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