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.