenly tells me, “Take my photo. Okay, stay awhile, let me wipe the raindrops.” I take her photo and ask, “What’s you name, sweet baby?” Her laughter continues endlessly. Says she, “What’s in name?” I say, “Why? Everyone has a name.” She giggles and says, “Never know. None has ever called me by a name. We don’t carry any name. We be and become in this world without name, without fame, but delight only.” Uttering this long dialogue, she again continues to smile.

I walk on my stealthy steps. The sun has also been on his way home behind the hill. A flock of sheep is still busy in grazing. A few tea shops are lying idly by the path. The bitter cold has inspired me to enter into one. “Bina dudh ki chai, adrakwali.” “Jaroor milega, Memsaheb. Sit down please. Kahanse aye ho?” “Kolkata.” “Baki log kahan hain?” “Akeli hun…” The man smiles. “Himmatwali ho! Kashmir ayi ho, akeli?” “Kiyun, nahi aa sakti?” “Kiyun nahi, Memsaheb, lekin koyi atey nahi, is saal to tourist bhi bilkul nahi hain.” Before he completes, a group of tourists indeed arrive suddenly. They need sixteen cups of tea. They will return to some other place tonight. I tell the shop owner to let them have it first; I have no hurry as I shall be staying overnight there. It was 6.30. The fasting of Ramazan has just ended. One, two and more are coming in. I am sitting along with my cup of tea. The shop owner asks, “Memsaheb, khana nahi khayenge?” “Khayenge bhaiya. Lagado khana. Chapati, Dal aur Sabjee.” Kashmiri people love rice. “Are you not afraid, madam?” “Kiyun darenge.” “Dekhiye, Mediawalon poora Kashmir ko atankwadi takma lagake chod diya. Look, the whole world has turned its face from Kashmir out of that fear.” He continues to bare out his suppressed tale of life for long. Once he pauses, I find inside is full of people. One of the young men sitting nearby asks me about where shall I be going tomorrow. I have not yet finalized any plan; so, say that I shall just explore Gulmarg on foot. He says, “I shall take you to Nagin valley. After twenty-two years, the valley has been kept opened for civilians.” I immediately finalize my plan; I shall go with him. Kazimbhai whispers, “Madam, aanjaan ke sath mat jao. Kuch aachha bura ho jaye toh….” I don’t know why, but can’t allow my mind to lose faith in that young man. The faith and the desire to explore an unknown valley have already consented my heart. I okay him. The plan gets finalized instantaneously. He will come by 6 in next morning. He leaves. The shop owner is a middle-aged man. He again starts, “Nothing to be afraid here, madam. Yeh Bharat hamara desh hain, yeh aap ka bhi desh hain. We all were born here. Bachpan se Bharat ko aapna desh jaana aur maana, phir bhi humlog ke sath Pakistan ka naam kiyun barbar jud jata hain. Yes, I agree, there are some places jahan santi ka batabaran nahi hain, but entire Kashmir is not like this. Aur itna atank toh Bharat ka kon kon me hain, hain na? Humlog barbad ho gaye, memsahib. Darte darte humlogka dar bhi khatam ho gaya, morte morte humlog maut ko ristedar ban aliya.” The despair hidden in the rhythm of his dialogue is unable to hide itself. I am sitting silently. I have no answer to offer. Since the beginning of the fear, the despair, the apprehension, the tension, the exclusion of identity, it has been a long time passed by; the rivers of Lidder, Jheelum and Chenub have carried fresh waters of glacial pools of the Himalayas for eras, the soils have redesigned the courses of streams, new lands have formed and some have vanished, and it has all so happened for so long that none still remembers how was it when it all had begun. There is no evidence of the original paths on this beautiful planet; Kashmir issue stands like this too. Beneath the soil gathered under political streams, the native course of the stream has lost itself long back. It just flows and flows on; never knowing where to go, when to take turn and how to flow again.

I have readied myself with a soulful desire to explore Nagin valley. People, who come to visit Kashmir, mostly touch Sonmarg, Gulmarg and Srinagar. Never heard the name even of this valley ever before. While I dream on, the young man appears with a horse. It is not far—just ten kms. There are a few numbers of Army posts. At the first one, one of the Army men asks, “Where shall you be going?” “Nagin valley.” “Okay, you can walk down or take a horse ride.” After observing formalities, we set of journeying into a valley, forbidden for civilian entry through twenty-two years. The trail is amazing. We are walking, the horse follows. The path traverses between numerous mounds, a series of brooks, and through agelessly old trees. It loses itself after almost an hour into a dense forest. Afraid, no, I don’t get afraid at all. Rather, I feel quite light in mind; the stress of yesterday has eased a bit. Crossing the jungle, we come out to a not so wide valley; quietly gaining altitude. A small village is not so afar. A few scattered huts; a pretty different kind of structure, the rood is flat as we mostly find in the plain and can’t remember if I have ever seen such ever in the Himalayas. The LAC is near on the western front as the Army check post conveyed. The village people seem to have a simple life; though I can see them rarely. The young man loves talking; he had lots of dreams, perhaps, still has. He had done graduation; got teacher’s training, awaiting recruitment to start again within a few years. Meanwhile, he takes tourists for horse-ride. 

The sky above is dazzling blue. The meadow is strewn with beautiful tiny yellow, blue, purple, red wild flowers. This is a different Kashmir. I have never seen such a different face of the mountains—stacked in layers like waves on the sea. The virgin nature! Spending an hour or so, we take the path back. On every bend, I look back; they are gesturing me to stay back, spend more time with them. Yes, I am an eternal seeker of far away places; again, at the same time, I am confined to the cages of my fate, my deeds and my bondage. The utter truth of life. Getting blessed with their touches upon my soul, I journey back.

I am returning from the heaven. Yes, it means in all senses; from the heaven I have never been to. This trip has been an unforgettable experience, blended with delight and sorrow, illusions and reality, love and betrayal, faith and disbelief, living and surviving, and knowing truth and unknowing lies—all so finely integrated with life; perhaps, the balance sways more towards sadness. My soul recites on those unforgettable lines of poet, Shamsur Rahaman, ‘The memories, like cobweb, the memories of you, dear; there flows the dirge, wet in tears, like a pensive breeze drying up the soul’…

My soul wishes, prays; for Kashmir.

The tale of the heaven !! (Part I)

Once again, my soul whispers, “Explore the world”; thus, have to descend on the path again. After brief arrangements, it was time to wait for. And, the day came sooner than expected. I start my journey again to Kashmir—the Paradise in the Earth. I have never travelled to the core of Kashmir valley; only seen images and dreamt through the tales. What a wonderful place it is—the land of beauty! Losing into reverie, I remember not when I have fallen asleep. I wake up with an unusual announcement in the flight, “Please do not open the window until asked for.” I can understand it to be a special security advisory. The flight is about to land at Srinagar. I start dreaming again. Kashmir, security, beauty, so more, all jumbling up inside my small brain. While I engage myself in getting out of those entangled thoughts, my flight has already landed.

Coming out of the airport, I find the smiling face of Kazimbhai. “Madam, Namaste!”, he moves on with my luggage once he has finished his brief welcome address. We drive through the city—the road sketching through nicely arrayed colourful houses—and every house has a garden, smaller or larger, adorned with vibrant roses in prime of their bloom. Rose, a simple name, that has fascinated me since my childhood. But it couldn’t have meant closer to its name unless I were in Kashmir. I have been in delight of seeing them in abundance in so colourful, youthful and fragrant varieties. The name gets its true meaning as the beauty honouring its beauty unfolded.

After a quick round of breakfast at a roadside tavern, we move on. The army vehicles are passing by more often. Again, the word “security” start reigning in my mind. We continue to ride with security interrupting my brain and our movement as frequently as our saner senses can tolerate. I have travelled so many times to Ladakh—covering almost every corner of it from every possible road—and even traversed through the long border road along Pangong lake via Chusul and Shayok valley beyond Nubra towards Siachen with special permits, but could never make it through Srinagar side. We shall be going to Sonmarg today.

A faint rain has started drizzling. White clouds are getting smoky beyond the window pane. The earth is hiding behind an opaque mist. Kazimbhai says, “Look, madam, Dal Lake!” A dense mist blankets the surface of the lake. A little ahead, it is little clearer and I can see the lake being cleansed; removing plants and weeds. After a brief pause, raining has again been harsher. Nothing is visible, as if the world has shrunk inside the car and we are driving from nowhere to nowhere without any purpose of experiencing anything, even the time. And, with time frozen within the darkness of shrunken entity, we have driven past miles after miles to reach Sonmarg a little later than expected.

Sonmarg, a small mountain town, with more cars than houses tucked in between the sleeves of a verdant mountainous valley, has been little brighter. The daylight is faint enough though the invisible sun has enough life before retiring for the day. We enter into a small restaurant; it is late lunchtime. The owner is someone between a youth and a man, with an elegant smile rippling upon his breaded face. He has a hotel too for the night to spend. It is indeed a good option for me as I have the plan to stay at Sonmarg after a long hectic journey from Kolkata since early morning. But he informs that Zojila pass will be blocked if snowing continues further. I have planned to cross Zojila a day after to reach Dras, but the information makes me to decide to to move without a halt at Sonmarg. Kazimbhai says it may be quite late to reach Dras as it is already 3.30. We are instantly out on the road—snow and rain together climbing down from sky. As we drive a little away, some snags develop in the car; it will be risky to take a high-altitude journey without getting it repaired. It takes another hour and half to get things done. In the month of June, day is longer enough in Kashmir valley, and on the way, we enjoy the view of the distant valley of Baltal, the entry point for Amarnath cave trekking.

It is around nine, when we have finally reached Dras—the high security military base in Kashmir. I have never expected a very welcoming scene in Dras as it always happens in highlands of the Himalayas; the shops, hotels, houses are all closed and sleeping in darkness. Only option left to us is to knock the Government’s door. The Tourist hut is open, but none is found anywhere. After toiling efforts, we can see a trembling light approaching us through the darkness of the long corridor. The shadow comes closer, opens the window and pops his head out and asks, “Who?” “Tourist, want rooms.” Everything gets arranged soon. A boy with chubby cheeks gets in with a water jug. He keeps it on the table and smiles. Silently asks, “Food?” I am delighted to have such an unexpected boon. “Yes, whatever!” The boy says, “Roti and tea?” “Okay, for me two roti and tea, ask the driver about his choices.” “Kiun baki log nahi khayenge?” “Hum akele hai” A 20 seconds pause has been long enough. Then, he smiles again, “Koi dar nahi. Hum hai na. Jorse awaz denese hum aa jayenge.” Dras is famous for its cold weather. After having roti and tea, I slide into two layers of quilt and blankets.

The dawn breaks at usual time. Opening the window, I can now feel the intensity of the gusty cool wind. There has been nothing significant change in weather. It is still raining incessantly. I see Kazimbhai cleansing the car. I come out on the frozen road. Kazimbhai and I got into a teashop, just opened. I need to explain my plan to him as we have not discussed it in details before; I have not booked anywhere. I propose if we move to Kargil today, but not following the usual Highway; we shall take the road on the left from Ghangrail, which runs through the Aryan villages till Batalik. There are not much of staying options in that route; may only get some village accommodation.

We take the Highway to roam around Dras town and villages around. We drive to Mushku valley. It is that untrodden valley, where Kargil war started in 1999. The valley has been silently laid beneath a tall mountain, Tiger Hill. The mountain got the fame through newspaper and television. Through the valley, another road stretches to Gurez valley in northern most LAC of Kashmir, but has been closed due to security reasons. The valley is fascinatingly beautiful. Verdant field has been activated by the presence of women reaping vegetables. I get off and walk towards them. There have been no expressions on their faces. But I must to speak to them. How are they? I seem to be arriving from an alien land. What an amazement in their eyes; or is it a vacant look that I have misperceived to be amazement? Two ladies are coming down the hills. I keep waiting. Once they have come nearer, I smile. They smile in return. It prompts me to ask, “Where have you been coming from?” They replied patiently, “Up, there.”, showing the top of the mountain. Wild mushrooms grow there. They have collected a few. My natural question, “How are you all?”, stupefies the environment and their faces seem to have hidden behind a curtain. After a long pause, closing the eyebrows, one of the ladies responds, “We are not well at all.” We are so accustomed to listen to mindless utterance of “We are fine” in the cities, something different answer makes me shudder. She continues, “Nothing will be good for us ever. We are destined to live like this. Our children will also live like this.” No, her voice is not trembling. She was talking like a machine, unperturbed by cold wind and mind. “Why; what troubles are there now?” She vacantly looks up to the sky and says, “It’s raining, madam.” Yes, the sky has become densely dark and clouds hovering close to my nose. She asks, “Where have you come from?” “Kolkata” A long batch of children is treading on the narrow mountain path; their uniform tells that they are going to school. It starts raining heavily. We cannot move farther, so has to take the reverse route.

Once back in the car, my thoughts have still been lying in the wide meadow of Mushku valley. Kazimbhai breaks the silence, “None can feel their pains. They stay so close to the border. Fear is their closest neighbour. They are the sole witnesses of Kargil war. But who listens to them? Their testimony carries no worth anywhere. They live like this and die like this. When shells of the intruders started landing during 1999 war, some people died in the field, a few more were injured. Army started evacuating villages. Run, run; but where will they go. Someone has ailing mother in home, children away to school, men working up in the hills; how could they alone flee? Shells hammering; yet was it easy to abandon a home for so many years of toils and memories? None cared for who has lost what, whose son died, whose mother couldn’t leave; children couldn’t understand what was happening and what would happen. Amidst all such events of ignored loses, the village was emptied. Madam, are you listening?” I cannot bear it anymore, “Then?” “What more, the war began; there had been news and debates in the country and world. Who had time to see what happened to them? They were all ravaged.”

My thoughts have travelled to a different world. Is country just a piece of land? Right only? We are now on the road that climbs straight up the mountain from Dras to reach Sankoo in Suru valley via a high-altitude pass. It crosses the village and the lone bridge over an arrogant stream and we are now steadily driving up. On the other side of the scape, I can see the Tiger Hill, Tololing, Mushku valley. The silver stream of Dras is flowing little far. The earth, my dearest blue planet, is so beautiful as I can now see her revolving alike the little elegant ballet dancer with colourful dress. Over the top of Tololing mountain, the curtain of clouds is being gradually lifted to let the late rays of sun shine it gloriously. We are move up, circling around a lone mountain; on one side of path lies a scattered hamlet, classified down with houses on the slope and enclosing it are the steps of cultivable land. The sowing has started. The children are walking back home. A lady is moving up; holding a rope fastened to two calves in one hand and her daughter in school uniform in the other. I waive hands. The kid also waives her hands. She proudly tells that she reads in class 2. She looks at her mother when I offer a few toffees; her mom nods and the smile upon the face of a little girl has wiped all smoky veils from the face of the valley and it is shining in a dazzling golden light. The Tololing mountain starts smiling; the saplings of those newly sown meadow begin to dancing. The azure sky starts showering colours in abundance upon the valley down. Fondling with fistful of such amazing colours I move on; the meadows have grown fresh grasses—perfectly suiting for grazing now—and pink, yellow, blue, purple tiny flowers have covered the slopes of the mountain. My eyes and my camera have no time to relax. Suddenly on a turn, the road vanishes. The giant tale of a glacier has peacefully laid upon the invisible road. The dazzling sunlight has made its surface sufficiently intense to cause blindness. The warmth of the day has generated numerous streams of melting snow—turquoise to blue as they turn into water—moving downwards. Kazim says, “The streams, you see, irrigate the land in natural way; Yeah kudrat ki den hain.” There is no possibility to move farther. We take the reverse route, touching the nearby hamlet, known by a sweet name, ‘Monmon’, to return to Dras again for overnight stay.

The morning in Dras breaks in and its turns into a day soon while rain doesn’t agree to stop. The inaccessibility of yesterday’s route has already impacted the plan I had in mind and needs to be recast. I think it’s better to move to Kargil first. On way lies the Kargil War Memorial. The car has not been well in health since we left Sonmarg. It needs an expert consultation. I am now free to roam around my very familiar Kargil town on foot.

Kargil is neither a big nor a small town.  Raised from the bank of river Suru, Kargil stands arranged in layers—from lower bank to the upper slope of the mountain. It looks deserted today. Shops and markets are closed. People are seen walking silently. I come out to the main market road. The Army and Police patrols are on. A long queue of vehicles is stationed along the road. Whatever a few numbers of cars moving are carrying something like a Govt notice pasted on the windshield. I am negotiating to understand why it is so unusual in my known space of Kargil. I move ahead and ask the policeman on duty if the market is closed today. He only whispers that it will be opened an hour later.

I sit on a vacant staircase in front of a shop—trying to understand things. One vehicle passes through. As it leaves, I notice something on the clean face of the metal road. Blood! Yes, it is blood, I am sure. Something like feathers or cotton soaked in fresh blood is confronting the blackness of the road. My nerve is straightened up. Along the blood-line I start walking; keeping myself alert as it is expected in an always charged environment there. The road takes a right turn some hundred metres ahead. On the left side at the bend, one medical camp has been set up. Two big drums are placed in front of the camp—closer to it, I find both are full of blood-soaked cotton balls. A man passes by holding the hand of his son, perhaps—whispering “Sovanallah”. The Masjid is just a little ahead. There is a large gathering in front of it. The vehicles are coming up to this point. A few people are carrying a young bright boy; completely drenched in blood. Once he is put into a stranded jeep, it speeds fast. And, motionless I stand there to witness repetition of same events in numerous successions. Amidst the coming and going of cars and people, I decide to return. Coming back to hotel, I ask the owner about the events I have witnessed. He speaks on the death of Hazrat Ali, the son-in-law of Nabi Hazarat Mohammad. So long a past! Still, people remember the pain, anguish, the brutal events of life; and they share the pain, silently in self-flogging. The deeper of pain of thousand years that they so soulfully remember and pay tribute. The pain has journeyed through centuries, through veins of body, emotion and faith. The agony of losing the near one, the dearest one, the deep wound of losing the core of love; it erases the wounds and blood of self-flogging. It is not harming self, but sharing the pain that their dearest one endured. My own Tagore, can you tell once again, “Where and when shall the stream of pain will cease to flow? What lies at its end?”

I wonder how patiently, solemnly, heartily and silently such a mass ritual has been performed; sans much ado, sans noise, sans lustre. Only hearts sing the dirge.

(to be continued)

The door !

Gradually climbing the slope of the mountain. The green is vanishing with gaining altitude. It’s around 3 in the afternoon. Time erasing the day. A long walk still awaits; must reach there before darkness descends. Exhaustion—an unbounded space of tiredness—has been spreading upon my body; perhaps, mind too. Yet, not to pause, not to stop walking; I need to tread on. The inescapable certainty of life takes me forward. There is an unwritten norm of trekking in the mountain; bend yourself to lean forward—to keep the balance of body and soul—keeping the face straight. I adhere to it. Quite a far I have climbed, yet a long way to go; shall not take a break as time races quite fast. Suddenly, it blocks. There is no more path ahead. A giant door is facing me. It’s bolted hard. I need to pass through it if to advance. None is there to be seen. Alone I keep waiting—endlessly. The mountain breeze carries a solemn voice—indiscernible if it has reached from the other side of the door or from above—that briefly says, “Wait!”

I wake up from a deep slumber. My throat has choked. Quenching the thirst, I sit idly upon the bed. The mind is still facing ‘the giant closed door’.

So many moments, days, months and years have sped by since then. The door has remained shut. For so many times, I have gone to the Himalayas, walked on those faint lanes along those meandering streams, traversed along those verdant slopes of mountains, where flocks of sheep and goats graze; I have never seen the door again.

Time can break your heart, time can break your knees; it has, perhaps, veiled the door under the events of life. So many forest fires, so many battles of just and unjust, so many onslaughts of tempests and so many decays of soul, it has revealed in between. Then, the Nature’s fury raging over the world; sometime over the dense rain forest of Amazon, or the sweeping flow of locusts from Hindukush; the civil war in Venezuela or the suffocating presence of the mighty State in small hamlets of Uyghurs. The life of man is always shrouded by suspense of events and events suspending the natural flow of human thoughts and action. Everything may not be in personal experience. The daily images of black and white words upon the newspaper still scribble upon the mind. In a nutshell, we have entered the “era of death” in a subtle manner; without responding to or realizing the imprint it has been scripting upon our destiny. Unchained the death roams around us, in whatever form he takes in disguise. The Man and the Nature, together, have come down to the floor for a wide play. God is watching. He created both, with all his precious creative sense, with utmost care; yet both have lost faith in each other, both see the other as enemy. Together they are engaged in a game of destruction—who defeats whom in what manner—in an insatiable competitiveness to secure triumph.

Look, how death is chasing man. Men are fleeing. But where can they flee? Somewhere they cross barbed wire, somewhere by sailing the sea in a canoe—the life is full of illusions, full of mysteries. Death is chasing; run! run faster; death is chasing ceaselessly; it has no hurry as it knows the certainty so well.

Look here; thousands of feet are striding—along the high road, along the rail line. They want to be back home—the secured abode. Who are they? My India, our India. In the words of the great poet, they are the valets of civilization. They have carried the civilization from its natal state to childhood, from childhood to youth and so on. A long procession of them—mason, labourer, porter, peasant, potter, blacksmith and so more; without them nothing moves. They are no more labourers now. They have been confined in a funny cage that neither binds them in love nor frees them from burden. They are “migrant”; how cruel is the civilization that has so long been nursed and loved so passionately by them, but has so calmly disowned them with an outcast tag. How can one be migrant within own country; which has its prosperity in comforting touch of him? Is India no more their country? Thousands of men, women and children are walking between two homes that their fates have planted upon the land, so unforgiving. The procession of ‘migrants’ moves on through aimless roads in an aimless world to an aimless future. So many times, I have heard the educated world singing on a decorated stage, “They are the men, they are the gods; our songs emerge as the hymns to honour them and nothing more. Leaving footsteps upon their pained soul comes the renaissance, the new age of civilization.” But nowhere these people are considered as human. Everywhere, it is “we and they”; like this side and the other of that giant closed door—the dream door of my mind.

Remember that little girl? Upon her little feet, she walked hundreds of miles only to return to her own little space—her home, to her mother and lost childhood. She couldn’t make it; fourteen kilometres had been too long for her feeble body and tender mind. Perhaps, death could not bear to see her pain; he took her away from this shameless world. She was a socially designated ‘migrant child labourer’. Has the civilized, educated, democratic India lost her memories? She was minor and she was labourer too; and you did not know! Your land has a law to protect her, but, how can you? You did not know even that she had ever existed in your land; her death only revealed she had lived a life, unloved and unnoticed; spent her childhood working a child labourer that the land had never known.

The God is smiling. He is seriously laughing now. He is amused to see the fate of the human—His precious creations. His amusement scripts the destiny of man. Men are all migrants to this world. None knows where they come from and where shall they go; they come to an unknown world, spend time, work, earn and learn, and leave the world in similar wretched condition like those migrant labourers. The home in this world is no more a home. Knowing this new place has no meaning now; it loses the sense of belongingness. Leaving all the trivial means of life, he has to return to his home—the abode of peace—how far no one knows. But he has to go, walking miles through aimless street in an aimless world to an aimless future. Once the need is fulfilled, there shall be no longing; nothing to bind you, nothing to care you, severing all bonds of relationship destiny flings you out into the scaring mouth of the passionless time.

I wait on, facing the giant closed door. I shall, perhaps, get the keys soon. Or the door shall open on its own. I keep on waiting patiently.

Before we too into the dust descend....

....Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie....

The suicidal Nature !!

A peculiar thought has been pecking my head since a few days. Naked veneration of criminal acts in the social sphere has been a commonplace experience nowadays. It doesn’t leave a scar anymore; or, maybe, it still does, but a scar upon scar, another above it, and with too many new scars over old signs of wound have only left an indecipherable scribbling upon the mind.

For the endless assault of the Man, the son of the God, the son of the immortal, the loving creation of the God in His own model, the mother Earth has, perhaps, decided to commit suicide. In possible manner she has ensured a death with utter precision.

Oh, what a new sailing of thoughts! Does the earth have life? Isn’t only a huge ball of soil? The living being, trees and plants, the entire animal kingdom, they are only alive, isn’t it?

Hearing this, a roll of laughter rises and sweeps. Wind loses sense in her giggling spree. People say, it’s Nor’wester. Hearing it, the spell of laughter intensifies—96 kmph. The euphoria causes tears to descend from the eyes of the Sun and turns into clouds in its own warmth. Those dark clouds engage with the joyful wind for a wild game to begin. People start saying, “It’s thunderstorm!”

The language is not perceivable to man; it’s nature’s own. How can man understand it? At the end of the storm and the rain, people—the learned lot—again return to their own sphere of daily errands. What a great expanse of work they have? To live, to earn to live, to run to earn, to take care of the loved ones and one’s loves; so many things in the list indeed. In pursuit of more to more, need to surplus, ease to enough and primary to luxury, the necessity runs in a blind path. Then, the tale is all so familiar—of a vagabond endlessly roaming to find himself back home. But, if every life turns out to be taking the wrong path, then what will be the destiny of life itself in the web of illusory paths? No, to think of all this nonsense, if I fall back? Everyone will march ahead, Oh, what will be my fate? We all are citizen of this planet, so all are civilized; since before we had finished our spoon-feeding, we have read so many books, still reading; so are all educated too. Then, how much we earn make how powerful we are.

The fun begins here. In the schooling days, we used to memorise tables—two and two makes four—the first message of the universal truth. It is an eternal truth; none can change it. In life of those educated folks, there is a long spell of time left even after enough to survive. And, in such luxury, he continues to complicate a simple thing and teaches his mind to accept such wrong interpretation. Which is simple in its core gets a complex embodiment in his thoughts and in this process, his mind forgets to interpret anything simple and gets trapped in an illusory complex world. It seeks pleasure in making everything complex and in chasing endlessly what is incomprehensible and engages itself in more sinful acts.

In today’s world, such class of people has grown into an unimaginable mass. Added to it is their crude ambition—the single mission to earn money by whatever means possible. Apart from all these, there has been another sign of disease prevailing since a long time past; to abandon the memories of the past and the existence of the past itself. Funnier is that they don’t feel ashamed to brag about it.

In the process of learning and earning, the human has become modern; and from modern to ultramodern. While pursuing a new ill-conceived philosophy of life, he allows the treasures of the past, which would have guided his conscience in life before, to be left ignored. The faculty, which awarded them with the pride of supremacy over all living beings, is no more fundamentally existing. The time has come to admit this utter truth.

Let us look back to our roots. The Supreme God uttered, “O man, you are my best creation. Let this earth be your stage for divine pleasure. I have created this earth with all the finest things of the Heaven, adorned it with the nicest creations of mine; and these are all for you. You be the master and guardian of this fascinating place. The silence of forest, chirping of birds, meandering of streams, shining meadows, lofty mountains, endless oceans and joyful breeze are all for you; you explore it to the fullest and once your pleasure is fulfilled on your sojourn to this place, you come back to me bestowing the following generations to inherit it and let the cycle go on endlessly with your wishes.”

With all rights and might, they reached the earth; with the blessings of the Lord, they established their authority to protect it, care it and be in delight with it. Through explorations they progressed with knowledge and with knowledge they advanced with needs and with needs they learnt to exploit; they were no more contended with fallen branches of tree, they needed more wood, so started cutting tree, felling it and clearing the forested space for growing crops and building houses. Perhaps, this was the first step of civilization they would call it. Then they acquired the knowledge of lighting fire, learnt to make blunt stone weapons, pottery, use of copper, bronze and iron; with advancing through ages, the weapons became sharper, so were their needs and greed.

To communicate with each other, they started using different sounds to interpret different expressions; then they mastered it to express their emotions through oral means. They had already begun to use leaves and hides for clothing and gradually learnt to weave cloth with cotton, silk and jute. Where did they acquire the sense of shame from and to cover themselves? Shame became a natural sense with the progress of civilization, perhaps. In order to protect the clan and to facilitate hunting, they started forming larger clan; they learned to form larger community by clubbing clans together to match the demand for more men and women in newly learnt agriculture and also to protect the acquired knowledge and resources. The community had a collective sharing with access for every individual member to it. The progress had also awarded luxury of time to the knowledgeable communities; they no longer needed to spend longer time for hunting, fishing, cultivating and collecting of wood and fruits with advanced tools in hand. They started spending surplus time for thinking—some good and some bad. Good thoughts escalated the advancement of knowledge, analysis of physical observations and development of livelihood while bad thoughts brought new knowledge of coercion. And, bad thoughts were more acceptable to many communities as it awarded them with opportunities to raid the less privileged communities, loot the resources and food, abduct men and women for slavery. The bandit communities had advantages of two kinds; they had resources for subsistence without losing their own precious time and with more surplus time they went on spending it on thinking more—some good and some bad again. The good thoughts again liberated the confines of bad thoughts and bad thoughts emboldened the coercive sense in its action. The less privileged ones settled the score by submitting to the privileged ones and the later became the rulers. But the bad thoughts did not stop to progress even with such settled submission. The rulers continued to oppress the others no more to meet their subsistence needs, but for securing the pervasive greed and pleasure. From such time, perhaps, the disrespect for the God had been gaining ground.

Perhaps, the Lord also thought, “Oh, he is still a child. He will learn once grown up.” O Lord, are you not omniscient; didn’t you even perceive that everything wouldn’t change with maturing through age?  In a misplace affection, He simply failed to embrace the simple truth. Human civilization went on progressing with dreams and wishes of the mankind leaving aside what the Lord had said to them and their paths of life were far deviated from the one they had begun with. They wanted to be powerful, protector and even immortal. They started thinking that they are the gods. And the sense of progress had been so overpowering that it went on creating more gods amongst themselves to suit their dreams and deeds.

Today’s civilization is not a single day creation. It has evolved through diverse forms and structures with time accompanying. Amidst numerous cycles of progress are secreted so many treacheries, so much coercion and so denser evil thoughts. And, the Lord has seen it all in His all inertness. Perhaps, the delight of the illusions of His own creations prevented Him to act. He remained passive while man, His most precious creation, continued to rapidly destroy the world, He created with so much finery. Humans, in the whirlpool of evolution of unbridled greed and need, had also allowed themselves to become muted slaves of the civilization—their own creation. They have gradually turned into machines with no more pleasure in mind, no more compassion in soul, no more exploration in thought and no more expression in sharing. They only run and run; knowing not to where and perceiving not why. They run for more and more and more; realizing not where stands the limit, enough. In the process of acquiring more and more, they have dissected the earth from all sides; peeling off her soft skin, piercing her soul, tearing apart the body and baring it naked with removal of every bit of cover she had. On the operation table, she continued to be dismembered with utter sadism. What more, man, do you want of her that you think she has still hidden from your eyes, which will usher you with more wealth and more power? Do you seek to be the Supreme God? Man is mortal, so are all other living beings. Whatever little and long time one gets in life, one has to abandon it once the day is done. Do you forget it completely?

In the pursuit of our evil thoughts, we have progressed further from machines to robotic monsters. Now, let us look at what wisdom of knowledge—the good thoughts—have laid open before us. Those great thinkers—philosophers, sages, scientists—all agree on this simple matter and they do agree naturally as they are great. The truth that they agree is none is creating anything in this world. Whatever man thinks to have invented or discovered have already been there but unexplored till then. The knowledge is only to explore, to know the knowable and what is knowable is already there. Nothing is knowable if it is not existing; the comprehension of human is only bound by the knowledge and nothing beyond. Whoever knows it, discovers it for the human appreciation. The enlightenment of such knowledge shall be unending unless the dark clouds of pride encompass it. Through the path of delight, man will move on while offering the acquired knowledge till time permits to enable the future generations to complete the path. The path of exploration evolves in a cycle of knowing, knowing more and knowing the most.

The simple walks of life have no more been simple. The sons of man, in whose welfare the Lord created this earth with so much of passion, have only bonded slaves of their own civilization. There is no delight in them, neither is any ecstasy in exploration nor any passion to enlighten own soul. Everything is buyable in this civilization. Emotions have become saleable commodity. The buy happiness, love, compassion, hatred, oppression, suppression, intrusion, exclusion; everything they buy and sell. The market is always open. We, the slaves, sit kneel-bent beneath the feet of the giant civilization and do whatever the civilization dictates us to do. Tearing the soul of the globe, can you hear the shrill yelling of the oppressed, oh the poor machines? Or have you all become deaf? The whole expanse of creations of Nature mother have been wailing; fervently appealing to mother Nature to let them survive, a simple wish to live in peace and delight through the little span of life—all abjectly oppressed by human civilization. Nature tries to console them, sometimes makes human to also realize what the mess their civilization has made; but the giant of the progress has become so mighty that it ignores Nature’s motherly advices, rather mocks at her. The knowledge has become its slave; Science, the sharpest on the shelf, has been chained to abide by his every diktat for being a little arrogant earlier. The wishes of the civilization are soon obliged by Science under duress; the confinement has made it dispassionate executor. Encashing the affection of Nature, human civilization has now a mission to destroy her completely.

The slaves—humans—only await the direction of the monster. For an intensive servitude to its own for a long time, the finer senses have all been filled with utter pessimism. They cannot think anything beyond what is dictated by the monster. The dark energy of negativity has veiled the sweetness of freedom, pleasure of optimism and flight of dreams. The darkness has been spreading fast, coming down from all sides to surround the dying creations at the merciless hand of the monster.

Through ages of such ruthless oppression and torture, Nature has now lost all hopes in any resurrection of optimism in human senses. She cannot endure the torture anymore, while there is no path left for her to escape from the ordeal. She has nothing left but to commit suicide; to secure a peaceful death at least.

The machines, oh the slaves of the monster! Look at her; once for a last time, see how wretched, naked, hapless, she lies—gasping with uneven long breath. Do you still recall the image of your mother in her dying face? A dissected body of your mother is lying bare under the feet of your master and you continue to hit and slash aimlessly all over her unclothed body only to oblige the master. Do you all hear, man? If your slaved soul still bears the last drop of conscience, just revolt, break the chain and protect your mother; perhaps, this would be last chance to let her be alive, to prevent her from committing suicide. Else He will. The matricide is the greatest sin and the sentence is the harshest too.

Remember, the signal of the suicidal nature is now evident in the air, the sky and everywhere. He hears. He has arisen from sleep—from the bondage of affection, the faith in His own creations. His patience has been broken.

The morning unlocked !

We, who have completed five decades of life, have unknowingly built an arcade of playhouse. It has a stairway circling down to our forgotten past. Availing such stairs, often I reach to the days of my childhood; as it happened this morning.  The world is now seethed into a season of panic and none knows how long will it continue to reign our mind and dream. In an elegant morning today, I could see the sparkling red crest of the Gulmohar tree from my attic: as if whispering something to someone while gently leaning against an azure sky, swaying her crimson head in wild ecstasy, for reasons unguessable. In no way, Corona could scare me anymore and I stepped out of home—fearlessly delightful—wearing mask and holding my favourite camera in hand. A little far along the path, the placid pool was waiting for me, surrounded by myriad wild bushes and shrubs. It was an unexpected meet after nearly two and half months. They enquired, “How are you? Haven’t seen for so long a time, have you forgotten the path?” What should I say? It filled my heart and face only with a long smile. Suddenly I noticed some curious movement in the pool. Wow! What’s it? A whitespot fish; yes, another one following; suspending tail-wagging both were staring straight at me with all three eyes. After how many years I could see them; I again raced down through that stairs to my childhood days. I couldn’t remember even a single day when I couldn’t see them on my way to the school. In those good old days, they were found to be in large schools almost in every pond and pool. Around them, water spiders would show amazing skills of skiing with their wide four legs.

Oh, what’s that? A water snail was coming nearer floating upon the rippling face of the pool; as if a water-coloured image turned alive with a magical touch of life gifted. As it came closer, the whitespots moved little behind to make it pass. They were also watching the snail, perhaps. The snail got stuck in a wavy branch of hyacinth. Whitespots were unable to see it anymore for the leaves obstructing the view. They came forward to peep through the leaves. To view it clearly, I too stooped down and could see another snail already got tangled there. I guessed if the earlier snail had sent the message out thorough the gentle breeze and so the later one floated in through dancing waves. Seeing two snails together, gossiping along those two whtespots vanished somewhere. Amidst all so dream events confining me to the poolside, I hadn’t had the tryst with the Gulmohar anymore.

O Light !!

Upon the wings of dancing swans of light !