Something worth sharing in the light of the recent Kedarnath tragedy

Perils of plain-speak in U.P. by Prashant Kumar

The suspension on June 28 of U.P.’s Special Secretary Revenue, Gurrala Srinivasulu, who plainly briefed the media about the casualties in the Uttarakhand disaster, has caused much annoyance among the I.A.S. officers in the state. The action, however, did not surprise those who have been watching with concern the antics of successive governments here for the past two decades. Repeatedly pestered by the media for several days to reveal the exact number of deaths of the pilgrims, tourists and rescuers from the state, the officer innocently spoke the truth: “How could one tell about the number of those who died when the number of people returning alive cannot be counted properly.” A section of the media, hungry for scandals, described the “comment” as “insensitive” and the government rushed to control “damage” to its “reputation” by ordering immediate suspension of the officer. 

Curiously, U.P. Chief Minister Akhilesh Yadav had a few days back told the media at Lucknow that his government had paid a compensation of twenty lakh rupees to the families of each of the two rescuers from U.P. who had died in the chopper crash. A couple of days later, the media were officially informed that the crash victims from the state were as many as five and not just two. Given the large number of unidentified bodies recently found in and around Ramabada in Rudraprayag district and more feared buried under the silt, which “sensitive” government officer could cite an exact number of deaths of the pilgrims or the tourists from U.P. or, for that matter, any other state?

Whereas Uttarakhand Chief Minister Vijay Bahuguna has put the flash flood death toll at one thousand, the hill state’s Speaker Govind Singh Kunjwal claimed on June 30 that the figure could very well cross ten thousand. How does one expect any officer of any state to give a correct figure in such a confused scenario?

A state government that takes pride in honouring tainted officers (including convicts) with prized posts, and frequently keeps dozens others on wait list just because they do or do not belong to a particular caste or lobby, has no moral right to define sensitivity or its antonym. Victimisation of innocent officers (this time a Dalit), who are not cunning enough to hide embarrassing truths, does no good to the image of a government facing a severe deficit not only of officers and budget, but public trust as well. 

On the Kedarnath floods

 My article in OutlookIndia, click here:
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?286547

 For the original, here it is:

The smaller voices must be heard. Of the shepherd who looks worryingly at the snow peaks that seem to have an extra cloud cover than usual, of the water bearer who is apprehensive of the stream water being cooler than normal, of the woman carrying firewood and cattle feed home, wondering why the wood is mossy and not just damp like every year.

The Kedarnath tragedy has been explained away by geologists as flash floods, as an avalanche of slush and mud that came hurtling down the Kedarnath Dome. Logically, everybody is more focused on the rescue work, its feasibility and of course, its criticism pinpointed at the State and Central governments. 

Geographically, the mountains are still young and vertically rather than horizontally inclined. Hence, flash floods, cloud bursts during the monsoon are the norm here. The natives of the area are habituated to varying degrees of damage that the monsoon unleashes on them each year. Flash floods had destroyed 20 out of 2200 villages in Almora district in 2010. Should this, however, remain the normal pattern of life in the hills?

Nonchalantly describing life in the mountains for the locals and the army, an officer tells this writer that the monsoons are difficult times, perhaps harsher than the winter. Shepherds cannot take their cattle out to graze due to torrential rains, local viruses thrive and sicken the children, dry firewood and provisions become prized possessions. Winters can be handled with woolens and fires. He speaks of army casualty in 2011, due to a cloud burst, while attempting to summit the Bandarpoonchh peak in the lower Himalayas. He also speaks of the casualties suffered by the army while attempting to build bridges over swollen rivers and strong water currents.

The issue at hand must be how to avoid severe damage in such disasters, rather than focus on an effective cure after human life has been lost in alarming numbers. Climate change is a global phenomenon, but we hardly seems to care about it, beyond aping the West in gentrifying our ghettos, increasing the GDP and becoming increasingly consumerist.

Perhaps we have something to learn from the Inuit tribe of the Arctic region. The Inuit are a group of culturally similar indigenous people inhabiting the Arctic regions of Greenland, Canada, United States and Russia. Their trade, movement and hunting depend majorly on the amount of ice in the Arctic, and visible climate changes have affected their lifestyles in a massive way. The elder generations of the Inuit have been collecting data on climate change, in their own fashion, for centuries. Their knowledge is now incorporated into scientific studies of the region. Subhankar Banerjee attracts our attention to this phenomenon in his book, Arctic Voices: Resistance at the Tipping Point.

There are frequent indications of the weatherman’s limitations in this country. In January 2012, parts of Pathankot in Himachal Pradesh witnessed snowfall for the first time in recorded history. “The met officials,” the Indian Express reported, “could not elaborate the reasons behind the event.” In January last, villages like Kana and Jwalabanj in Almora district of Kumaon witnessed heavy snowfall after decades. And the same area reported intense heat and unheard of temperatures in March this year. 

It is interesting to note that the locals seem to sense climate change far better than people who study the phenomenon. In Kumaon region this year, locals were convinced that things were a little unusual. The signs of climate change here were subtle. Steering down a road at Bhawali in Nainital district, a local cab driver looks down at the Kosiriver and says, “the current is stronger than usual. I’m sure the rains will play havoc but the pilgrims will not stay away even if the roads vanish completely”. Similar stories were heard at Kapkot in Bageshwar district of Uttarakhand, where the Saryu runs its course.

This year the rhododendron flowers blossomed in the beginning of February instead of the usual end of March or early April. There was more snowfall than is normal in Leti area of Bageshwar district of Kumaon, going on till early March. This was followed by intense bouts of harsh sunlight and heat over the next few days. Clouds over the Panchachuli range would usually move in over the peaks around sunset, but this year it would happen close to mid-evening. Cloud inversions are common but not an everyday phenomenon, like they were this year.

It is the ordinary local people who always witness such changes in weather conditions, suffer the damage and set up their own meager rescue operations. Why do we ignore these voices? 

Kedarnath witnesses a footfall of thousands of pilgrims each year. This season and next year too, will presumably witness similar numbers. Some might be mourners seeking blessings for those who lost their lives in this tragedy, while others will challenge themselves to face the harsh conditions of this terrain, in lieu of ‘God’s’ blessings.

Devotees of Lord Shiva have put up pictures on the internet, proudly stating how despite the damage, the Kedarnath temple stands proud. Pictures of Shiva’s statue too, show a smiling god, head held proudly above the slush and its debilitating current. What people fail to realize is that religious fervor alone cannot stand strong against the important messages that nature is sending our way, on an alarmingly regular notice. Isn’t human life far more precious than the stone model of a temple?

It is indeed, pitiful, that Garhwal or Kenderkhand (meaning: of forts) could not fortify itself against the wrath of nature that seems to connote more than we are willing to understand. We can only hope that the voices of the marginalized masses will be given more importance than their categorization into evening market square gossip; and effective measures will be taken to minimize damages from such calamities.

The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

Without lending it a plethora of idealist thought or fanciful moralizing, here’s a true story for those who believe in what switchfoot so beautifully presented in the song: “The Shadow Proves The Sunshine”.
Early on in December, several years ago, I boarded a public tempo to make it to school in time. School buses have their history of negligence and errata, and mine too failed to arrive at all. No one being home, I had to fend for myself. Bunking was out of question, exams being on their way.
As I sat impatient, waiting for the tempo to fill up (a hazy hope considering it was early morning and winter had set in with its infamous bone-chilling winds), I looked out of the window and saw many cars whiz by; those richer, luckier, without-a-worry-in-the-world schoolkids being escorted by parents or chauffeurs. Needless to add, I felt very lonely and uncared for. While these students made it on time thanks to doting parents, my father always expected independence from me. Something I learnt a lot from, but at that point of time in a particular situation it just hurt and made me hate him.
So I waited, knowing that once I reach, I would be chided for indiscipline and laziness while those enjoying all the luxuries their parents shower on them would be upheld as wonderful “responsible” kids.
It was then that I noticed a little boy of twelve sitting next to me, trying very hard to peep into my satchel and also gazing at my uniform as if it was a rare treat for the eyes.
As against my neatly polished shoes and trim clothes, this boy was dressed in filthy rags and had no shoes on. I could also notice sharp little cuts on his feet which showed signs of continuous bleeding. A wave of sympathy and utter helplessness hit me. I tried initiating a conversation with him. I asked him what he was carrying in that bigger-than-himself sack. He looked at it, chuckled and told me that he worked in a liquor shop which paid him Rs.30 a month and also allowed him to carry home the empty bottles which he then sold for a rupee each. On further prodding, he said that he lived with his mother and whatever he earned, he handed over to her.
On this particular day, he was traveling on a vehicle because the previous night some drunkard had manhandled him and in the resulting commotion, he had lost his pair of slippers. He rued over the “immense” loss of money it would be to him, in making this trip since he was unable to walk home bare-footed.
I offered him a sandwich which he devoured and looked up at me, smiling a smile that shone to his eyes, a dazzle of happiness on his face and yellowing teeth bursting forth from a grin. As our destinations came closer, all I could do for him then was to pay his fare but, he refused and quite vehemently so, to take any more money from me which I had offered so that he could buy himself shoes.
As I began walking up the school driveway, noticing other schoolgirls chatting, fidgeting, walking around…those smiling faces, it struck me that I had learnt a very important lesson from that boy.
There I was, cribbing about the lack of a car to take me to school, considering the tempo a huge nuisance; and here was someone much younger than me, with the responsibilities of a family, for whom the very idea of using a vehicle was a prized issue.
There I was, bitterly fighting back tears at my parents’ “uncaring attitude”; and here was someone who selflessly earned to provide for a widowed mother.
There I was, wondering what light existed in my life with these shadows all around; and here was someone, who taught me that, the shadow proves the sunshine...

Nameless Verse

I yearned for a walk

So I went to the jungle of lights

A jungle of shiny trees, magic steps and bland flowers

In the jungle, I saw the shops of wealth

I went to the shoe shop and saw people

Spending 5000 on a pair of zero comfort shoes

Shoes that made them yelp with pain and glee

Shoes that convinced them,

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was rank with their leather-worn thoughts

So I went to the clothes shop and saw people

Spending 10000 on a jacket of stars

Clothes with no warmth but all sexiness

Clothes that convinced them,

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was tepid with fools

So I went to the cosmetics shop and saw people

Spending 12000 on things to wash themselves with

Creams and shampoos of fruit and herbs

That cannot be eaten but convinced them,

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was nothingness hanging, like a black hole

So I went to the food shop and saw people

Spending 3000 on pizza and beer

Exclaiming, “this is a good deal!”.

Eating here gives me a good reputation.

It’ll land me good sex on the weekend.

The air was worse than the other stores,

So I left this jungle and went outside

I saw a box for orphanage donations.

All these people, they frowned and looked away.

They would not spend even a 100 on it.

They complained of charity seekers populating their jungle

I laughed and walked away, knowing

It’ll not land them good sex on the weekend.

Awake in Amma's Memories

The silence of a dead person

Screams into my sleepless nights

Little films of her life

Play a muted show in my head.

Reality stabs a dull, permanent heartache

Into the cliches of old books I've read--

All stand true about death.

Regret, gratitude, the unknown,

Loss and shattered lives--

All haunt me in solitude.

The physical nothingness is a mere catalyst

To her voice that told tales of yore, of morality.

My mind softens the blow with delusion--

"She's only gone a while".

My heart retorts, throbbing--

"Why is she gone even a while?"

I am treading a path I have not yet found

Of the loss of the few left behind.

I have realised hopelessly--

Torment of death is lifelong.

The Forgotten Tale of Myths

I like watching mythological serials with my grandmother. As the sun pours out relentlessly outside, wilting our garden plants, i smile to myself – happy to have the air cooler breezing right to my face. It is this sense of relief from physical discomforts that makes me relish home.

Home becomes a luxury during vacations; you get to sleep on a comfortable bed, use electricity without a worry about your meter charges; eat without first lightening your wallet and use working geysers and flushes instead of buckets! For a student, these become treasured items that home promises. And I, for one, am exceedingly happy about these, besides all the fun an elderly grandmother and a quirky father can provide.

Our daily ritual involves some very very diverse schedules. I , for as long as i can remember, I wake up at sharp 6am only to throw myself on my grandmother’s bed downstairs and cuddle with her. There is something uniquely strange and comforting about hugging a frail old lady. She is over eighty years old, an asthma patient of the past five decades but has a surprisingly strong hand grip. She cribs , “don’t hog my bed” and i retort, “its only for a while”. Sometimes, if she’s had nightmares, i am allowed to come straight in to comfort her. Half an hour of jostling, teasing and finally being kicked out later, i slump in the third bed in the living room.

My family is a family of sleepers. It is indeed a genetic thing with us that if any of us is ill, you dont have to take care of the sick. Just let me be and let me sleep. Also, we take turns in holding records for number of hours slept! My father being the current champ clocking 18 hours (and no loo breaks). On account of this eccentricity (read, addiction), we have beds or diwans in all the rooms of the house. The drawing room sofa is always the place of contention for us. it is an old brown sofa made worse with huge puddle-like dents, by being slept on by each one of us. my uncle and i love to stretch out on it, arms tucked warmly under the chest, sleeping on our stomachs till finally somebody yells “stop trying to be rip van winkle” or “the cook won’t be happy you didn’t go vegetable shopping”.

The cook has such an intense place of importance in our household, but that is another story. After lunch is done, and my two fathers have finally left to open the bookstore, at 2pm in the afternoon (that also is another story), i am now at peace to relax, nap and watch my grandma’s favourite serials.

My grandmother and I follow a strict regimen when the men are not at home. We nap till 4pm or I wash clothes in the cemented courtyard which reminds me of the winter days i spent there, playing in the sun, while my hyperactive grandmother sun bathed and knitted and chatted with the backyard neighbour, all at the same time.

I was obsessed with chalk when i was little, and i loved drawing all sorts of art (?) on the concrete expanse. This was replaced by the desire to become a skater and the courtyard now became my personal ramp, witness to blood and countless bruises that still scar my legs.

As i hand wash clothes in the courtyard, these memories visit me from time to time. I do not feel like i have grown up at all but then the neighbour’s son peeps out of a window and i gasp, “he’s grown so much, but he was so little just a while ago”. By the time my mathematically retarded mind is able to calculate, i realise he was that young more than a decade ago.

If i am in the courtyard, my grandmother always walks to the door and smiles at me. Since she is always in the danger of falling if walking by herself, i scold, “what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to walk by yourself. What if you fall? What will happen then? How will we manage?”. To this tirade, she merely gives me her most appealing smile and my heart melts.

I cannot expect her to shackle herself to the antique bed in the living room, which is her entire world now. As i yell at her, i feel a pull on my throat like someone is tugging away with nails, right to my heart. And she merely smiles and repeats with a childish monotone, “you’re washing clothes. Then you will make tea for me and then we’ll watch the Ramayana”, ending again with a big smile under her brown framed spectacles.

Heaven help me if i am a minute late in making tea in the evening. She will try every trick in the book to make me wake up or leave the work at hand. This includes not merely our little tea ceremony but also sitting down (not budging at all) for two hours of her serials. Nevertheless, i like this period of watching ridiculously dressed hairy monsters aiming neon-lit arrows at cardboard chariots.

One of my grandma’s favourite tricks is what i like to call “the loo matrix”. This means that if you busy yourself with household chores or are not by her side, she will announce, “i am going to the toilet”. All of us are over-possessive about my grandma and her health. Hence, i go running behind her to assist; she will sit there for exactly two seconds, get up and shuffle across the corridor to her bed. Repeat this a dozen times in a span of half an hour.

The “loo matrix” is something that tests your wits and patience numerous times in a day. it nearly always implies one of us becoming so enraged so as to yell at grandma at the top of our voices; as if shouting will make this incident not repeat itself.

Anyway, its 4pm and of course I need to switch on the television. Grandma will be suspicious if you’ve put on her favourite serial or not because she cannot differentiate on the basis on advertisements and sitcoms. If the brightly robed monsters and gods are not on the screen, I must have put on the wrong channel. This episode repeats itself five days a week until thankfully, the weekend arrives and she knows the serials are not on anymore.

Despite the strains of looking after an elderly person, it is endearing and poignant to watch the Ramayana, the Mahabharata or tales of famous Indian gods with my grandma. She hardly seems to understand much of what is going on and when roused, “why are you not watching?”, she innocently replies, “they’re only fighting”.

Most tales of Hindu gods and goddesses involve wars, prolonged living in the jungles and an indescribable number of monsters and devils, threatening to ruin the perfect ending. The twists and turns in these tales are exhaustive and complete stories in themselves. And that is why i enjoy them.

One unique aspect of these tales of yore is how, despite having watched them umpteen times, one does not tire of them. though the animation is poor (and i am being generous by saying poor), the acting bordering on ridiculous and the costumes and props downright garish, there is a pull and an awe surrounding these tales that even the family soap opera crazed channels cannot ignore.

This two hour television watch involves grandma precociously putting on her spectacles, pulled out carefully from their leather casing; she then wraps one of her umpteen handkerchiefs (another story!) around a finger on the left hand (she had a mild injury on it once, and still believes in curing it by keeping it warm. Its been two years since she bruised it). only when the serial comes on, does she begin to sip her tea, two marie biscuits and an Indian sweet.

I have come to realise that old age shackles as well as releases the binds of life on a person. My grandmother is unconcerned with her own loved ones daily lives; but she shows semblance of remarkable clarity when it comes down to emotions. When i called off my engagement, my grandmother asked me over the phone, “you are happy, right? Don’t be sad”. Simple yet insightful, heart rending yet a joyous realisation that i am still, a little granddaughter to her and always will be.

The Stars at Leti

The dry grass plateau of Leti has more to it than cricket matches and sunrise breakfasts. Of course, the 360 degree view of the HiraMani glaciers on the left, the plunging Ram Ganga valley in front and Leti village on the right are breathtaking in their sheer serenity; however, for me the high point, the feeling “I have arrived” only came when evening set in.

The stars here are beyond written or photographic delineation. Thousands (literally) of them look down upon you, twinkling at what seems to be, within your hands’ reach.

It reminds me of the floating lanterns of Thailand, that fly away and above us, into oblivion. The eternal wonder of constellations will remain unchanged in a scenic setting such as this; city life not only numbs but also blinds one. Slowly but surely we are reaching a stage where we create our own bubble of grey around the earth. Here in the mountains, there is time to perceive, to behold the simpler, keener beauties of life steeped in nature.

In my first few days here, the silence of the mountains screamed into my ears while my mind became instinctively alert to each buzzing bee, to the flapping wings of a majestic and proud Himalayan Griffin.

A few days in this peaceful haven and I am one with the purity of its silence. It speaks volumes to me—in the chirping of birds, in the crunching of leaves underfoot, in the smoky trail of remote hill houses, in the laughter of its people and in their strengthening diligence.

The soothing yet firming contrast of the hot afternoon sun and the cold evening, convey to me, a lesson of life. The only way to sharpen yourself, and to truly feel the rewards of your fight in life, is to face the adversity with as much contentment as cherishing a warming sun. A friend once said, “contentment is easier to pursue, and slightly more long lived, than happiness”. At Leti, it is contentment I find, and happiness than causes smiles in being so illusory, in the remoteness of this place.

I am sitting in candlelight, jotting down memoirs of a greedy mind—stuffed with experiences and wanting more, fretting over its smallness. While a fire crackles warmly in the “bukhari”, ideas jostle for space in my head, wanting to be the first to have an outlet. The fire of the “bukhari” blazes domineeringly, asking me, mocking my short stay, “Where does your life lie?”.

Leti invests a sense of want—to capture every grain of it on camera, in writing, tattooed to memory, for a lifetime. The living room, lit in surreal tea lights, stone walls effervescently glowing, reminding me of the Himalayas towering all around me.

The cottage boasts of a delightful sitting area, besides the pampering warm bed. A fire pit, a planter’s chair and a miniature stool for a book await one, while mustard flowers frisk playfully in the wind.

In the evening, the clear contrast of white peaks, blue skies and brown rock is transformed into a riot of colours. The snow peaks become tinged with a delightful shade of pink, as of blushing and glowing to the onset of its fearsome, awe-inspiring love—the night.

I am greedy to be here for poetry, for writing. The place inspires one to write feverishly, maddeningly, into throes of an uncontrollable creativity that pushes aside rationale and calls for a euphoric, insane love. Of mountains, of people, of life—penned to histories of the self.

Photo copyright: Paul Kennes