Ida of May: One last ‘revolution’ of our lifetime

Almost two decades ago, I met a well-qualified man as my prospective groom. A suave, MNC-paid, passport-stamped groom ‘allowing girl to work after marriage’ was a priced catch for middle-class families. We were left in a room with our respective siblings for a ‘bhalo kore chenashona kore nao’ (know each other better) session and I was jittery inside, for I did not want to be here in the first place. As we stumbled through the ‘conversation’, he made a move that was obvious on his part, and fatal on mine – he asked me if I have any question. Unwittingly, it fanned the ‘khurafat’, as my sister defines it, in me. “Since you wish to marry a working lady, there can be days when she comes home later than you. Will you be comfortable making her a cup of tea?”

I could hear my heartbeat as I uttered those words, but the few second silence after the question was more deafening. “I stay alone in Bangalore and I cook for myself.” More than satisfying me, it pricked. “But there is a difference between cooking for yourself and making tea for your wife, don’t you think so?” Is silence always golden? “I knew this question will arise, but I don’t have an answer to this.” Though his answer was inadequate, I appreciate his honesty. At the same time, it told me volumes about how we are fed with certain stereotypes since birth – they become such deep-rooted beliefs that even circumstances fail to shake them off. Just like the beliefs that women are not fit to vote or not fit to work in formal environments which took years of struggle to be where we are today. However, innumerable memes doing rounds in social media saying that lockdown is likely to make more men learn cooking than feminism tell the present is anything but the destination.

Looking back, we can see how industrialisation drew the man out to the factories from their homes. This changed the traditional role of men and women in an agrarian society where women shouldered a fair share of physical labour. Industrialisation had upset that balance by attaching ‘wage’ as the benchmark of the value the service provided. One may wonder why I am alluding to ‘continental’ developments only. Well, because post-independence, with our travails as an economy, the society began to consider that attaining a wage-based employment opportunity is the mark of an ‘empowered’ woman. As we observe a locked up ‘May Day’ this year to commemorate the thousands who took to streets in the US and the UK more than a century ago, it is probably time to think through this – why is that every act of ‘empowerment’ leads us outside home? And if that outer world is so endearing or enchanting, then why is that men work hard to ‘provide’ for those at home?

All our lives we struggled to achieve equality by trying to get where men have already reached, and rarely has the world tried the other way round. I wonder why are some spaces such as the kitchen and the human in the cradle, still ‘meant for women’ and rearing, training, tending are ‘feminine’ qualities. Does the child doesn’t belong to the man or he doesn’t feel hungry? Such are the times when I want to go back to the man and ask how would people like him would feel if one fine morning, they find cooking and childrearing have become ‘economic’ activities. I know answers like some women successfully monetising these spaces and men are ‘voluntarily’ entering kitchens and rocking cradles, but well, do they take pride in their actions? Do they flaunt their nappy-changing skills as much as their negotiating acumen that their corporate profile calls for? Will they leave jobs for their children like the mothers now do, or will intersperse the client meetings with options for dinner and breakfast menus?

On just another ‘May Day’, I would love to know, before we all send out mayday calls to the outer space.

India and the demo(no)cracy

First they came for the Communists

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me

And there was no one left

To speak out for me

The above lines, written around the time India won independence, are in vogue these days, given they well-summarise the time we are living in and are prescient of our future, if we chose to believe the semblance of sanity.

When Mohd. Akhlaq was killed by a mob based on a rumour that he has stored beef in his house, I chose to dismiss it as a stray incident. After all, subjugating and trampling the marginalised – economically weak, or performing a role one is considered socially or culturally unfit for, or practicing a particular religion – was definitely low, but not unheard of. In a democracy of more than a billion people, no wonder there will be a handful black sheep deviating from the norm.

What I see today is aberrations becoming the norm. The report of people being booked for pro-Pakistan slogan after a cricket match was particularly worrying – they won because they played well, what is seditious in it? Cows cannot be slaughtered because that is cruelty towards the animal. I hope people proposing these laws have taken an objective look at the dairy farms, certain practices there to ensure the cow is milked are far more atrocious than killing it. Invariably, it is the lower-income group of the society, with their limited means to access pricier-than-gold pulses and other protein sources, is hit by the double whammy – loss of food and livelihood, without being provided with any alternative for either of the loss (remember those who were beaten for skinning a dead cow?).

And all this when people of the ‘majority’ makes fun of someone’s faith, and kills the person because his religion kind of calls for it.

Someone on the social media suggested that at this rate, civil war will be the ultimate outcome. If any ‘civil’ stuff is left until then – I thought. People have forgot what civility is, aping their political masters and taking pride in hurling abuses at the slightest or no pretext; civil society, in spite of the alleged irregularities, is under duress like never before; and may be sooner than we realise, civil rights may well head for the exclusive realm of dictionaries and academic discourses.

Some say people are now releasing their pent-up frustration with previous governments who they accuse of appeasing minorities (reading “Muslims” won’t harm either) and these protests are only maligning the country’s image. How innocent!! Has the country done itself any good by allowing these ghastly events to happen? In remaining silent against the blatant acts of mindless violence, this government may be accused of being an accomplice to demonising democracy – in failing to protect the sidelined countrymen, it fails the very mandate that brought the government to power. I have serious reservations in accepting this act of and attempts to silence: This reign of terror should not continue, and certainly not in my name.

It was just a matter of time that the educated common man would voice his/her frustration at this shrinking space for everything. The ‘NotInMyName’ event held across many cities in India and a couple of other places across the world stems from the concern of a leaving our children into a simmering cauldron of hatred. All I can hope is that those who are in ‘power’ realise that their unscrupulous manipulation for political gain may someday bring its ill to their doorstep as well. That to let or make people fight for the sake of ballots may not be enough to save their image of do-gooder or do any good to the generations to come. 

First trek of a 30+ obese (cont'd)

The people on hills also remind us how in cities, we have distanced ourselves from simple solutions. For example, instead of relying on medicines, the first treatment of mountain sickness in those areas is drinking little water frequently. Or, walking in the forest, stack flat pieces of rock to make your very own GPS. Govind was prompt to show us such stacks that are frequently used by locals and trekkers to find a way back to the starting point if they feel waylaid by the forest. 

Marking the trail to avoid getting lost in the jungle

The locals have unique ways of cohabiting with animals. If a grizzly bear runs towards us, we might look for a firearm or may be at our wits end for a solution, but the simplest way is running down the hill. Why? Because running down will bring the bear’s hair on his face, and eyes, and when he cannot see you, he’ll stop running. Or best, travel with a woman. Bears (I hope irrespective of sex) do not attack a woman, so during winters when bears come down to localities, it is the ladies of the houses who open the doors in the morning. Stories of a bear walking out of courtyard under such circumstances are common and amusing, needless to say.

It is intriguing to see how spending one night on the banks of that jungle-shored lake could make people immensely creative. During the morning tea, one of our teammates said that a bear was rubbing its weight on his tent’s rope and when he crackled an empty plastic water bottle, it ran away. Well, I heard some sound at night (my limbs had rebelled for making them walk equaling a year in a day and I just couldn’t sleep) but it can be a jackal or a dog as well, for locality is not much far. To validate that it was indeed a bear and no less, he showed us marks on the extra food away from the kitchen tent. And then there was Govind, with his tale of tiger and how he and his fellow guide laid breathless as the tiger tiptoed a group of students sleeping outside their tents.

Setting up the campsite at Chopta

The next day we were in Chopta, camping on an open knoll, surrounded by winding roads to Tunganath temple, and valley at a distance. When the tents were being set, I saw a stone-wall and a few local people and herds of animal beyond it. After lunch and a nap, when other team members went for a ‘conditioning’ walk, I tagged along with my husband to explore the stone-walled settlement. 

We met Rajnath Singh (not our Union Home Minister), who owns the biggest herd of goats, lambs, and buffalos in the three-room ‘village’ (if you call it so). Every year, they come up in summers from villages downhill to get better grazing ground for the cattle, until winter sets in. So, why do you go down in winters, because of snow? Not the snow, he says, the snow leopard.

Singhji and his herd: Time to go home babies!

Whoa! So they exist, I glanced at my husband, who was busy taking his shoe-lace out from the mouth of one of the goats, ‘the lazy rouge’ we had named it. The snow leopards, largely elusive, also hunt the dogs on guard and so, unlike a fancy belt as we use in cities, dogs here have a solid metallic roundel around their neck with sharp projections, enough to injure the leopard if not kill it.

“Winters are approaching; this is the time when the leopards come down looking for food. We will leave for our village next week,” Singh said, almost presciently.

Entering world's highest Shiva temple

Mighty Himalayas from Tunganath temple

We were heading to Tunganath and Chandrashila next morning at 5:30am when the sun had just started snoozing its alarm. I looked at homes where preparations were going on to bring out the animals of their sheds. It was a long walk today, so Govind suggested I take a pony up to the temple. My legs had still not recovered and the schedule was time-bound, and as the only lady in the team, I can take some advantage, so I obliged.

Tunganath was a comfortable ride and the view on the way was mesmerizing – the peeking Nanda Devi, Kedar dome and Meru-Sumeru had lined up to allow us bask in their glory. We sipped tea at a stall owned by a local fluent in Bengali, and just before the temple, a local guest house has advertised in Bengali. Since childhood I was taught to feel proud being a Bengali, a travel-freak clan; at 12,000+ feet above sea level, I realised what it means.

On the edge of fact and fiction

I had thought to talk a little more to Mr. Singh and his family as our team readies to leave Chopta. But to my surprise, that settlement was empty, as if they’ve vanished overnight. The rooms were barren, doors ajar, the animals gone, and the dogs’ cuffs were off. I looked for one person who could tell me why these people went away, but couldn’t find any. I was sad not only because it was the last day of an arduous ‘task’ but I’m leaving behind stories unheard.

Couldn't say "Goodbye" to the rogue

The sudden disappearance of the settlers had confused both of us; there could be no possible reason, except for… I stopped short of uttering it, but I remember last night’s relay barking of dogs, the sound moving far and near in a circle, and the sound of an animal chomping, just outside our tent, even in half-dazed sleep. It could be a bear, but it could be, yes, a snow leopard; I can never be sure of what it was because I cautiously followed the safety rules. In the mountains, they say, you should always obey its rules and this was one time I cannot but regret doing so.

At leisure: two senior most team members

Are you wondering what happened to Ranveer Singh and Chandrataal? Let’s save it for another day.

First trek of a 30+ obese

I love movies, I swear by them and despite their compelling make-believe world, cinema’s semblance to reality often leave an impression on me. I was desperate to marry Arvind Swami (even as a minor, oblivious of the repercussions of marriage, of course) and a chance to watch him on screen was similar to travelling to moon and back. Like million other girls across the world, my heart too skipped a few beats when Shahrukh waved his hands at Kajol or Amir Khan crooned ‘Pehla Nasha’. So, no wonder when a suave Ranveer Singh in Lootera mentioned witnessing Chandrataal as Varun’s last wish, I hardly realised my fingers had started moving on the phone’s keypad.

What I saw left me dumbstruck..!! The sight of a huge lake filled with crystal water reflecting the sky, surrounded by rugged mountains was alluring. At once, I felt drawn towards it, as if answering to its summons. The next few days I looked for the best travel options. What emerged was exhilarating to my husband, but is it really possible for an ‘obese’ like me to ‘trek’ all the way up to 14,000+ feet? He never told me whether it was askance or misery manifested on my face that prompted him (a certified rock climber and experienced trekker, mind you) to argue that trekking is definitely the best way.

And so the next obvious task was to scout for an affordable group. I was happy, for the first time I’m watching this commotion called ‘planning’ from a safe distance – I don’t know a single alphabet of trekking other than the names Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary, who conquered the Mount Everest in the 1950s. At the same time, I was worried of a damp squib as his trekking partner. I tried to convince him that travelling by car from Manali is a more feasible option for his better half, whom he is adamant to make walk for god knows how many days! All my persuasions fell to deaf ears, for he had already contacted some group and bookings had been ‘confirmed’ of sorts.

At that instance, all I felt was a wreathing pain and anxiety – what if I can’t walk for so many days, what if I lag behind other members, what if ‘this’, what if ‘that’ – the list was quite long. I’ve always been a sloth, more interested in story books than sports (once I participated in annual sports and in the preliminary rounds of 100 metres race I came ‘first, counting from last’). My BMI is a few decimals away from that ‘diabolic 30’ and I was struck by the mother of all nightmares – what if I die en route Chandrataal? “I’ll die virgin, for the best of popular mountains – Swiss Alps, Ladakh Himalayas, and many more, will be out of bounds forever. And in my next birth if I’m born as a tree in the Amazon rainforest or a snail in some sea, my hopes are irrevocably dashed.”

Gosh..!! That’s scary. Fortunately, I successfully permeated that fear into the more enthusiastic partner. For time being, the trek was cancelled only to be replaced by an easier one, touted as my ‘conditioning camp’.

That Dussera, we were all set for the ‘easier’ trek (suitable for beginners, as defined by most of the trekking companies) to Deoriataal and Chandrashila, touching Tungnath en route. A short trek of 3-4 days and a small, cozy team of 6 trekkers (excluding the guide and other members for cooking, logistics etc.), we drove from Haridwar for an excruciating 9 hours; the passengers were seemingly drugged, no one spoke to anyone because they’ve dozed off to negotiate the spiraling roads up.

The night shelter at Kund

The next day we started walking from Ukhimath, the winter seat of the Kedarnath deity. Our guide, Govind, was all charged up – we will not follow the established trail but rather create one for us, and so it might take us couple of hours more, he announced. The team was like “ye!”. “Doesn’t make any difference, it’s all the same,” I thought.

Had I known the adversities of ‘exploring a trail’, I would have certainly walked down the hills. The next half-a-day walk from Ukhimath to Deoriataal was on a gradient of 45 degree through small villages and jungle, and as expected my break for replenishment were more than metres I walked. While rest of the team was mostly in sync, I was absolutely off track. My legs ached badly, water was not able to treat my dry throat and apparently, all tried and tested formulae for first-timers proved futile. My husband and Govind shared the burden of my rucksack along with their own so that I could move myself. Poor Govind, running up and down the hills so no one is lost as the sun had started going down. And I felt that’s the end of it, I will watch Deoriataal from up there.

The first glimpse of Deoriataal

I was finally made to manage reaching Deoriataal before darkness fell, panting like a dog. The tents were set, the fire was lit, tea was being served, and sitting near the bonfire I thanked Govind for taking all the pain. I came first, again, according to my unique counting system. While the team took a little more than the stipulated 5 hours, I took a whopping 7 hours, but as Govind said, I didn’t give up despite everything going against me. Looking at the majestic Chaukhamba peak playing hide-n-seek on a well-lit night, I tried recalling the key takeaways of the day. Firstly, the amazing jungle – steep, luscious and full of unknown but interesting sounds. I’m no birdwatcher, or else could have introduced myself to those lovely little avian creatures. The nudging trees did not have their scientific names etched on the trunk, but Govind was prompt in pointing out which of those are helpful in case we get a bruise or cut.

I was thinking about the mythology of Deoriataal (Yaksha testing knowledge of Pandav brothers, no one except eldest Yudhisthir could pass and brought back his brothers to life) when just before the meadow, a sound of a helicopter startled me (how on earth someone knows I need to be rescued..!!). The copter was taking pilgrims to Kedarnath; Govind said, and I was pleasantly surprised to see myself standing at a greater height than the one at which the helicopter was flying!

The wonderful people I met ever since I left Haridwar were inspiring. Simple people, leading a life ‘tough’ by our city standards, but always have a smile on their face. The stewards at the lodge where we stayed overnight or the porters travelling with us now, all of them can give you serious life ‘goals’! If I ever contemplate suicide, I’ll surely trek to the Himalayas before committing one; people around you in those tiny hamlets have something really nice and infectious about them. Children with runny nose or old people with their wrinkled faces, each of them tell a story of human endurance and resilience.

Little replica of Kedarnath Temple at Sari village 

(To be continued...)

The fading echo of silence

Ever since I was born, it looks as if I’m destined to travel. I don’t remember a sight from my maiden trip to Betla and Netarhat forests as a 6-month old. Years later, finding me in the blurred pictures of the album was no less than getting lost in that jungle. I’m sure my parents have harrowing memories of a clinging, crying baby, nagging for food, sleep or attention, or all three at that instant, haunted by the cries of animals at night and the plight of travel in the day.

I cannot really tell why I started travelling or accepted it as a ritual in my life. May be it compensated for the family time I lost as a residential student or as a welcome break from the monotony of routine. Though destinations were hardly discussed beforehand, family trips were a delight, always. I was particularly interested in historical places, and mountains, of course.

Imagine the awkward dilemma when my then-boyfriend-now-husband disclosed that he likes sea and beaches. “But I don’t like them!”, my heart ached bitterly but silently. I wondered if we can mutually accept a destination for the ‘Honeymoon’ on the cards. Fortunately, amid hectic work schedule, and settling a new home and a partner, it took a backseat. As we started planning our maiden trip as man and wife, the struggle was not between mountain and sea, but available leaves and distance from Delhi.

  

A few weeks before our journey, one of my cousins had been to Dhanaulti. “He has all good things to say and the distance too fits within the weekend (means no extra leaves wasted, phew!),” we thought. While boarding the overnight Volvo from ISBT, little did I know about the moments of adventure ahead. Reaching Dehradun in the wee hours without an inkling of where to get the next bus from was as thrilling as feeling the first cool breeze on my face once we started on the mountains. I had bet my hopes too high and after 3-and-a-half hours journey in a local, government bus, we were virtually dumped on the road at 2,200m+ above the sea level – yes, that is the ‘bus stand’ simply because buses find enough space there to stand on an otherwise narrow but plain road.

Once the bus moved on to its destination, I wondered if I’ve become deaf at once. For there was no sound (or noise should I say), except for a few people talking in local dialect, chirping birds and swaying deodars. Dhanaulti was a genuine village of the Garhwal hills, simple people, lofty greens and absolute quiet, especially after sundown. It was so quiet that even our hyperventilating mobiles decided to take a vacation. We had chosen a destination ideal for nurturing a nascent relation – long walks on meandering roads through apple orchards and grassy slopes, soothed by an undisrupted silence in which even whispering seemed sacrilegious.

At night, the sky looked like a large plate filled with diamonds of all sizes and cuts. Standing on the terrace, we refreshed our geography lessons (you read it right) and took delight in pulling the laggard’s leg. We could only imagine how the snow-capped peaks would look on a full moon night and whether the stray dog sleeping on the stairs will ever understand the beauty of what he sees every day. I told my husband how helpless and worried I felt to learn his preference for sea. “Hmm, but this is more practical choice,” he remarked.

Our only contact to the big, bad cities was through the PCO/STD booth across the hotel from where we called our parents to tell “we’re there”. The old man managing the store told us how he treks a few kilometers everyday to this place; I can’t tell if he was happy about that. He asked if we would like to taste the juice of rhododendron (burans as they call it locally) he prepared at home using age-old techniques. With a child-like amazement, I sipped the 1:10 concoction of juice and water, trying hard to relate the taste with something known. Difficult it was; the rhododendron’s sweet taste and flower-like aroma was something I’ve never experienced. Looking back, I regret the decision to buy only one bottle for Rs. 100; a few years later, the bottle cost me Rs. 200 and the taste was hardly close to the previous purchase.

Both of us fell in love with Dhanaulti and any discussion on a weekend trip would invariably start with it. But much has changed now – it has better mobile signals, more eating joints blaring recent Bollywood songs and well-appointed hotels attracting larger number of tourists. It would be unjust to imply that such a trend is counterproductive, for it gave fillip to the local tourism and better earning opportunities to the people. But as the steward in our hotel said, “Ganda bahut ho gaya hai (it has become very dirty these days)”, it looked the hamlet graduated into adolescence, and in the process lost some of its innocence.