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.
