To the Wilderness ( Mountain Adventures-1)
The climb to Khatara had been steep. It was a mountain village with just two huts, falling on the trek route to Madmaheshwar.
In one of the huts lived a man, all by himself. His wife and children lived in the town while he was here earning a living for the family. The other hut housed two young girls and their mother. The girls were around 10 to 12 years of age. Their father was a pony-man at Kedarnath, taking pilgrims up and down the mountain. He came home to Khatara in the winters when the temples were closed, and Kedarnath vacated due to the thick snow.
Now it was the month of June. Pilgrims and tourists flocked to Uttarakhand. Our trek route was relatively deserted. We chose the hut belonging to the girls and their mother, Deepa. She charged a meagre 150 bucks per room. We took two. They HAD just two rooms besides their own. Even if the floors and walls were of mud and polished with fresh cow dung, everything was clean. The mattresses on the beds and the quilts were sunbathed. Although the bathroom was open and near the cowshed ( where I'd have to be slapped unconscious to go), the amenities available at this height were like manna from heaven. 150 bucks were really nothing. Dinner too would be served.
A lone nameless snow-covered peak peered gigantically through two pine trees just before our hut. We watched it change colour as evening fell to night. Deepa lit the kerosene stove and called her daughters to knead the dough for the chapattis. Three small figures sat in the candlelight, looking as if they belonged to an entirely different world. They spoke in the local tongue and giggled and at times, went entirely quiet, all the while, their frail hands working frantically. When their work was done, the girls got up, cleaned and dried their hands and then lit the sole CFL that they had in the hut. It was time for them to do their homework. They got their books out and with shy glances in our direction, started reading out loud.
The elder child was called Renu and the younger one, Radhika. Everyday, they had to go 5 km downhill to Gandour for school and climb back 5km. All on foot. Even the nearest dispensary was at Gandour. Everytime the girls fell ill, Deepa had to run there to fetch the medicines. The girls had to be left all alone at home, at the mercy of nature.
After dinner, I stood on the mud threshold of the hut and looked up at the night sky. It was a deep chasm of midnight blue. The full moon was up, defeating the stars with its milk-white beams. Moonlit, the nameless peak shone like liquid silver. All was still except the distant call of some wild beast hunting in the forests surrounding us and the timid racing of my heartbeat. When the call echoed off and came to an end, a light breeze blew like spring across my face. It was a bitter cold, bone-biting type. So,I couldn't stand there for long. Going back into my room, I climbed under the warmth of the quilts. In this part of the world, there was nothing to do after sundown. A lone dragonfly relentlessly buzzed around the candle flame and a beetle sat tapping on the window-sill. Renu and Radhika were preparing their beds as their mother did the dishes. I shivered at the very thought of touching the ice-cold water. Deepa, with her thin, weather-beaten fingers had no time to think and fear. What was adventure for us, was routine life for her. The deep, dark mountains, the forests with their flesh-hungry predators, the life-threatening hill tracks, possibilities of landslides or forest fires - all of these were perhaps, normal life to her.
My phone was switched off. This area had no network coverage. Within a diameter of roughly 7km, we and the man living in the hut below, were the only humans. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I fell asleep to the smell of earth.
At dawn, someone had banged open our door, dampening the whole room with the mist. My uncle was screaming out, " Watch the sunrise!! Wake up!!" With groggy eyes and my quilt wrapped around me, I came out and instantly, a thousand ice-tipped needles seemed to claw at any bare skin that was left uncovered. Renu and Radhika, wearing just a shrug each, giggled on seeing me and raced up the mountain to deliver cow's milk to the village above. By the time we set out for Madmaheshwar, they were halfway down to Khatara. Speed. I must say. They smiled shyly. Their eyes glowed. We had promised to send them their photographs by post. Renu had herself written the address on a piece of paper with a broken Hindi handwriting. Their mother had smiled and said quietly,"Noone remembers us after they return home..."
We were back home about 10 days later - back to the life that is normal for us. Radiowaves jammed the air again. Vehicle horns buzzed instead of dragonflies and beetles. The hangover of the holiday was slowly subsiding.
When the photos were printed, we segregated those which would be posted to Uttarakhand. A year has passed. The envelope has remained unsent. Everyone got so busy. Those glowing eyes and innocent smiles of Renu and Radhika were forgotten. Perhaps they kept waiting, and one day, even they forgot. When they grow up, they will say like their mother," Noone remembers us after they return home..."
They belong to the wilderness, to the simple ways of life. I know they wouldn't curse us if they never received the photos, even if we get restless if a friend is late in posting our photos on facebook. But, I can't help feeling guilty. By now, that chit of paper with the address inked on it has vanished too. I just tell myself," Okay chill! They are happy out there even without your photos. They live that adventure everyday which you dream of living just for a day! Doesn't that make them lucky enough?"
But of course, the grass is always greener on the other side....
In one of the huts lived a man, all by himself. His wife and children lived in the town while he was here earning a living for the family. The other hut housed two young girls and their mother. The girls were around 10 to 12 years of age. Their father was a pony-man at Kedarnath, taking pilgrims up and down the mountain. He came home to Khatara in the winters when the temples were closed, and Kedarnath vacated due to the thick snow.
Now it was the month of June. Pilgrims and tourists flocked to Uttarakhand. Our trek route was relatively deserted. We chose the hut belonging to the girls and their mother, Deepa. She charged a meagre 150 bucks per room. We took two. They HAD just two rooms besides their own. Even if the floors and walls were of mud and polished with fresh cow dung, everything was clean. The mattresses on the beds and the quilts were sunbathed. Although the bathroom was open and near the cowshed ( where I'd have to be slapped unconscious to go), the amenities available at this height were like manna from heaven. 150 bucks were really nothing. Dinner too would be served.
A lone nameless snow-covered peak peered gigantically through two pine trees just before our hut. We watched it change colour as evening fell to night. Deepa lit the kerosene stove and called her daughters to knead the dough for the chapattis. Three small figures sat in the candlelight, looking as if they belonged to an entirely different world. They spoke in the local tongue and giggled and at times, went entirely quiet, all the while, their frail hands working frantically. When their work was done, the girls got up, cleaned and dried their hands and then lit the sole CFL that they had in the hut. It was time for them to do their homework. They got their books out and with shy glances in our direction, started reading out loud.
The elder child was called Renu and the younger one, Radhika. Everyday, they had to go 5 km downhill to Gandour for school and climb back 5km. All on foot. Even the nearest dispensary was at Gandour. Everytime the girls fell ill, Deepa had to run there to fetch the medicines. The girls had to be left all alone at home, at the mercy of nature.
After dinner, I stood on the mud threshold of the hut and looked up at the night sky. It was a deep chasm of midnight blue. The full moon was up, defeating the stars with its milk-white beams. Moonlit, the nameless peak shone like liquid silver. All was still except the distant call of some wild beast hunting in the forests surrounding us and the timid racing of my heartbeat. When the call echoed off and came to an end, a light breeze blew like spring across my face. It was a bitter cold, bone-biting type. So,I couldn't stand there for long. Going back into my room, I climbed under the warmth of the quilts. In this part of the world, there was nothing to do after sundown. A lone dragonfly relentlessly buzzed around the candle flame and a beetle sat tapping on the window-sill. Renu and Radhika were preparing their beds as their mother did the dishes. I shivered at the very thought of touching the ice-cold water. Deepa, with her thin, weather-beaten fingers had no time to think and fear. What was adventure for us, was routine life for her. The deep, dark mountains, the forests with their flesh-hungry predators, the life-threatening hill tracks, possibilities of landslides or forest fires - all of these were perhaps, normal life to her.
My phone was switched off. This area had no network coverage. Within a diameter of roughly 7km, we and the man living in the hut below, were the only humans. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I fell asleep to the smell of earth.
At dawn, someone had banged open our door, dampening the whole room with the mist. My uncle was screaming out, " Watch the sunrise!! Wake up!!" With groggy eyes and my quilt wrapped around me, I came out and instantly, a thousand ice-tipped needles seemed to claw at any bare skin that was left uncovered. Renu and Radhika, wearing just a shrug each, giggled on seeing me and raced up the mountain to deliver cow's milk to the village above. By the time we set out for Madmaheshwar, they were halfway down to Khatara. Speed. I must say. They smiled shyly. Their eyes glowed. We had promised to send them their photographs by post. Renu had herself written the address on a piece of paper with a broken Hindi handwriting. Their mother had smiled and said quietly,"Noone remembers us after they return home..."
We were back home about 10 days later - back to the life that is normal for us. Radiowaves jammed the air again. Vehicle horns buzzed instead of dragonflies and beetles. The hangover of the holiday was slowly subsiding.
When the photos were printed, we segregated those which would be posted to Uttarakhand. A year has passed. The envelope has remained unsent. Everyone got so busy. Those glowing eyes and innocent smiles of Renu and Radhika were forgotten. Perhaps they kept waiting, and one day, even they forgot. When they grow up, they will say like their mother," Noone remembers us after they return home..."
They belong to the wilderness, to the simple ways of life. I know they wouldn't curse us if they never received the photos, even if we get restless if a friend is late in posting our photos on facebook. But, I can't help feeling guilty. By now, that chit of paper with the address inked on it has vanished too. I just tell myself," Okay chill! They are happy out there even without your photos. They live that adventure everyday which you dream of living just for a day! Doesn't that make them lucky enough?"
But of course, the grass is always greener on the other side....
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