Paradise on Earth-Kashmir

Shikara-owners chat on Dal 

Houseboat with local women rowing in front

A necklace of Water-Lily!

Shopping on Shikara

Tributary of Lidder river

Aru valley

Pahalgam peaks aglow at sunset

Apple-bound!

View from Gulmarg hotel

Seven Springs, Gulmarg

Gandola-ride

Peak view point

En route Gulmarg

A cup of hot Kehva

Uprooted logs at Betaab valley

Chashm-e-Shahi

curled branches

Nishat

Nishat Bagh

Shalimar Bagh

Row of houseboats

Herd of sheep on Eid 

View from Chasham-eShahi

Cafe Chinar

At Srinagar at noon, the plane taxied past a soldier carrying an automatic gun with his finger on the trigger reminding us of messages, which wished us to be safe. Maqbool drove us through the hustle & bustle of the city to a hotel within walking distance of famous Dal Lake. On hill stations, people used to ask about availability of hot water in the past; now it is about Wi-Fi.  After a sumptuous lunch, we went out for sightseeing.

The first stop was Chashma-e-Shahi, which lies past Governor’s residence. We got down midway to walk through a metal detector on what the driver sarcastically termed as Governor Sahib’s road. We learnt that former PM Nehru preferred Chashma-e-Shahi’s miraculous waters, which were regularly sent for his personal use. Such claims are unverifiable but we did notice a young mother lowering the feet of her toddler son into its cold waters who screamed his heart out. There were others gulping a fistful. We sprinkled a little on our faces before shifting our gaze to manicured lawns with dahlias, marigolds, pansies and roses in full bloom. A couple of trees with their curled branches caught our eye.

We raced to the Nishat Bagh next, where many Bollywood movies and romantic songs have reportedly been filmed. The symmetrical beds of flowers on either side with water flowing in the middle at descending levels or terraces till it finally flows into the Dal lake makes the garden majestic. With mountains in the backdrop, it was a breathtaking view being savored by a mix of locals and tourists. The traditional photographers drew few customers despite their offer of pictures in Kashmiri attire. We spotted a small ‘Café Chinar’ in a secluded corner where we chatted over tea with its young owner, Shabir, a hotel management graduate in his twenties, who had returned to valley to set shop in Nishat.  Asked about the changes he had seen in the valley during his years, he mentioned the militancy of the Nineties when everyone had to carry an ID & leave the keys at home. Things were better now but he felt the negative coverage in the national media about widespread terrorism was hurting the tourism industry.

Shalimar Bagh turned out to be a poor cousin of Nishat when it came to maintenance & surroundings. The crowds had left as dusk descended over the horizon. A lady leading a group of Sikh tourists tried to smuggle them without buying entry tickets. We bought caps from a vendor inside & tipped a gardener who offered us a flower each as a token of goodwill.  Sonamarg was the next stop on our itinerary. We learnt that one needs to ride a pony to view the glaciers & hire a local jeep to reach Zero Point. However, the weather turned against us. It rained throughout the day so we gulped hot tea with shivering hands at a local restaurant and decided to return to Srinagar. The second day, like ill-fated Cricket matches about to be won, was a complete washout!

We checked out for Gulmarg on a clear, sunny morning. The prime attraction of Gulmarg is the famous Gandola ride. Stopping en route at ‘Peak view point’ for a cup of tea, we were coaxed into borrowing a fur-lined coat & gumboots. ‘There’s snow and muddy stretches at Gulmarg’, we were told. Though skeptical, we preferred caution and complied. On the outskirts of Gulmarg, our cab was stopped by horsemen who insisted on seeing the booking slip of the hotel before allowing us to proceed further. ‘These guys will break the cab’, the driver said, ‘than lose their monopoly to ply in the city'.   

At Gondola point, we learnt to our dismay that the longer and more sought after phase was not operating due to bad weather. As we queued up for the shorter ride, the guides began to pester us and halved their charges to ‘just 300 rupees’. An elderly man advised us ‘not to worry about horses and ponies and just roam around wherever you like. Paise zaya nahin karna.’ We sat through the ride mesmerized, with ground rising and falling below us like the waves of an ocean. A heartbeat skipped as the trolley stopped mid-way for awhile and then relief as it moved on. At the exit, we refused to hire ponies as advised and ventured out with heavy gumboots.

There were wide grasslands at the exit with seven small springs sprouting out and merging into a stream close by. The high peaks in the distance were hidden by a thick cloud cover. No sign of snow! ‘Were we cheated out of Phase two’, we wondered. Newly-wed couples withdrew to uncrowded spots to click intimate selfies. The weather took a turn. We were now enveloped by clouds and even felt a few drops of rain. Time to savor some pakodas! When we protested at the small quantity being served, the owner of the shack complained he got onions for Rs. 100@kg. Inflation seems to rise with the heights. The sky became clear and a few trolleys jerked upwards towards the snow-bound peaks but our hopes for a longer ride dashed. ‘They are carrying rasad for the fauj. The border is just 10 kms from the peakes and beyond that it’s our Azad Kashmir’, the young man grinned while we frowned.

The evening in Gulmarg was very pleasant when we went for walk putting down pleas to be shown round on ponies, jeeps and snow-bikes. There was a large ghostly building on a hilltop abandoned after it reportedly caught fire. A large park facing the entry to Gondola site showed solar panels. Cottages of Gulmarg Development Authority (GDA) also caught our eye. ‘You can book them online, cook your meals, dine at ‘Khaleel Palace’ or order meals from there’, the attendant told us. As it turned dark and cold, we chose to return to the warmth of our rooms in the same hotel. At dawn, we wiped out the frosty panes to look at the snow-covered peaks. They first looked silvery white and gradually transformed into gold as the first rays of Sun kissed them .

Pahalgam lay to the other side of Srinagar. The five-hour long drive took us through several districts. We halted at saffron-rich Pampore to buy a pinch. Further ahead, there was a row of units making cricket bats out of willow. There was an apple orchard by the roadside whose elderly owner allowed us to walk around and see the fruit-laden trees. Walnuts were being taken off the trees and dried by the roadside. Eid being just a day away, hordes of sheep were being herded to the city for sale. Maqbool explained that those who could afford bought and offered them as a sacrifice and shared the meat with family, friends & the poor. He intended to offer Eid prayers at the local mosque in Pahalgam, which was reportedly built by Afghans. We spent the evening in the local market where I bought myself a phiran, a loose gown, which Kashmiris wear to keep themselves warm in winter.

Shabir took our charge and drove us first to Aru valley through a winding road with a tributary of East Lidder River flowing along. We first ascended to a point to get an amazing view of snow-covered peaks and then drove down to the waters gurgling down noisily by our side. There were huts with muddy roofs on the slopes on which even grass was visible. We learnt that it helped keep the occupants safe when it snows. Those grazing the sheep were termed khanabadosh or wanderers who could retreat to warmer places when Pahalgam was buried under several feet of snow. They are mostly Gujjars. When asked whether any Kashmiri Pandits are still left in Pahalgam, Shabir shook his head and nonchalantly replied, 'They live in Jammu'. We returned to the town and passed through it to go to Chandanwari on the other side.

Chandanwari is the base for the long and arduous trek to Amarnath shrine dedicated to Lord Shiva. The greenish waters of Sheshnag lake turn into a river, caress and go round the boulders hurling everything, including tall pine trees, down the slopes. We were dropped near a few temporary stalls selling handicrafts, Shivlings, bells and other bric-a-brac to the devotees. We stepped into ankle-deep waters, ignoring the warning on the board to stay away from the river. I slipped on a boulder soon after and landed on both my hands. Unharmed and wiser after the fall, I moved towards the uneven, stony steps that mark the beginning of the pilgrimage and disappear into the horizon. Over it are the snowy peaks, enchanting and irresistibly inviting. Imbibed by religious fervor, we decided to climb a few steps. There were rocks with welcome messages for the pilgrims painted by paramilitary units. A couple of reptiles crossed our path deluding us into believing that Sheshnag had blessed us.

At the parking bay, all the vans except ours had returned. Shabir suppressed his obvious dismay and drove us back in silence. From a height, he showed us Betaab valley, renamed as usual after a Bollywood film shot there. ‘You get the best view from here & there’s nothing else. The entry fee is 100 rupees’, he said in a dissuading tone. We chose to go in nonetheless. It had a park with a cottage, a small bridge connecting the two banks, logs obstructing the narrow river. There were gaily-dressed Kashmiri girls out for a picnic and vendors selling snacks outside the gate. I pointed out to the man on the counter some of the mistakes on the Notice Board. ‘Wrong grammar’, he dismissively said. We returned to pick up our luggage and return to Srinagar.

It was Eid. There were apprehensions that separatists belonging to Huriyat might stage protests on the beef-ban. The internet had been switched off. We had received a call to be cautious from a friend who had friends in the government. Maqbool was driving at a leisurely pace despite the absence of traffic on the highway. I wondered if he was doing so on purpose to ensure that the day got over by the time we reach Srinagar. Be that as it might have been, peace and calm reigned everywhere on the way. People were carrying gifts of meat for exchange and shops, except those selling sweets and snacks, were all shut down. Someone remarked laughingly even the cops appeared to be on a holiday for none was to be sighted.

Dal Lake was thronged by locals and tourists. The road running parallel to it has luxury hotels on one side and a pedestrian walkway on the other. It was reminiscent of Mumbai’s Marine Drive. We waited for a shikara to row us to the houseboat for the final day in Kashmir.  Lateef, the owner, showed up for awhile, and introduced us to Abdul who, despite the festival, had offered to take care of us. We chose to return to the banks for a walk before supper. The houseboats were all lit up by now. Their images flickered in the water as a flame flaps when whiffed by a wind. One could hear crackers in the distance & some fireworks. Subdued in comparison to what one sees on Diwali but a welcome change for being less polluting and noisy. We spotted even a post office floating in a houseboat. Wondered whether it had any takers in the days of instant messaging & internet! 

We woke up on the final day with a call for prayer from the nearby mosque. It was built on land but could be reached only from the lake. The sky lit up in the distance and birds began to chirp and dive into waters to look for prey. A shikara selling flowers approached our houseboat as we sat sipping some kehva in the front. Local women were seen rowing roofless boats and tending to chores. Abdul invited us for the hour-long shikara ride across the lake. A CRPF motorboat sped past on a routine check leaving a wave of ripples in the waters. My botanist wife spotted a water-lily in the vegetation near their camp. Abdul bent, plucked one, made a garland of it with pieces of its stem and presented it to her. Shikaras, evidently on a cue, parked themselves along ours to offer varied merchandise like necklaces and bracelets with semi-precious stones, jewelry-boxes made of paper-mâché with intricate floral designs to the ladies.

We rowed past ‘Sukoon’ a luxury houseboat with its own motorized shikara to a market on the lake. You could buy everything from Pashmina shawls to leather coats. A young girl was rowing away a gift of mutton in a perforated plastic box covered with a hand towel in her small boat. While the ladies shopped, Abdul’s friend sat on his haunches and enlightened us briefly about kurbani or sacrifice performed on Eid. ‘Allah asked Paigambar, the Prophet to sacrifice his son to Him. When the son was made to lie for the purpose, the child asked his father to blindfold himself lest he may find the sight too much to bear. However, after the sacrifice, what the prophet saw was not his son but a sheep. That’s how the tradition began.’

We were told that God was just testing whether the prophet was prepared to part with what was dearest to him. A female is never sacrificed so the whole controversy about banning beef was irrelevant. Besides, animal sacrifice is there in other faiths too. Plants too have life so even vegetarians kill in order to feed themselves. Coming from a commoner, such concerns sounded valid so we just nodded. Concluding our visit to a place compared with jannat, we also felt matters relating to faith and diets are best dealt with sensitivity and left to individuals. After all, the purpose of religions is to unite people with love.The plane soon ascended above the clouds giving us the last glimpses of the green valley and its snow-covered peaks. Adieu Kashmir!

***

Obituary: K.S.Dalpatia

               (1969 batch of Shyamlal College Evening. Mr. K.S.Dalpatia is fourth from left)

Krishan Singh Dalpatia (1938-2014)

I lost a very dear friend last month. He was evidently not the first one to leave this world; nor would be the last since God’s ways are only known to Him. But after he left for his heavenly abode, I continue to feel his absence every day. The time I spent in his company, and much of it arguing since we rarely agreed, continues to haunt me. He was surely one the like of whom one rarely meets in life.

I met him first in 1971 when I began working. He was quite senior to me in years and experience and relished teaching Hindi to overflowing classes. He was known for his loud raucous laughter, which began to be heard from the college gate itself. A colleague likened him to good old B&W televisions, which emitted sound first & the picture would appear several minutes later. He was equally loud and assertive when expressing his preferences for people. I did not like the way he publically supported some people without applying his mind. We argued about it over a cup of tea outside Old Delhi Railway Station. As I let loose a barrage of questions at him for being so immature & trusting, he weathered it smilingly. In the mean time, a poor man approached us and begged for a meal. Before I could wave him away, Dalpatia sahib ignored me, turned his head & told the dhaba owner to serve him a meal. I got up indignantly but he was cool and replied disarmingly, “Okay! I shall not do it again.”

“Are you free on Sunday morning?” he once asked me casually. Being a late riser, I was cautious and asked for more information. The National Service Scheme (NSS) unit of the college was organizing an event in Seelampur and he wanted me to attend. It would not take long and we will also serve you tea later. I was not very enthusiastic but gave in. When I reached the colony, I found a huge heap of garbage, rotting for days and emitting a very foul smell at the entrance itself. Mr. Dalpatia was at the top of it and feverishly shoveling it away along with volunteers. This happened several decades before our PM launched a ‘Swachta abhiyan”. I was equally aghast when I spotted his son, who must have been below ten, following his footsteps. It was really very nauseating. I protested why he was exposing his small son to such unhygienic conditions. He smilingly responded, “Let him know this face of India too.” I was also taken to see the results of a plantation drive our NSS unit had undertaken and a road built with villagers’ participation in rural areas. When funds from Delhi School of Social Work dried up, he organized a fete in college grounds where he put a bottle of beer among prizes to be won by throwing a ring. It nearly cost him his job!

Mr. Dalpatia had a keen interest in politics. His opponents, and there was no dearth of them, put labels of different parties and their groups on him. Some claimed that he was an RSS man but I found that he had friends across the political spectrum, including the Left. There were some who claimed that, post- Emergency, he was sympathetic to Janata Party leaders. This could be a reaction to the fact that he was hounded by the college authorities during the infamous Emergency. I personally don’t think he wore any ideological blinkers; he was genuinely concerned about teachers’ issues & welfare. He was severely criticized by political groups when he demanded housing/medical benefits & full-time DPEs & Librarians in Evening colleges when contesting for DUTA. Over time, these demands became the agenda of all teacher-groups and once realized, ameliorated the lot of teaching community.

He landed at my door one morning and asked me to draft his resignation letter. The bank had refused further credit to his brother’s enterprise till it was turned into a partnership concern. He wanted to be relieved that very day & was even willing to pay for the 3-month notice period. I reasoned with him but he said it was unavoidable. Thus, he bid adieu to college and dedicated himself to building an ancillary unit, which was to employ over a hundred workmen & supply quality components to reputed brands of Indian industry. He offered placements to young men graduating at such far off places as Chennai and steadfastly followed ethics in doing business. The core unit, appropriately named Navyug Udyog, survives to this day.

I met Mr. Dalpatia last only a few days before his sad end came. He was as hospitable and cheerful as ever & rebuked me for showing up late. We were served fried fish, which we feasted upon & relished. I think he was a visionary who could see ahead of his times. Besides, he was essentially a man of action, a Karamyogi, who had often accused me of deflating his grandiose visions with a pin of pragmatism.  I was sorry to see that his impaired vision was robbing the fiercely independent man of living his life entirely on his own terms. He had always been so brave in life; I am sure, even in after-life, he must be setting new standards of excellence.

May his soul be blessed and freed from the cycle of birth & death. Amen!

Mission Kashmir!

India has called off foreign secretary level talks with Pakistan- a week before they were to be held in Islamabad as a follow-up to Nawaz Sharif’s presence during PM Modi’s swearing in. The immediate provocations were meetings, despite forewarnings, between Pakistani envoy to India & separatist leaders of J&K. Since such interactions did not take place for the first time, therefore speculation about the real reason for calling off the talks dominated Indian media debates. While the supporters of BJP govt. overwhelmingly saw it as an assertion of strength by the new prime minister who sent a clear message to Pakistan that it will have to choose between Indian govt. & a motley group of its supporters in Srinagar under the umbrella of Huriyat Conference. The Opposition, mainly Congress, initially criticized the govt. for going ahead with talks notwithstanding continuing ceasefire violation by Pakistan but changed track later highlighting that the decision should have come sooner if at all.

The truth is that India has been found wanting in dealing with a rogue state like Pakistan, which has been hell-bent on creating trouble in J&K since 1947 when Pakistan invaded it to ensure merger of a Muslim-majority state with itself while its Hindu Maharaja, keen on independence, opted for accession to India to save it from the same fate. The festering dispute, which has taken a toll of several thousand lives and valuable resources during the last 66 years, could have been resolved on several occasions had the Indian political leadership of the day risen to the occasion. Unfortunately, it did not happen!

When Indian forces landed in Sri Nagar following the signing of the Instrument of Accession by Maharaja Hari Singh, they were just in time to stop the Pakistani tribesmen from capturing the valley. But the time was also ripe to carry on the military operation to its finality. However, the idealist in Nehru got better of the strategist. Nehru thought and not wrongly at that time that Kashmiris will prefer to opt to live in a secular India than in the new nation born out of religious bigotry, hatred & violence. As a liberal humanist & a Kashmiri Pandit himself, Nehru had confidence in his people. He took the issue of Pakistani invasion of Kashmir to U.N. and the rest is history. India could and should have carried on the military operation to its conclusion and reclaimed what is now called POK or ironically, Azad Kashmir by Pakistan.

The 1965 war with Pakistan was fought when Lal Bahadur Shastri was at the helm of affairs in India. Objective analysts believe that military gains were shared by both the parties. While Pakistan made some territorial gains in J&K, India neutralized them in other sectors. A ceasefire followed & USSR intervened to bring the warring nations to bargaining table.  The Tashkent agreement, ostensibly forced upon a reluctant India, enjoined upon India & Pakistan to retreat to positions held before the war started. Therefore, it was another diplomatic disaster, which also tragically ended our prime minister’s life abroad.

The third opportunity to resolve the Kashmir issue presented itself following Pakistan’s rout in 1971 war. Indian military also made significant gains on the western front while taking 80,000 soldiers as POWs following the famous Dhaka surrender by Gen. Niazi. The stage was ripe for a lasting solution to Kashmir but Indira Gandhi frittered away the gains on the bargaining table in Simla next year. Bhutto pleaded that India had inflicted enough damage by finishing East Pakistan. India offered to return either the territories in the western sector or the POWs held during the war under the false impression that Pakistan would prefer the latter. Bhutto promptly asked for the former and explained later that India could not hold on to its men indefinitely. If Indira Gandhi were as cunning as the wily Sindhi from across the border, she would have insisted on Pakistani withdrawal from POK as the only precondition for both.

India was fourth time unlucky when it was let down by the NDA govt. at Agra in 2001. Pakistani dictator-cum-president, Parvez Musharraf, was being hosted at the summit by Atal Bihari Vajpayee. Gen. Musharraf, an army man and architect of Kargil war during Vajpayee’s Lahore Bus Yatra, was keen to go down the annals of history as a game changer. He appeared willing to rule out solutions unacceptable to both India & Pakistan and look for unconventional ideas, including making borders porous and irrelevant. Musharraf was a hard core military commander who was determined to accomplish a difficult mission in a flamboyant style. When the agreement was about to be inked around midnight, Musharraf’s move was checkmated by our Sindhi.  L.K. Advani, then PM Vajpayee’s deputy, reportedly fielded Sushma Swaraj to address a press conference around midnight, which scuttled it.

With Advani’s bête noir Modi as PM and his protégé, Sushma Swaraj as the MEA calling off the talks now, will another opportunity to resolve the Kashmir imbroglio present itself anytime soon?  Only time will tell!

***

The Pilgrimage!

I sat quietly as my mind turned over leaves of the past! That morning, decades ago, in the distant Tirumala town, I trudged along the lanes, clueless & lost, finally asking my small daughters with a sense of guilt if they would like to stand in the serpentine queue or prefer going downhill to the Tirupati station, without a glimpse of the deity. Today, the scene was being re-enacted. After a tortuous climb, with minutes ticking by, I told my spouse not to worry about me & to pay her obeisance at the shrine alone.

My first visit to Vaishnodevi shrine, nearly 20 years ago, was instinctive. On a visit to Jammu to attend a wedding, I had a couple of days to spare so just boarded a bus going to Katra, barely 50 kms away. Alone & ill-prepared for the wintry night ahead, I had trekked the 13 odd kms from the base, Bamganga to the shrine called the Bhawan in about four hours. The climb gave me picturesque views all around, as the rays of setting sun set the sky afire & drew, as if by a pen, the course of the river below. As I lay shivering badly in the open that night, my thoughts were anything but spiritual. I had, during the late evening darshan, sought to be forgiven if I could never come again.  But that was not to be.

The Met office had predicted heavy rain the day on March 11, the day we reached Katra town. I realized that we can no longer dismiss its forecasts with contempt. People were selling cheap white raincoats for 15-20 rupees that barely last the journey. Shamed by the faith of pilgrims, who looked like nuns in them & even carrying small children, we too decided to take the plunge. It was an ordeal with intermittent heavy showers slowing us down to a crawl. The route is dotted by small shops whose owners did not mind if we stepped in or sat on their benches, without buying anything. I was reminded of Delhi where shopkeepers use all means, even ramshackle bikes & scooters, to ensure open access to their shops.

We reached Himkoti, the point where one turns left for a shorter route uphill & found the white gate closed. The announcements over the public address system explained that there had been landslides above. So the guards waved to us to turn right towards Ardhkwari. The milestone revealed we were doing a pathetic 1 km an hour with our backpacks pulling us backwards & wondered whether we would reach the Bhawan even around midnight. It is curious how your spirits are lifted whenever you feel very low. As we turned a corner, a swanky Coffee Café Day greeted us. We looked at each other & decided to take yet another break. A cup of coffee is always welcome!

A heavy shower pushed even the unwilling ones inside. These included lanky & tough Kashmiri porters who carry toddlers & baggage all the way up. I liked the way they were brought in & fed by the pilgrims they were escorting. A group occupied a corner & beamed smiles over the tiny cups of cappuccino. I clicked them together & got his walking stick as a return gift. When I showed reluctance, he reassuringly said, “We’re going downhill & don’t need it but it will help you climb.” By the time, we came out, it was dark. We decided to use the room we had booked as an abundant caution where the staff advised us to resume our journey in the early hours. ‘Your mind & body shall have rested by then’! A stormy night lay ahead. We skipped the dinner, gulping a few biscuits & a painkiller each to relax our strained calf-muscles. The elements flashed, thundered, whistled & howled outside. The 4 o’clock deadline to resume the pilgrimage came & went.

 When we stepped out in the morning, the peaks in the distance were all covered in snow while hailstones covered the ground all around. A few monkeys jumped around looking for food & when threatened, took refuge in an abandoned room close by. Some fellow pilgrims told us that they were returning to Katra since weather was very bad & all access roads above closed due to landslides. It was disheartening but I echoed the same opinion over cup of very sweet tea & pakodas spattered with red chilies. We looked in the direction of the shrine & took a U-turn.  A few steps later, she complainingly asked one of the security guards if there was no way we could carry on with the pilgrimage. To her utter surprise, he revealed that we surely could since the landslides had been cleared. I recollected that Met office had predicted that the weather would clear the next morning so we decided to go ahead.

Covering the first mile was a bit unnerving as we wandered ahead like two lost souls on that stretch covered with heaps of hailstones that had begun to melt. The clouds overhead began to scatter. The first rays of sun lit up the blue sky. The view on the ground was disturbing.  Plastic sheets & tin scaffolding supporting it had blown off during the night & hung precariously at places.  We saw embers of bonfires around which the poor porters must have taken shelter while the storm raged on.  A few of them now accosted us and offered to carry our bag packs. ‘They are empty’, I argued but gave in when one of them pleaded that he had not earned a penny since last evening. Soon the paths merged and we could see the first brave souls coming up amid cries of ‘Jai Mata Di’!

The going was quite tough. I needed to take frequent breaks during one of which the porter massaged my legs and back. I tried to stop him since I don’t like anyone handling my body but it was so relaxing. For the rest of the climb, he pushed my back gently with the palm of his hand. Rejuvenated, we trudged along as workers of the shrine board descended clearing the path of debris & hailstones. Sounds of prayers wafted down the slopes into the valleys. We kept on discarding layers of warm clothing as the Sun rose in the distance and revealed a breathtaking view of Katra town below & snow-covered peaks above. At the entrance to the shrine, the porter told us that he could go no further. ‘Compensate me like a father does his son’, he pleaded.  I hope he was not disappointed.

‘You have fifteen minutes to finish the obeisance’, I explained to my wife who looked bewildered & then ran forward. I sat outside with the back packs & closed my eyes in prayer. When I looked around, I couldn’t see another soul who had come that far & was returning without a glimpse of the Goddess. ‘To each, his own’, I told myself wistfully & sipped the rest of tea that was going cold. We rushed as directed to the pony stand where I rode one for the first time. ‘Sit erect’, its burly Sikh owner shouted at me as I tilted dangerously over the short animal. For the next half an hour, it kept tossing me while I clung to it as the proverbial last straw.

We reached the Sanjhi Chat helipad just in time for our maiden journey. I could see another helipad in the distance, which I learnt belongs to the armed forces. ‘You two sit in front & stay away from the controls ’, the staff told us. I glanced at the pilot who ran the shuttle mechanically & didn’t even look towards the passengers. The chopper rose vertically, swayed, dipped and went round avoiding several cliffs to touch down after a ten-minute flight at Katra.

 Thus ended a pilgrimage for me that was not to be!

Fighting Stress-Vedanta style!

The SMS promising a ‘stress-full to successful life’ proved to be irresistible. I dutifully forwarded it to many friends whom I considered spiritually-inclined. Last time, I went to Jaya Row’s lecture at Kamani & took some friends along, there were complaints that what began on a loftier note ended up with a whimper. While her readings of Bhagwad Gita made a lot of sense to lesser mortals in the mundane world, the whole exercise turned into a marketing exercise to sell seminars, CDs, books & DVDs toward the end. Therefore, no wonder a reply from a younger colleague stated that she, ‘instinctive and spontaneous as she was’, could no longer adapt to Jaya Row’s ‘corporate culture’. Nonetheless, I made it to the venue with fewer and newer friends, assuring myself during Ms. Mudgal rendition of beautiful bhajans that the event at least gave us an excuse to meet & discuss what she taught.

Jaya Row began with evolutionary terminology stating how homeostatic mammals progressed to human’s mental statis (it went over my head!) to elucidate how Vedantic Samam or equanimity was the ultimate key to success, happiness & growth. The state of equilibrium or calmness isn’t inactivity but one leading to an intense, vibrant action. Mental agitation, on the contrary, is caused by our inherent negativity toward one and all, resultant desires to rid ourselves from them but making ourselves all the more attached & finally stressed in the process. Row is fond of marital references to spouse, mother in law as targets of our ire & manages to strike a chord & draw an instinctive applause from the audience.

Stress was, however, defined as an ‘internal phenomenon’ implying thereby that we end up with it when we become reactive and fault-finding to people or situations around us and therefore its cure also lay inside us. Switching to a vocabulary suited to the young (the auditorium is usually full of bald, graying heads whose life-game may already be in the mandatory Overs) and pleading with them to move from being enumerators to denominators, she explained how our uncontrollable mind overwhelms the intellect we are blessed with to cause agony and stress. Therefore, what we need is an overpowering intellect to keep us calm & serene when life becomes topsy-turvy & turbulent and take it head-on. Sportingly, she gave the example of Tennis legend, Billie Jean King while my mind meandered to Michel Jackson’s number by the same name. It did prove her point about minding our mind!

Poor intellect leads to a spate of desires. If fulfilled, they lead to a state of delusion, blind pursuit of wealth & power, leading to envy & arrogance. My thoughts turn to Durga, the young, valiant civil servant at the receiving end of politicians in UP. Row, however, spreads the net wider claiming politicians will always be ‘corrupt’ & Indians, ‘indisciplined’. She pointed out how affluent parents, for want of time, shower gifts and gadgets rather than love upon their children these days. When the desires are unfulfilled, it prevents enjoyment of what we have, destroys relationships out of envy and even compromises values as we choose unethical ways to get what we desire so strongly. Ch. II, verses 62-63 of Bhagwad Gita begin to ring in my mind where man’s degradation to destruction is traced from attachment, desire, anger, infatuation, loss of memory & reason to ultimate ruin. Jaya Row’s views are essentially rooted in Bhagwad Gita, which she crafts well to meet the needs of varied audience.

What is the cure, then? We need to rekindle the ‘higher self’ within us. Desire things by all means; but don’t crave for them. A flow-chart on the screen explains how ‘Desire management’ leads to relief, reducing them to comfort and using intellect to define them saves us from these ‘weapons of mass distraction & destruction’. The ultimate aim is to integrate mind, body & intellect to realize eternal bliss in the form Atman.

Jaya Row gesticulates angrily to the young lady in waiting why she isn’t on the mike  to announce what happens next while she tries to convey that Row has yet to finish with the last slide dealing with ‘Take Home Points’. Stress confronts us at strange times! 

Child Labor & FDI!

Just saw a documentary produced by BBC under Our World series dealing with the problem of child labor in cotton industry in India & cocoa in Ivory Coast-both employing child labor, often enslaved and earning nothing at a tender age. The weaving unit in India from whom leading brands like GAP, Marks & Spencer etc sourced supplies looked okay in terms of working conditions & wages but the owner could not claim the same below the spinning unit. Since the supply chain begins with picking up of cotton in the fields, action should also begin from there. The responsibility must be shared by the local govt. under whose jurisdiction the laws prohibiting child labor & minimum wages are violated & the brands in developed world, which charge exorbitant prices but care little about the poor people at the first stage of supply chain.

As we introduce FDI into various segments of Indian economy, we should ensure that the benefits of investment flow to the poor of the poorest & we are not just exploited as a market. The stipulation for companies like Ikea, which have been granted permission to set up businesses in India, that a fixed percentage of material must be sourced locally should stay. At the same time, steps must be taken to ensure that no child labor is involved at any stage & remunerative wages are paid to everyone. Wonder why our own media remains confined to political debates in the capital & cannot do stories revealing how politics & economy is actually impacting the life & living of our people in a globalized economy!

On Attires & Culture!

Following the infamous gang rape case of Delhi, one assumed that Indian males would reflect upon the traditional bias against women & correct their mindset. After all, we worships goddesses & deities in our homes everyday and seek from them blessings in the form of knowledge, wealth, and security. Our nation too is our ‘motherland’. But reactions to the ghastly event brought out again how we as a society discriminate against women both at home & outside. The bias cuts across the political & social spectrum. A Congress MP described the protesters crying for change in rape laws as ‘dented & painted women’ implying perhaps they did not represent the real or Aam women. The remark led to a huge outrage forcing him to apologize & retract what he had said. The BJP performed no better. An MP Minister mentioned a Lakshman Rekha for women- you cross it and you would be punished like Sita! The RSS Chief termed marriage between man & woman as a ‘contract’. The woman serves the man & he provides her security. Whatever happened to our much not only means shifting the onus of crime from accused to the victim but revered culture! There were snide remarks opposing everything that women do-using mobile phones, wearing western wear or working late. It is curious how one can blame wearing of jeans for sexual assaults on women. Men of all ages are seen clad in jeans without an eyelid being batted. Besides, linking of attire to culture is ironic. How are khaki shorts worn by RSS workers in consonance with Indian culture? If we go around the country, we can see dhotis, lungis, pajamas &, churidars in plenty but not one ‘Aam aadmi’ in British army-style khaki shorts. Raising such non-issues also violates the principle of equality of sexes enshrined in our Constitution. If men are free to dress up the way they like, let them not preach sermons to women because the fault lies with men.  When a Pir, a spiritual healer of eighty rapes a minor of thirteen in Kashmir or a young rickshaw puller sexually assaults an eighty year old & dumps her in a Delhi park, you can’t blame the victims or the way they dressed. A placard at Jantar Mantar aptly asked:  why should a woman feel ashamed when it’s the men who have a dirty gaze?

From Agnosticism to Faith!

The weekend involved a strange struggle with maters of spirituality. On Saturday, HT carried the preface of ageing Khushwant Singh’s ‘The Freethinker’s Prayer Book’, which will hit the stands around the time he turns 97.  Khushwant Singh begins with his birth in a conservative Sikh family of Hadali (now in Pakistan) when, as a child, he liked the rituals of his faith. It transports me to my own childhood, led by my grandma to a local gurudwara in Old Rajinder Nagar, sitting through the prayers patiently, waiting for that handful of steaming hot ‘kada-prasad’. Khushwant Singh began to question the rituals & dogma during his teens when studying at Delhi’s elite Modern School. In contrast, I went to a local aided school but chose to sit outside a dark, dingy temple in far off Kerala, taking care of my schoolmates’ shoes rather than change over to a dhoti to gain entry. Here the similarity ends.

Khushwant Singh understood in college how science & technology as well as the liberal arts in the western world impacted religion. Wisely, he kept his skepticism to himself while his awareness of fragile foundations of faith (rather faiths) grew in college. He touches upon prevalence of untouchability in Sikhism & claims that all religion are irrational, full of superstitions and encourage ignorance, generate more prejudice & hatred than love & friendship. Ironically, his observations appear around the time a memorial is coming up inside the Golden Temple in memory of those who were killed during ‘Operation Bluestar’. He challenges God even as a concept, dismissing with a straight face any bearing God has in making us good or bad. ‘For every Mother Teresa or Baba Amte, there are thousands who have killed & raped in the name of their gods’ & ‘the masterminds of 1984 (wonder why no one talks about rampant violence in pre-1984 Punjab!) & 2002 pogroms are ministers and party leaders. Neither the law nor God has made them pay for their crimes.’ Strong but true words though I sometimes wonder why those pulled out of buses, segregated &am killed point blank in the fields of Punjab never find a mention in the violent history of Punjab.

There are two things that are quite perplexing. Khushwant Singh, despite giving up organized religion, ‘continued to retain the outward emblems of the Khalsa because it gave me a sense of belonging and social security’. Does it mean that however much of a rationalist one may be, one still needs an emotional anchor in life? The heading of the piece calls him the ‘eternal agnostic’. He claims that he is not a man of faith, nor believes in paradise or the possibility of rebirth. With no idea where he will be after he dies, he finds himself staring into an endless dark void. Isn't a long life full of opportunities, fame, knowledge & money is expected to yield rich dividends in the form of enlightenment?

Sunday’s quest for spirituality began with Jaya Row at Kamani. She started off with a reprimand for those who cannot even take out for days in row in a year to hear her discourses on Bhagawadgita. Having missed the first three days, I squirmed but stayed on. Chapter XII of Bhagawadgita shows Krsna explaining to Arjuna that the ‘best followers of Yoga’ (Baba Ramdev flashed through my mind!) are those endowed with supreme faith and ever united through meditation with me, worship me with the mind centred on me. (v.2). Frankly, it is all easier than done. Whenever I have tried to meditate, I doze off & to mind one’s mind with varied thoughts crisscrossing every second is a herculean task. I try to focus on Jaya Row’s face, which looks stern like a school-teacher’s with an occasional smile thrown in for politeness sake.

Jaya Row laments how the nation has failed to make any investment in teaching values (Remember the moral science classes at school?). Row highlighted how we remain occupied with body, mind and intellect & forget the Atman, which remains free from joy, anger, fear and even remorse. We need to be contented with what we have since we get what we deserve, not what we desire. Once we control our burgeoning desires, we may lose the temporary joy of seeing them fulfilled but also the fear of un-fulfillment and the sorrow that follows.

The key word is ‘surrender’. Aim high, be ‘daksha’ or competent yet ‘udasin’ or uninvolved (I thought a better word would be ‘unattached’). Such action is ‘Satvic’. If you think you are the doer, you are a ‘bhogi’; if you believe you are doing everything, a Yogi (practitioner) and if you know you do nothing implying you just carry out the divine will, a jnani (knowledgeable). Hence renounce everything! Do not exult, hate, grieve or desire. Remember mind is fickle, intellect is steady: it is faith that takes us to the supreme goal. To fill the void within (Khushwant Singh staring into an endless dark void!) with light, Krsna calls upon Arjuna to be free from opposites like ‘pleasure & pain, ..without attachment to home, fixed in mind & full of devotion to Me’. Ultimately faith conquers even when the rituals fail! Surrender thyself to the Almighty God! 

 As the organizers talk about the discounts on CDs at the counter outside, my friend says we have heard it before & we return to the worldly ways. 

Building Relationships

It was sheer coincidence that my search for something worth watching this morning ended on Sanskar channel where actor Suresh Oberoi was in the midst of an animated discussion on human relationships with Shivani. It appeared that someone had intruded while the program was being shot, demanding an immediate audience with Shivani, the young, articulate brand ambassador of Brahmakumari Foundation. Suresh Oberoi must have felt ‘she was very irritating’ but moderated his statement to say that it was very irritating. Shivani explained that the change was positive since it separated the person from the act thereby implying that the age-old saying, ‘hate the sin not the sinner’ still holds good. However, she went on to add that our attitude needs to be refined further to put the onus of our feelings and the resultant behavior on how we respond to situations. People around us are comparable to stimulus, poking us to react. We often do so aggressively annoying the other person and putting the relationship in peril. What is desirable, according to Shivani, is not to react but to respond positively; not losing ground to others but gaining composure over us. It does not mean simply accepting unreasonable behavior but politely and firmly explaining our constraints and our resolve to meet the other’s expectations half-way. In plain words, telling the intruder we are in the middle of a shoot and will meet you after it is over. She emphasized it is within our power to steer a relationship  toward  a point where it refuses to be reactive to external stimulus and  responds, without being judgmental, to become healthy & positive. Shivani mentioned how, after a talk on the same subject, a woman in the audience asked when the next event shall take place. She smilingly revealed the woman wanted to bring her husband along. The mindset had still not changed. In order to build a strong and equal relationship, the blame-game has to stop; instead of expecting the other party to change, we have to begin by changing ourselves.

East-bound

My strongest regret in life has been my inability to visit the East. A single visit, lasting only forty eight hours, to Calcutta in early Seventies hardly did any justice to the region. Bengal was in the grip of Naxal violence then (seven people were shot down the day) so I latched on to Rai family when they revealed their plans to visit Sikkim & Darjeeling. Sikkim was knocked off the itinerary by a quake measuring 6.2 on the Richter scale causing a loss of over hundred lives. So we substituted it with the sleepy Kalimpong town.

The flight from Delhi takes less than two hours to Bagdogra - a small airport with archaic facilities and a disinterested Staff. A tourist, who looked like a Chinese, merrily recorded from the pick-up bus everything, including military choppers taking off in the background apparently on rescue missions to devastated Sikkim but no one seemed to care. So much for our security concerns.

The drive through Siliguri to Kalimpong was an extremely rough & bumpy, with patches throwing up so much dust that it could cause an asthmatic attack. The car had to swerve from right to left to protect the suspension from potholes. Gosh! It took an extra hour to reach the small town & another two wandering around it to locate Orchid Retreat on Rinchingpong Road. A smiling hostess later explained that it was a private estate, which did not advertise itself commercially. A quick homely lunch & a breathtaking view from the cottage managed to soothe our nerves.

The small Kalimpong market shuts itself pretty early. The hostess also warned us that it will not be possible to get a cab after 8 p.m. So we were dropped at a corner where the golgappas, neatly stacked in transparent plastic, could be had for a song. The SBI ATM, with the shutters down, had a long queue outside. We spotted the restaurant, Kalash, & went inside. Last order for dinner at 7.30 p.m.! This left us with little time to explore. All we could see was a Durga Puja pandal on the road (there’s one on every street), which had turned one way. We ate a survival dinner and were refunded the coffee charges as the clock struck eight. In Kalimpong, It is the lights out time.

There was no TV in the Cottage’s rooms, which was a blessing in disguise; nor any newspapers with their daily dose of negativity & sensationalism. The small balcony, in front, had comfortable bamboo chairs. Over the railing, one could see lights, twinkling like stars, on the distant mountain slopes. In the clear sky above, the half moon spread its silvery light across the horizon. Jagjit Singh & Ghulam Ali’s ghazals played out of our mobiles. The melodies wafted through the mountainous air. Baat niklegi to door talak jayegi! It was sheer bliss!

The morning at Orchid Retreat was heavenly. We could hear the gurgling water of a stream from somewhere down below & decided to check. There was a rich variety of fauna & flora growing in abundance all around. The steps stopped after awhile with a wooden log blocking the way. We climbed over it and went through a path, which took us to the point where water gushed down a slope. As it wound its way round boulders & stones, it also carried a lot of garbage. We may someday give up the habit of littering.

The dining hall above was spacious & tastefully done. The teak panelling on the walls; the wooden floors & ceiling gave it a heritage look. Books for those who are fond of reading but the kids accompanying us were not bemused by the titles like ‘Hitler’. I could persuade the vegetarians amongst us to try an omelette and won a couple of converts. The mountains, lit by shafts of sunlight, & moist with overnight mist, peeped through the window. The beauty of nature is bountiful!

Delo Top afforded a good panoramic view of the mountain ranges around. A man could be seen para-gliding at a distance. We clicked a few pictures & descended to the Singh Dham temple where a large statue of Hanuman stood atop a hillock. Choosing steps over the ramp, we reach it & bowed our heads in reverence. My colleague commented favourably on the Hindi spoken by the priest but beat a hasty retreat when the latter revealed that he was a poet too.

Dr. Graham’s School, which attracts students from Sikkim to Kolkatta, was in state of repair. The church had suffered a major crack and was closed to visitors. The corners of some class rooms had come apart & were being filled. A blackboard showed English tenses were being taught when they broke up. A Class VII girl had left her school diary behind, which showed stickers of Valentine’s Day & Hanna Montana stuck on different pages. Romance starts pretty early these days!

We were taken next to Zang Dhok Palri Phodong Monastery, which was opened for us by helpful monks. The colourful interiors revealed Buddha in several forms with benches and prayer books placed in front. We went to the giant prayer wheel & swung it around. A metallic road hit a bell every time a circle was completed. Buddhist monasteries are a strange amalgamation of spirituality & splendour with strong emphasis on meditation. The sight-seeing for the day ended with a trip to a private Cacti collection. Never saw such bright, big flowers atop them in my life!

The next morning was the drive to Darjeeling with a new driver. Like nature, they too were bountiful on this trip! For a change, Bharat Thapa was an amiable man, who stopped to let us click a few pictures at the Golf Course. The Sikh guard looked at us almost with disdain. We crossed Teesta (my thoughts veered towards the social activist!) flowing down the hills. Thapa bemoaned the neglect of Kalimpong, which affected the tourist inflow. ‘This year, we have tourists in Kalimpong because they can’t go to Sikkim’. On his recommendation, we also bought Lopchu pedas made with pure cow milk. They were delicious.

We crossed a bridge over Teesta and ascended to a high point where the road took a sharp turn. Gosh! There was a confluence of two mighty rivers, Teesta & Rangeet about 1000 meters below us. What is amazing is that the colours of the two are clearly separable: the light brown of former & the dark green of the latter flowing along awhile. A cup of tea, some Chana Chat and a friendly chat with roadside vendors & we were on our way again.

‘Tomorrow is Dussehra. It’s our main festival in the hills. We worship our parents and if they are no more, their photographs. They apply Tika of rice on our foreheads; give us new clothes & money. We eat meat, drink & gamble’. ‘Drink’, I frowned. ‘Yes. The eldest gets rum, the younger men, beer but the boys, only milk or lassi. These are shaguns.’ I reminded my colleague that I was the eldest in the group but never got more than a cup of coffee so far.

We checked into Swiss Hotel around noon & were out soon to look for animals in the zoo. A wild boar and crackling sounds of a few exotic birds greeted us at the entrance. Few that could be spotted in other enclosures looked fatigued and sleepy. We ventured into the museum of the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute looking at ice-axes & snow-boots. We raced to the Tenzing Rock where, it was claimed, the Sherpa who climbed Everest used to practise. We were sceptical but let the young boy, U., roap-climb to the modest top. A., his sister, did not buy my offer of money to give it a try. Leos know what they crave for! Gombu Rock, across the road, a tougher target, hardly had any takers.

We spotted a few bamboo kiosks selling Darjeeling tea & snacks. Through them, lay a kuccha path around a few tea plants. The real gardens lay beyond. We were spell-bound by the patterns they made over the mountain slopes. The evening was spent on the Mall picking up bric-a brac from Tibetans and walking right up to Chorasta across some top confectionary shops & bars. Being in the company of teetotallers, I resisted the temptation citing Lord’s Prayer silently.

We were racing to the Tiger Hill at 4 next morning to see the Sunrise. The kids, like the shopkeeper who sold curios on the Mall, complained that Sun rises everywhere but trudged along. We had to trek the last mile as countless cars had blocked the way. Diesel fumes polluted the hill air. We looked around at the railing. Not an inch of space. I stood on my toes to catch a glimpse. The mountain sky soon changed crimson and the Sun, more like an electric bulb, shot up to the excitement of the crowd. To the Left, the Kanchenjunga peak caught the first rays from the East & shone majestically. Meanwhile the Tibetan girls, with cans in front kept shouting ‘Coffee! Cigarettes’ to people lost in nature’s glory.

We stopped at Batasia Gurkha War Memorial, partly to pay homage to the sturdy martial race & also to taste some pakodas and garam chai. Born spoiler that I am, I couldn’t resist taking to task the man who was selling tickets. ‘Why don’t you guys put the tiles, which have broken off the memorial, back in place? He was surprised, apologetic and assured me that it was being done. We ordered another cup of tea in relief.

Mirik, situated at an altitude of 1780 m, was the next destination. Dipak Rai, the driver for the day, halted at Jorpokhri lake, which was full of noisy ducks giving themselves a good wash. For driving us on the festival day, he was getting another hundred rupees. We stopped en route & went across the road. One could see a tiny hamlet at a distance. ‘You are standing in Nepalese territory’, the lady vendor informed us. A cheerful young girl with pink cheeks kept screaming at the group of visitors. ‘Buy at least something worth five rupees’. Our mobile phones promptly displayed NCell signs & an SMS wished us a pleasant stay in Nepal.

Mirik has a small, placid lake with wind causing ripples on its cool surface. Boating was ‘closed’ and the kids, nauseous with fast driving on serpentine hilly roads, refused to go anywhere near the horses. When nothing else works, try Punjabi food! We located Jagjit restaurant & ordered aloo-paranthas with solid dahi. The old, burly Sardar soon had more customers than he could handle on Dusshera day & ordered the main door closed. On our way back, at the border, a disinterested Indian policeman jotted down my name in a register, added ‘+6’ against it & told us we were free to go as far as Kathmandu. That’s what you call a porous border!

We shelled out 200 rupees on the Nepali side for just a 1 km ride to the lack-lustre Pashupati market & back. Hardly any shoppers since post-liberalisation, most of the stuff on sale, can be seen in any Indian market. No wonder, the Custom check-post, where kids from my wife’s school had their electronic toys confiscated years ago, was now reduced to a site-sign. Our ‘pleasant stay in Nepal’ lasted only 30 minutes.

We drove through more tea-gardens on hills and plains, to reach Bagdogra airport at 7.30 a.m. on the final day. The lone sentry informed us that the Staff will report for duty only at 8 a.m. so we sat on our trolleys surrounded by dead insects, littered poly-packs & used pet bottles: the gateway to the exotic hills of West Bengal.