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 tale of a mother !

I am floating on the sea today. For the first time in my life, I have boarded a ship. Yes, believe me, not a boat, not a yacht, not a cruise, but a real ship—just as we see in a picture book—a giant ship indeed. This time, I have decided to travel to Diglipur, the northern most point of Andaman and Nicobar Islands, following the sea route.

Well, let me come back to what I am truly eager to narrate. It’s been a pretty anxious waiting; have already reached the Haddo Port by an hour ahead.  After completion of formalities, I am granted the access to the boarding jetty. The dazzlingly illuminated ship awaits me with intense suspense. The silver rays—slipping down her milky-white satin skin—enhance her beauty to as immaculate as of the White Queen in my childhood book.  I gaze upon for countless moments---dreaming about her beauty and my first voyage, never perceiving which prevails what.

I am following the queue. The Inspector meets me and greets me smilingly at the boarding gate. And, for the first time in my life, I am stepping in a ship of my dream. The passage leads me to a large hall—full of luggage cages resting upon the walls from the floor to the ceiling—with stairs climbing up from one end. I leave my luggage there and take the stairs. In the first floor, another gentleman greets me. His smiling face inspires me to learn about a critical path leading finally to reach my space in the ship. “Please take the stairs up, cross the Hall diagonally, take the left exit, then you get another stairway, climb up, then you reach the deck, take the right narrow sideway, move to the front, turn left before the Captain’s cabin, your cabin should be there on the left first”, he completes as fluently as the ocean wave flow in a gentle summer noon. I thank him and proceed. The specious Dining Hall inspects me with much curiosity. I forget to greet her as I patiently continue to recite on the path explained by the gentlemen. I keep on climbing up through a slender stairway jutting out over the dancing waves of the ocean, some 40-50 meters below. The patience and endurance always pay and, within infinite time of life, I reach my home on the sea.

It is as neat as my own room at home and as cute as the one of my son. One wide window on the side reveals the world beyond the room. The golden rays of halogen lights of the port peep through. Two single beds are lying calmly with white sheets gracefully spread upon. The other passenger is yet to come, and, I’m not sure, if anyone would ever. Leaving my small luggage there, I come out on the deck—wide with cushioned chairs placed on the middle wall facing the front. I sit upon one.

I used to read lots of fables, like many other children of our time. The Prince crosses seven seas and thirteen rivers to rescue the Princess; the King of the land didn’t have ships, perhaps. So, the Prince had to fly, riding upon the birds, Byangoma Byangami. I used to ponder, if I hadn’t had the privilege of having those caring birds with me even, I would be sailing the course in a large ship—a shining sacred white ship with white sails fluttering.

It’s a dream come through. I am in a dilemma if it is a dream or a reality, and between the battle of dreaming and undreaming or the real and the unreal, I hear the cry of the siren of the ship. I stare on the illuminated jetty slowly drifting away and I find myself alone on the deck, on the sea, in a lone night with a lone moon only accompanying me. The port appears now like an elegant star subtly placed upon a darkened sky. It is almost 9.18 pm and ocean breeze is quite chilly in later half of January. I take the way back to my cabin.

My eyes get a surprised look of an idle bag lying upon the table in my cabin. Hesitatingly I think if I have entered into the right cabin. “Madam, can I come in?”, someone says from behind. I take an 180 degree turn to find a gentleman with two security personnel standing just outside the cabin door. One of his security explains, how urgent business his Sir has in compelling him to go for a hasty boarding onto the ship. It’s nothing for me to decide as the cabin is a two-bedded one and another person is supposed to be there, yet the gentleman’s fervent request appears as if his access to the cabin depends only upon my wishes.

He is undoubtedly a perfect gentleman. He apologetically conveys the compulsion of his sudden arrival owing to attending the mandatory Annual Medical Check up at Port Blair. So long I try to explain that there’s nothing to be sorry about, he continues to feel that he has caused much inconveniences for me. He works as a Pilot in Indian Navy. He is returning to Diglipur, his current official place of posting.

I wake up from a deep sleep as the shrill sound of siren tears apart the peace of the dawn. The light is yet faint; a cool ocean breeze surrounds me in the deck with utmost care. Holing the railing I look down. The Ship is moored to a huge jetty. I whisper to myself, “Oh I see, it’s Mayabundar!”

A few more hours to spend in the Coral Queen—a cute name of the ship. Being back to the cabin, I find the gentleman has also woken up. He greets me, so do I. He takes me to an unforgettable tour to each of the amazing places within the ship—the slender mast standing tall like the Ochterlony Monument of my lovely city, the giant anchors in the mooring cabin, the frontal deck in the uppermost layer for exclusive use of the crews, the front lights, the fog lights, the life jackets and boats hanging tenderly from the outer walls, the wheels of ropes—treasuring all so fascinatingly new experiences in my life as my dreams of childhood travel along. He explains how such are used and when, in such a well-articulated manner, that my ears can’t freeze for a moment.  Then we move to the space where the soul of the ship resides—the Pilot’s cabin. The semi-circular frontal side is glass-covered, wide enough to accommodate a dozen of people, seating side by side. The navigation wheel is just like as I saw in my childhood book. Through all modernity in saturating the era, it has maintained its ancestral stature and look. The large mechanical compass gently sleeps in the middle of the table—romantically hugged by two electronic compasses. The archaic machine still helps in the event of any system failure of the sophisticated ones or when power supply gets snapped. In the midst of seeing and learning, the Pilot Sir points to a faint line of land dancing upon the emerald waves of Andaman Sea. Does Diglipur await me so passionately? I keep on looking for another endless time, sailing through the moments, interwoven in dreams and reality. The Ross and Smith islands are still connected by the sandbar, the Saddle peak is still capped by a white feather of clouds, the hump of the rocky island is still wet by kisses of morning dew.

“Didi, please come this side”, someone calls me in pure Bengali. Yes, Dipankar has already reached the Ariel Bay port to receive me. Within half an hour, I find myself settled in cosiness of the Turtle House—my home for a four days’ vacation. I have come to meet those distant guests, who would be swimming past a few thousand miles to arrive the desolate shore of Diglipur only to glorify the paths of creations, perhaps. Why do they travel so long? Just to feel mirth in attaining the motherhood; so far in a place, with so much of struggle offered and with so much of determination demanded? I wonder if it’s an allurement of life or a harsh spell of destiny that drives a turtle mother to swim for months to reach here, lay eggs and then swim back for her remote home again.

There are a few species of turtles—green turtle, hawksbill, leatherback, loggerhead and olive ridley—that travel to Andaman for breeding the new generation; they ride over the high tide waves to reach the shore, spend just an hour to lay eggs, and riding over the same receding waves, they swim back to the sea for travelling another thousand miles of journey. The mothers never know if their babies will crawl back to the sea, and how many of them will survive the traps of life; the giant creatures in the sea, learning what to eat and what not, miles of travel through undersea water—somewhere hot, somewhere cold—and finding the home neither they have been to nor seen in life; how pawned is a life by such an inexplicable law of nature that neither liberates them from a longing for the unknown home nor severs the bond of life from the cycle of creations.  None knows who has scripted the commandments for them and why so, in such a crude betrayal of destiny. I bear a dream to meet them—those ill-fated mothers; and I have come only to meet them this time.

There is a strict emergency imposed on the beach. The tourists are not allowed to enter into a few specified beaches at night without explicit permission issued by the Forest officials. In that special moment, the mothers, if scared, shall neither venture into the shore to lay eggs nor be able to keep them alive too for long. I say it is a special moment as the process of laying of eggs depends on numerous laws of nature. It seldom takes place in daytime. There must be a high tide in the night to help the mothers to stride on a sandy beach just wet enough to hold the eggs, and there must be a suitable place for each mother to lay as many as 100 to 150 eggs in complete peace of mind. After laying eggs, they cover it with sand; then slowly grovel down to the sea without looking back even for a single moment. What a strange rule that dictates their fate to define itself? The purest bond has to be severed when the moist skin of the eggs is yet to harden up. The unborn child, shall have to traverse through an unknown meadow of events of life and to sacrifice the life to unfold itself in knowing it, fulfilling it, enriching it and defining it as it would swim though thousand miles of a journey and of dreams to meet their unseen mothers.

All these happen just in an hour or so as the high tide doesn’t last for a longer time. My voyage to this lesser known part of North Andaman is only to enrich myself with an experience of such unimaginable events of life. It’s been anxious waiting through the day, and through a stoic evening. Time flies stealthily as do my wishes incessantly breaking upon my soul. Only whispers flow from ears to ears; yes, they are coming.

I heard that these species of turtles return to the place for laying eggs where they were once born. It is the tradition, and through ages, they stick to an unscripted rule of the Nature. The mother turtles come from Australia mainly. The forest officials stamp “Australia” on the back of the new-born turtles before their departure to the sea. The mothers who come now mostly carry the mark “Australia” on their back, only to confirm the fact that they indeed were born here. What a magical rule of Nature! Through endless span of time, the mothers make a strenuous journey of a few thousand miles to lay their eggs; only to leave seeds of their creations to prosper in utter nativity. And, they travel back with wet eyes; silently, yet in graceful, dignified and proud manner of attaining the bliss of the motherhood, in a rarest process of creativity. I wonder and between the flowing thoughts, something chokes my throat. Unknowingly, my eyes are filled with tears. I fail to perceive, is it for the pain they bear or the spirit of an infallible mother that outshines the pride of the mightiest lords of the Heaven.

At around 9.30 in the night, I fetch myself to the beach. I whisper in the ears of the Lord, “I shall have a tryst with a mother who bears a complete faith within to leave behind her unborn babies in the care of Mother Nature after a brief sojourn to this distant land.”

A gentle breeze is blowing from the east. The ringing tune of waves has turned into a gargling sound now. The Forest officials have all dispersed in a wide beach. In dim light of my cell phone, I glance upon the shore, and the clock, in one full swing. The voice trembles. Will they come? Will they? At around 11 in the night, I notice some restiveness in those silhouetted movements of the forest officials on the beach. One of them, requests everyone to retreat from the waterline. Are they coming? Yes, she is! Two strings of rays of cell phones are following her linear progress through the wet face of a sandy beach. Thousand miles she has travelled to leave her wishes to be fulfilled in this precious place of the world! After a while, her nervous steps take refuge to a long pause. Holding our breath, we allow our hearts to beat as faintly as it doesn’t break the silence. Only rays of two cell phones are visibly active on this wide beach. We wait patiently to witness an eternal truth so intensely secreted in the texture of creations. Then, the precious moment comes. She lays two eggs in her first release; yes, two together. The breathlessness is choking the flow of time in suspense of events. In a deserted beach, only a few people are witnessing the purest form of creation, while the ocean, the moon, the wind, and the dark sky shower their blessings upon her; to the indomitable spirit of a mother. Never ever have I felt such a purity of love expressed so soulfully for a mother in this heartless world.

The forest officials are progressively removing the gathered sand from the laying location. I can see her face now. The delight in offering her best creation upon the lap of the Nature and the modesty of pride in defeating all adversities have turned her face into an angelic one. The glimmers of a satisfying motherhood are emanating even in the darkest corner of the world. What are those sparkling dots in corner of those tiny eyes? I wonder and I stoop down. Is she crying? Is she crying in pain—of traversing a path of destiny, of orphaning the babies once born, of anxieties of their wellbeing—or in the divine pleasure of motherhood? I place my palm gently upon her wet sand-strewn back. Her angelic face bears the signature of delight—an elegant smile—while the teardrops are still dangling upon her half-closed eyes. I listen to her whispers, “Yes, I have become a mother!” A brief pause intervenes and she, perhaps, whispers again. Perhaps, she prays for the wellbeing of her babies; I don’t know, if it’s been an expression of unbearable pain too.

She has completed what she has to. She is returning; not to return again, without even looking behind. Slowly, she creeps on; towards those crashing waves, to an ocean full of contentment, to an abode that have nurtured her dreams to prosper. She proceeds on with her fatigued steps narrowing the distance between the land and the water, her dreams and, her existence and that of her children. She travels back along the path that her unborn babies will follow in a near future.