भूरा...The ugly mule

I still remember the day Bhurra came into the world. Those repulsive eyes, the short black mane protruding from his stretched brown neck, long ears that stood out like a pair of antenna and such dastardly incisors that every donkey in town would hang its head in shame. The furry brown coat he wore had countless patches and spots of different colors, symbolizing the passionate outcome of a moment of weakness between a donkey and a mare. Who would believe that this ugly, dwarf of a mule was the offspring of Champa, the same Champa who was a direct descendant of the magnificent stallion Rustom, gifted by the East India Company to the prince of Tehri. The prince of Tehri was so happy with the dishes my father cooked for him as the Khansama(cook) that he decided to gift him Champa. Champa was a beautiful mare and had many suitors. But such was her curiosity for the unknown that she could not resist the idea of having a fling with the dhobi’s donkey. Bhurra was a consequence of that fateful, one night stand between a donkey and a mare.

It took only two years for me to realize that Bhurra had inherited more of the chromosomes from his father. Devoid of any equine grace, his incessant braying for food at night gave us many sleepless nights. Contrary to his small, dwarf size, the mule ate like a giant. Be it chick pea, rajma, dried stalks of pumpkin or for that matter less edible items like polythene bags and plastic, this mule had an appetite for everything. On one occasion, he even tried to nibble off the slipper the milkman’s son was wearing. On another occasion he drank half a bottle of whiskey to quench his thirst and ended up eating the entire fresh barley crop grown by the neighbour. And the gluttony was followed by continuous droppings of smelly, dirty, mule - dung strewn all over the village. By the time he was six I was fed up with Bhurra. I even lost my job as a Forest guard because Bhura decided to satisfy his hunger with the exotic species of high altitude orchids that had been planted in the greenhouse. It was then that the village Pradhan suggested me the idea of using Bhurra to ferry pilgrims to the temple on the higher reaches of the hills. While I was initially very reluctant to take up a lowly job of a porter, the money was good and tourism was surging every year. I decided to give it a shot.

                Bhurra’s first customer was a fat, married wife of a rich gold merchant from Rajasthan. To add to the subcutaneous layers of fat, her jewellery further increased her weight by a few kilos. It took three men to get her on the saddle. However, Bhurra was not very keen to carry such a heavy package. He brayed and neighed and screeched to a grinding halt like a car with deflated tyres. While I pulled the rope tied to the halter around the nose, Bhurra raised his fore legs in the air and neighed like he was being forcibly taken to a war field. The fat lady lost her balance and slid down the saddle and landed on the ground with a thud that echoed through the Himalayas. Many bystanders felt a seismic tremor beneath their feet. Abuses were hurled and a huge crowd gathered at the spot. It was only after I offered my apologies by firmly clinging to the merchant’s feet for five long minutes that he decided to forgive me.

                With passing time, Bhurra got comfortable with pilgrims riding on his back. Although he never seemed to relish the idea of carrying obese middle aged men and women, he did a decent job carrying young children and old people. That morning, Bhurra was somehow way too reluctant to leave the stable. It was only after I showed him the cane that he drudged his way to the local market. It was overcast and chilly. However, such is the faith in our country that devotees fight against all odds to pay their reverences to the God of destruction, the God of the raring storm, Rudra or Shiva. An eighty year old woman, too frail to even walk at such high altitudes, decided to take a ride on mule back. By the time we reached Ram Bada, the mid point between the temple and Gaurikund, it began to rain very heavily. It took us much longer than our usual trekking time to reach the temple. After dropping the pilgrim at the temple, I decided to spend the night at a guest house owned by my brother in law.

                It kept on raining all night long as we sat huddled around the fire. It seemed like a pre monsoon shower but it had a strange intensity about itself. Uniyal ji, the owner of the Vaishno Bhojanalaya, talked about the erratic weather changes in the past few years. We discussed about the rampant constructions, encroachments on the river banks, diversion of rivers for hydel projects and widespread deforestation that had taken place near the temple. Hearing our conversation in the porch, the schizophrenic woman who claimed herself to be a divine foreteller, clad in a tattered tarpaulin sheet, began to angrily mumble at us, “You are all criminals. The fierce destroyer is watching you all from the glaciers. He will dance. He will dance in a frenzy and destroy all of you. His fury will swallow you. You will all die. You will all die.”

                Despite the heavy rains there was a steady flow of tourists at the temple over the weekend. The next morning, I wore my gumboots and raincoat and decided to return to my village. I was half way through the trek when I heard the screams of locals and pilgrims, “Badal phat gaya (The cloud has burst). Thousands of people have been swept away at the temple. Run for your life.” I knew I did not have much time to react to the situation. I decided to take the trail that led to the forests of Bhairon Chatti. The trail was slippery and too narrow for two persons to walk together. Luckily, I had Bhurra. We kept on moving uphill towards the dense forests of pine and deodar. I took shelter with Bhurra under a large rock and began to pray to the Gods.

The rain kept pounding at us incessantly. It was biting cold at night. Everything was so damp and moist that it was impossible to light a fire. I was scared. The stories of Him- tendua (snow leopard) and wild Himalayan bears narrated by my grandfather when I was a child reminded me of the lurking fears around me. My fingers had grown numb. I firmly hugged Bhurra in the night so that the heat generated through our bodies could prevent hypothermia from setting in. For over forty eight hours, Bhurra and I were stuck in the jungle, surviving on some local Himalayan berries and edible leaves. The skin on my face and fingers began to peel off because of the freezing temperatures and rain, my lips were chapped and bleeding and I felt too weak to even walk. I was stuck deep inside the dense deodar forests and there was little hope for rescue. To add to my woes, the trail I had taken to reach here had been completely washed away by the rains and landslides. On the third day, when it finally stopped raining, I realized that the only way I could reach human civilization again was by taking the treacherous thirty four kilometer trekking route passing through the mountains behind Jungle Chatti. With the last ounce of strength in my body, I somehow managed to sit on Bhurra’s back.

I do not clearly remember what happened after that. Overcome with hunger and cold, I kept on switching between a semi conscious and an unconscious state. When I did regain consciousness, I found myself lying on a bed in a hospital in Rishikesh, with a fractured leg and a dislocated elbow. It was the doctor who informed me that I had completed the thirty four kilometer trek and was airlifted from Guptkashi. I enquired him about Bhurra but he did not know anything about my mule.

I returned to my village after a month of that tragic disaster. Almost half the village had lost a young generation because of the flash floods and landslides. Yet, I was lucky to survive. Bhurra had rescued me. Bhurra had saved my life. My wooden house was covered in layers of debris and gravel. As the men dug through the debris and wreckage, I saw an old photograph appearing through the layers of rubble and mud. The same repulsive eyes, the short black mane, the long ears and the ugly incisors – Yet he looked like the most beautiful creature in the entire universe. Tears rolled down my eyes as I remembered my Bhurra one last time.

सिला गाँव का जागर

The long rubber blade of the windshield wiper swung back and forth, pushing away the water droplets in the slight drizzle. The first rains of summers brought with them a moist earthy smell through a scented breeze. Through the window I could see a vast expanse of a dry river valley surrounded with mountains and jungles of Sal trees. Leaves had started to appear on the branches of dry, deciduous katha trees, rendering life to their ghostly skeletons. In a few months, a seasonal river will flow through this dry, parched river bed. I had crossed Mal Devta, a small, secluded picnic spot in the outskirts of Dehradun, and was heading towards my destination – Silla gaon.

                Perched on the top of a hill at a distance of 24 kms from Dehradun, Silla is a tiny, concealed hamlet. I had heard that Silla was one of the very few places near Dehradun where the ancient tradition of Jaagar was still practised.  Jaagar is an ancient form of spirit and deity worship practised in the hills of Uttarakhand. An age old tradition that is deeply embedded in the social fabric of the Garhwal hills, Jaagar ceremonies are of two types. While Dev Jaagar involves invoking gods into the body of a human being called Dangaria, Bhoot jaagar involves invocation of the spirit of a deceased person in the body of Dangaria. Musical ballads with references to holy scriptures like the Mahabharata are sung by a Jagariya to call upon the gods and spirits. A jaagar can last as long as 21 nights and culminates with the Dangaria starting a frenzied dance before he addresses the grievances of the people gathered. Jaagars are often seen as a way to seek penance for a crime or as a way to seek justice from the Gods. The quiet, reclusive village of Silla has a famous temple where Bhoot jaagar is performed every year since 1906. In my urge to witness a jaggar, I decided to drive towards Silla in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

                As soon as I crossed Mal Devta, the road grew steep, narrow and unfamiliar. As I gained altitude, the rippling sound of the river Yamuna flowing below gradually faded away. Pebbles and rock debris of frequent landslides lay strewn on the roads preventing any chance of accelerating through the curved, zig zag roads. To add to that, I was stuck for an hour in the village Chamroli, courtesy a large marriage procession dancing to the tunes of Bedu Pako (local folk song). I stood there helplessly, admiring the ripe paddy fields exuding a mystical red color because of the falling rays of the setting sun. By the time I started again, it was dark. Silla was still another 15 kms away. I had almost covered half the distance when disaster struck. The halogen headlights initially dimmed and flickered for a few moments and then gave up completely. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. No cell phone signals. No traces of civilization nearby. Just the sound of crickets piercing the darkness. I took out my torch and barely managed to park the car on the side of the road. There was no way I was going to spend the night in the car. The nearest village was Chamroli and I started walking down. I had descended half a mile when I saw a narrow trail heading up on the side of a hill. Where the trail ended, I saw, what looked like a flame coming from a lamp. Perhaps a family of gujjars who had set up their camp, I thought. Before I could rejoice at the sight of humans, I was startled by the twitch of a hand on my back. I almost screamed and sprang around to see an old, frail woman standing infront of me. The light of my torch fell on her hollowed cheeks. Her face was marked with wrinkles and lines as old as time. A large nath adorned her nose like a reminder of her youthful beauty once upon a time. The collar bones protruded outwards because of the heavy sack of firewood she was carrying on her shoulders. The eyes were partly clouded with cataract, yet they exuded motherly compassion and love.

She looked at me with a wry, affectionate smile and asked “Have you lost your way, son?”

“My car broke down on my way towards Silla. How far is Chamroli from here, Amma ji ?”,I said.

“It would take you atleast an hour to reach. But it is not advisable to go alone in this darkness. Just last week, Bindumati’s calf was taken away by a leopard. I live in a small hut on the top of this hill. It is small but you can spend the night here. You can leave in the morning tomorrow.” said the old woman.

I happily obliged. The trail led us to a beautiful meadow of pines and willows. A fresh aroma of resin and pine cones filled the air. The hut was small but cute and cozy. The outside was made with stones and pine wood stacked together closely for insulation. It was covered with a chimney and a slanting wooden roof. The inside of the house had a neat, glistening floor of mud, a wooden cot and a small space for the earthen chulha (oven). Amma ji cooked me an early dinner of modest, sumptuous daal bhath (lentils and rice) with a local salad made with spinach and bhat (black soyabean). Post supper, we sat and chit chatted for a long time, talking about the hardships and daily struggles of hill folks. It was close to ten at night when I snuggled into the warmth of my sleeping bag.

I was awakened the next morning by the sound of chirping birds. I splashed water from the tap and looked around for Amma ji. It is common for the women of Uttarakhand to wake up early and leave to attend to their farms and collect firewood. Seeing no sign of her, I left the place and started walking towards my car. Since I was so close to Silla and I had the entire day to myself, I decided to pay a visit to the village and the temple.

By the time I reached the temple, locals informed me that the Jaagar had culminated the previous night. I was disappointed. Still, I decided to meet the jagariya who was a direct descendant of the person who built the temple in the name of Goddess Nanda devi in the year 1906. A large courtyard of stoned tiles stood infront of the temple. Remnant ashes from the havan lay scattered around the sacred fireplace. Sitting under a Peepal tree covered with shimmering, red colored chunnis, the jagariya, Mr Devi Prasad Gildiyal, narrated me the story of this old temple of Silla gaon.

The year was 1836. A widowed woman named Girija devi lived in Silla gaon. She had three sons who stayed with her. For many years before Girija Devi’s husband died, the family enjoyed abundance and prosperity. However, after his death, the sons grew greedy for the acres of land that had been bequeathed to their mother. She was tortured everyday. In the year 1840, Girija devi died of tuberculosis. In the years to come, the sons faced numerous adversities. They had their land but it never yielded crops. The trees withered and the family was reduced to state of utter penury and indigence. It was the curse of Girija devi. Then in 1906, Girija Devi’s great grandson instituted this temple for salvation of Girija devi’s soul. From that year onwards, a jaagar was organized every year to invoke the spirit of Girija devi and ask for her forgiveness. By the time the story ended, it left goose bumps on my arm. I walked into the temple to pay my reverence to the departed soul of Girija Devi. On one of the walls, I saw an old portrait of Girija Devi hanging on the wall. A chill ran down my spine. Gasping for breath with an open mouth I stood there, speechless, frozen and numb. The hollowed cheeks, the large nath around the nose, the wry smile and the beautiful, compassionate eyes, I had met Girija devi before.

On my way back to Dehradun, I stopped by the trail and climbed up the hill….Only to find an abandoned shepherd hut with piles of stones, mud and debris. 

Mal Devta

Mayal Lyang..The hidden land

I first heard about the Dzongu Lepcha reserve over a cup of coffee with a Catholic, Sikkimese friend of mine. The Dzongu hills of North Sikkim are proclaimed as a reserve to protect the already dwindling population of Lepchas, the original inhabitants of Sikkim. While the description of the places she visited created an image of a virgin wilderness in my mind, I was more enticed by the story of Mayal Lyang – the hidden land.

She narrated “Lepchas talk of a secret, hidden place in Dzongu called Mayal Lyang. Nestled amidst dense forests, the villagers in Mayal Lyang live by hunting, catching fish and farming. So fertile is the soil that everything grows here all year round. There is no disease or famine. The inhabitants of this village are blessed with eternal life. They start their day as children, turn into strong adults at noon and finally grow old at dusk. A Lepcha hunter once followed a black river into a wild forest at the base of  Kanchenjunga. He walked for days and nights in search of the elusive land of Mayal Lyang. On the third afternoon, behind ancient stones with inscriptions in his mother tongue “Ring rong”, he saw a wooden gate. This gate led him to Mayal Lyang – the hidden paradise. Never before had he seen such a world. Beautiful red pheasants called their partners sitting on the branches of peach trees blooming with small, white flowers. Water cascaded from the cliffs like the froth of hot, creamy milk. Enervated from the long journey, he sat beside the lake to quench his thirst. The water so sweet, the taste so pure, for a moment he thought it was his afterlife. As he walked further he saw a spectacular sight – a small village with seven picturesque wooden cottages. A path of stones with green shrubs of cardamom stood on either side as he felt the musky smell of a fresh harvest of millet crop.

'Chi' or 'Chang'

In the village, seven friends danced and made merry while drinking ‘Chi’ (a local lepcha drink made with millet) from their large bamboo mugs. Nobody was sad. The villagers happily welcomed the hunter to be part of their celebrations. He ate, drank, made merry and slept on a mattress of soft, green moss covered in a blanket of incredibly soft yak wool. The next morning, he remembered his wife and children in Pungtong and decided to leave Mayal Lyang. He thought “I will go and bring my family here”. So he came out of the gate and put some of his clothing near the ancient stones. Then, somewhere near the river, he left more of his clothing to mark a trail to return. However, when he came back with his family, he looked for his clothes but found nothing there. He only saw hills and an unending expanse of dense jungle. The Lepchas believe that a true, enlightened Lepcha can still find the path to Mayal Lyang – the hidden paradise.”

Dzongu blues, Tingvong village  Pic courtesy: Vikrant Chaplot

                A year from then, as our jeep trudged its way on the tarmac leading its way to Tingvong village in Dzongu, the story of Mayal Lyang ran across my mind. Admiring the breathtaking view of the last rays of sunshine kissing the peaks of mighty Kanchenjunga, we stepped into the beautiful cottage of our host, Dupden Lepcha, grandson of the famous Lepcha hunter Gora Lepcha. Early spring was abound with calls of the Himalayan cuckoo. As the sun fell, the sky painted a mesmerizing blue shade across the green mountains. Throughout the evening, I kept on pondering over the existence of Mayal Lyang. Can we search for it? Is there a miraculous chance by which we can enter this world? I coaxed our host Dupden to tell us more about this hidden paradise. To my disappointment, Dupden was happier narrating stories of managing his two wives, his adventurous escapades of youth and the customs of Lepchas in general. However, he promised to take us on a day long hike through trails of forests and villages the next day.

Pandim peak, Kanchenjunga ranges from Tingvong, Dzongu         Pic courtesy:Vikrant Chaplot

                We woke up early the next day to the call of the rooster. The morning sun kissed the peaks of Kanchenjunga, turning her red with beauty. Within minutes, the mighty ranges shone in all their glory, casting the spell of Cleopatra upon its spectators. Our journey in the quest of Mayal Lyang started early after breakfast. We had to tread our way down the hill, cross a river using an old suspension bridge and then
make a steep climb on the mountain on the other side. I thoroughly enjoyed the descent, listening to the chirping birds and enjoying the fresh mountain breeze. At every pit stop, I kept looking for some evidence of that mysterious land of Mayal Lyang. As we crossed the bridge and started climbing the arduous slopes, things turned a little difficult. The trail was steep, covered with slippery moss and crumbling stones and pebbles. While the athletic couple rushed to climb their way up and win the race, I was panting and sweating, dragging my aching feet on the slippery rocks. After a few hours of drudgery through this terrain, thirsty and hungry, we encountered a plain stretch of cardamom plantations.

Inscriptions on stones..The Lepchas practise Animism or nature worship

Adjacent to these low growing leafy plants was an ancient structure of stones. The entire structure was covered in religious inscriptions in Ring Rong and Tibetan. Perhaps a portal to enter into Mayal Lyang, I thought. I frantically searched for the gate. It was not there. I looked for any traces of evidence to turn the myth of Mayal Lyang into reality. It was not there. But behind the stones, ran a pipe with fresh, chilled water of the Himalayas. Dupden gently removed one end of the pipe from the detachable joint and we all took turns to quench our thirst. The water so sweet, the taste so pure, for a moment I thought it was my afterlife. 

Path to the hot spring      Pic courtesy: Vikrant Chaplot

  The trail led us to a natural hot spring in the midst of whispering woods. Mystical, white flags fluttered in the breeze on the side of a cemented path. We sat inside the warm pool for hours, drowsing our fatigue in the magical waters. After returning to Tingvong village, Dupden’s family welcomed us with Chi in bamboo mugs, ‘khapche’ (a local snack), bonfire and music. We ate and drank, sang songs around the fire, danced and made merry. Nobody was sad. Strong bonds of friendship filled the air with happiness. No disease, no famine, no worries.

As I lay down on the bed to sleep that night, I remembered my parents and the love of my life. I thought “I wish I could go and bring my family here”. Every part of my body ached with a sweet pain. A pain that told me that I had grown old today but I would be young again tomorrow. To the aching muscles, the bed felt like a mattress of soft, green moss covered in a blanket of incredibly soft yak wool. My heart had found its Mayal Lyang today as the quest for another Mayal Lyang will begin tomorrow.

 Mayal Lyang – The precious but priceless gifts life offers us everyday.                        

    Gaily bedight,

Dupden Lepcha's homestay in Dzongu

    A gallant knight,
   In sunshine and in shadow,
   Had journeyed long,
   Singing a song,
   In search of Eldorado.

  But he grew old,
  This knight so bold,
  And o'er his heart a shadow,
  Fell as he found,
  No spot of ground,
  That looked like Eldorado.

 And, as his strength
  Failed him at length,
  He met a pilgrim shadow -
  'Shadow', said he,
  'Where can it be - 
   This land of Eldorado?'

   'Over the Mountains
    Of the Moon,
    Down the valley of the Shadow,
    Ride, boldly ride,'
    The shade replied, - 
    'If you seek for Eldorado!'          

  - Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

                                  


                           

The Curse of Lord Someshwar..

सोमेश्वर देवता का श्राप ..

A sequel to the story of 'Pahadi' Wilson and Gulabo

 (http://rishovbiswas.blogspot.in/2011/05/pahadi-wilson-and-gulabo.html)

“In loving memory of Frederick Wilson

who died on 21^st July, 1883

aged 66 years and 7 months.”

Read the epitaph on an old, crumbling tombstone in the oldest English cemetery in Mussoorie. I had walked more than a mile along the Camelsback road to reach the graveyard. It was a chilly, rainy September evening. The cemetery stood on a nondescript, steep slant along the end of a cliff. There were no fences and most of the headstones lay in a dilapidated state, covered in years of moss and creepers. A chilly breeze went past my face accompanied with the feeble noise of a drizzle on rustling leaves. It was getting dark and eerie. I flashed across my torch through the inscriptions on the graves, wiping the years of mud and dirt. And there it was- The evidence of Wilson’s death on a grave in a cemetery in Mussoorie.

                Ever since my visit to Harsil, Uttarakhand three years back, I had been deeply intrigued by the character of ‘Pahadi’ Wilson. During my stay there, I heard numerous accounts of his life from the villagers of Mukhba and Harsil. Post his marriage to Gulabo, the beautiful, local girl from Mukhba, Harsil went through a phase of unprecedented economic prosperity. Wilson plundered through the higher reaches of the Himalayas for timber, musk, plumes and exotic species of plants and wildlife. Logs of timber were transported for sale through the Bhagirathi river. Snow leopards were killed indiscriminately for their fur and a massive number of musk deer were hunted for meat and musk. Wilson’s businesses flourished to such an extent that he minted his own coin, the Wilson rupee, in the region to replace the age old barter system. Wilson also introduced apple seeds, potatoes and green beans in the region of Harsil and beyond. During this phase, his wife Gulabo came to be known as ‘Rajmata’ while Wilson was hailed as the undisputed ‘Raja of Harsil’. Rajmata also bore Wilson three sons by the name of Nathanial, Charles and Henry. The villagers also informed me that Wilson often went to Mussoorie during summers, riding his horse, in disguise, to meet his British wife and son.

                As years went by, there was a growing voice of dissent against the Raja of Harsil. Over the years, villagers had mastered the art of living in harmony with the Himalayas. However, the sight of the denuded forests and the mindless squandering of natural resources did not go well with many of the local villagers. Still, the disquiet never turned into a protest against ‘Pahadi’ Wilson – not until the ‘Selku’ festival of the autumn of 1865.

                The Selku festival is celebrated in the ‘Bhadon’ month in Mukhba every year. Men and women sing and dance to express their gratitude to Lord Someshwar (incarnation of Lord Shiva) and Goddess Nanda Devi (manifestation of Goddess Parvati, residing in the twin peaks of Nanda Devi in the Himalayas). The festival culminates in a day long fair and a special ritual in reverence of the Gods. During the ritual, Lord Someshwara and Goddess Parvati appear in bodily form through some blessed, chosen villagers. What follows next are unimaginable, extraordinary feats like walking bare feet on razor sharp swords and reciting of the most ancient Shlokas of Sanskrit. Every year, a new set of locals are chosen by the Gods from among the gathering of the villagers of Mukhba to take the form of the revered Gods and Goddesses. Researchers and tourists often come to see the ritual out of sheer curiosity but return awestruck and dumbfounded – unable to find a scientific explanation for what they just witnessed.

                Like every year, Wilson, the Raja of Harsil was invited for the Selku festival in the autumn of 1865. Being the revered son-in-law of Mukhba, a grand reception was organized for him. However, as the great-great grand nephew of ‘Rajmata’ Gulabo narrated to me the events of the last day of the festival, I was overcome with growing astonishment, doubt, belief and disbelief again. Folklore has it, as Pahadi Wilson sat on his royal throne watching the ritual of the last day, Lord Someshwar appeared in the human form through the mortal body of Wilson’s servant. Speaking in the voice of the Lord himself, he instructed ‘Pahadi’ Wilson to immediately stop the plundering of Harsil and threatened him with dire consequences if he chose not to. Enraged and infuriated, the egoist in Frederick Wilson awoke from his slumber. Overcome with uncontrollable wrath, he stood up from his throne and thrashed the poor servant. What the crowd witnessed thereafter was something that is still etched in the memory of every inhabitant of Mukhba. Lord Someshwar stood up in anger and cursed the great ‘Pahadi’ Wilson – “Your lineage will sink into oblivion. None of your sons will live to continue your race. You will die an unhealthy, sick man”. Rajmata burst into a fit of tears, yet, all the villagers knew, the damage had been done.

                Tragedy struck Wilson in the beginning of the next year. His youngest son Henry died by falling into a deep gorge while trying to cross the Bhairon ghati bridge near Gangotri. Later on, eye witnesses said that he lost his balance from his horse while trying to hunt a wild boar in the hills. His body was recovered many miles away near Uttarkashi, flown by the mighty Ganges. Owing to the sharp boulders and stones, his face was smashed beyond recognition. In the same year, his son Charles went untraceable in the forests of Tapovan in the upper reaches of Gaumukh. In the coming years, Wilson decided to hand over the management of his multiple businesses to his eldest son, Nathanial. However, Nathanial had already taken to marijuana, drugs and alcohol. Villagers say he was convicted of murder and imprisoned by the British army. Nobody heard about him ever again. Before the death of his eldest son, at the behest of Rajmata Gulabo, Wilson tried to revert the curse of Lord Someshwar by offering his remorse through yajnas. However, every priest in the region declined his requests.

                Devastated and depressed, ‘Pahadi’ Wilson grew extremely frail and weak. His vision was partly blurred because of cataract in his left eye. In the year 1879, he left Harsil on his horse to meet his wife and son in Mussoorie. What occurred after that was something that is not known to the villagers of Harsil and Mukhba. In search of evidence of Wilson and his lineage, I visited the city of Mussoorie in the autumn of 2012. One of the most famous authors residing near Landour, at a steep incline of 2000 feet from Mussoorie, informed me about the cemetery on Camelsback raod where Wilson had been buried. Around five tombstones away from where Wilson had been buried, I came across another almost illegible inscription on a grave –

“In loving memory of Jefferson E. Wilson

Son of Frederick Wilson

August 2^nd, 1853 – July 21^st 1883

Aged 29 years, 11 months”

Later, I came to know that Wilson’s son from his British wife became mentally deranged and cut his own veins. Wilson died of a strange, inexplicable disease the same night. Locals informed me that his eyes turned blue and tears of blood had flown through them that fateful night. He could never escape the curse of Lord Someshwar. His British wife spent the remaining years of her life in solitude in an estate called the Astley Hall in Dehradun.

The Selku Festival Mukhba - Video

Mano ya na Mano...

A thin man in his forties, Dr. Rawat’s face radiated calmness and simplicity. Hailed as ‘pandit ji’ in the entire village, he was admired and respected by everyone – after all he had achieved the remarkable feat of instituting the first temple of Goddess Durga in the village. The temple was located on the top of a hillock at one end of the village, nestled between Pine and Sal trees. Every year, during navratri(nine day festival in honour of Goddess Durga), the temple was decorated and illuminated for celebrations.

            It was believed that on the ninth day of navratra, Goddess Durga would herself make her presence felt inside the temple premises to fulfill the wishes of all Her devotees. In a particular ritual in the evening, the spirit of Goddess Durga will enter into the body of the chosen one- our very own Dr Rawat. Led by curiosity of this news, I decided to visit the temple on the ninth day of navratra. After all, it is fortuitous to be able to see an educated doctor turn into an avatar of “Ma Durga”, I thought.

            As I entered the temple, I saw all the women of the village sitting in the courtyard singing bhajan-kirtan(hymn songs) in a local dialect. Dr Rawat stood infront of the idol of Goddess Durga, draping Her in a glistening red cloth(chunni). I fixed my gaze on him, waiting for the divine moment of enlightenment to arrive. The moment the clock struck 4, Dr Rawat rose from his place and left the temple. He returned in five minutes, clad in a glossy red colored saree. I almost spurt out a giggle, contemplating whether Goddess Durga had told him beforehand to wear a saree through e-mail. As he sat down on the chowki(pedestal), his body began to shake vigorously. In a few moments, he began oscillating his head to and fro, quite akin to the head-banging rockstars I had seen once on television. The divine moment had come as Ma Durga spoke in a squeaky, feminine voice to all Her devotees. Unable to satisfy my rational mind, I walked out of the temple with arrogance, chuckling and laughing at the histrionics of ‘Pandit Ji’.

            I woke up early the next day to bring milk. The milkman had a small stable adjoining his house with a large disclaimer on the gate “Beware of Dogs”. I rang the bell a couple of times and then opened the gate carefully to enter inside. Seeing no wild, unruly dogs around, I decided to cross the stable and reach the courtyard of the house to enquire about the milkman. I had just crossed the stable when I heard the snarling sound of a dog behind me. I turned around to be greeted by a ferocious Himalayan mongrel. Panic-stricken and nervous, I ran across the stable. As I tried to jump over a pool of fresh cow-dung, my foot slipped on a brick. The next thing I realized was the lovely fragrance of cow dung all over my face and an angry mongrel attacking my buttocks. I was saved by the milkman’s four year old son. The day started with four stitches, an anti-rabies injection and an antiseptic bath with dettol.

            I was recuperating from the trauma of the morning accident basking in the sun when one of my friends visited me for lunch. Himalayan rivers are filled with trouts(freshwater fish) during autumn. I was utterly pleased to see a bag full of trouts he had fished. Something to feel happy about finally, I thought. The trouts were marinated in a paste of ginger, garlic and local herbs and baked in the oven. We savored the fish with squash (buraas) made with rhododendron flowers. Little did I know what awaited me in the evening.

            It all started with an uncontrollable itching on the neck and the cheeks. Gradually, it spread to my ears and eyes and places unworthy of description. In a few hours, my eyes and face had swollen to an unimaginable size. To add to that, everything seemed weirdly distorted to my eyes. I rushed to the doctor immediately. It seems, there was an allergic reaction because of the fish I had for lunch. A couple of more anti-allergic injections were injected on my beloved behind which had already borne the brunt of a terrible day.

            The injections had a hallucinating effect and I slept off on my bed on returning home. I was woken up at the middle of the night by the oscillating sound of the armchair. I could see a figure in the armchair, clad in white kurta and pyjamas, moving to and fro on the chair. As I raised the lantern with fear, I saw the smiling face of Dr. Rawat in the darkness. “Ask for forgiveness”, he said. The moment I walked up to him, the figure vanished.

            I do not know what drove me to the temple the next morning, but that is the first thing I did after waking up. Kneeling infront of the deity, I prayed to Goddess Durga and asked for forgiveness. On returning home I saw a red, shimmering piece of cloth(chunni) lying on the armchair…..