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…..

           

               

'Pahadi' Wilson and Gulabo....

I knocked at the giant, carved door of the guest house. The echo of my voice coupled with a chilly, gusty breeze pierced the darkness of the autumn night. The gurgling murmur of the flowing ganges subdued the noise of tapping feet on the wooden floor. The wooden door of Deodar made a creaking noise. A thin, pale man greeted me. The light of the lantern and the radiance of the moon fell on his face and his torn, green sweater, making him looking like the protagonist of a low budget horror film. He introduced himself as the khansama(cook) cum caretaker of the guest house-the famous Wilson’s cottage of Harsil, Uttarakhand.

 Frederick E. Wilson deserted the British Army after the mutiny of 1857. Charged with sedition and treachery, he sought refuge in a tiny hamlet named Harsil on the banks of the river Bhagirathi in the hills of Garhwal. As time went by, he made a fortune by selling the timber of Deodar trees and the aromatic musk of the musk deer. Cupid struck and Wilson fell in love with a beautiful garhwali girl of an adjacent village named ‘Mukhba’. Her name was Gulabo. Their wedding was a grand affair and Frederick E. Wilson turned into ‘Pahadi’(a colloquial term meaning ‘of the hills’) Wilson - the revered son-in-law of Mukhba.

It had been a long, enervating drive from Uttarkashi to Harsil, the last pit stop before Gangotri and Gaumukh-the mouth of the river Ganga. The fatigue of the journey took its toll on me and I passed out in deep slumber in my sleeping bag.

 I awoke early to the chirping of the Himalayan babblers and decided to take a walk to the village Mukhba. The astounding beauty of Garhwal mesmerized me. The sloped canopies of Deodar and spruced pines added to the majesty of the Himalayas. As I made my way up the hill towards Mukhba, I caught a glimpse of the snow clad ‘shivling’ peaks shining gloriously in the rays of sun. Mukhba was bustling with activity. Women dried pumpkins for the harsh winter, urchins played with marbles and laidback men played cards. I decided to visit Gulabo’s ancestral house. A group of men sat huddled together outside the house discussing their wedding night experiences. Their faces beamed with alacrity and excitement as I enquired them about ‘Pahadi’ Wilson and Gulabo. As I probed further, I was informed that the spirits of ‘Pahadi’ Wilson and Gulabo visit Harsil on the second full moon of autumn every year. Myth has it; at the stroke of midnight, the spirits of Wilson and Gulabo take a romantic ride on a horse across the Wilson’s bridge.

Many intriguing stories and legends have been woven around the hills of Garhwal. A number of them are attributed to the figments of imagination of intoxicated minds. After all, “sooraj hua ast,Garhwal hua mast(As soon as the sun sets, Garhwal turns joyful with liquor)” is a very common maxim in the hills of Uttarakhand. I heard the captivating story with utmost interest and the more I heard, the more I believed that it was nothing more than a recreation of a drunken mind.

I came back to the guest house by dusk and decided to have an early supper. As I ate stuffed parathas of kulath(Himalayan pulse) with gosth(red meat) ,chainsoo(black gram pulses)and bhang ki chutney(sauce made with the seeds of the cannabis plant), I entered into a conversation with the cook. I enquired him about the Wilson’s bridge. As fate and co-incidence would have it, I was lucky to be in Harsil tonight. It was the second full moon of autumn. Driven by my inquisitiveness and an obstinate urge to prove the non-existence of spirits around me, I decided to venture out at night. I cajoled the cook into it. Since midnight was a propitious time for romantic sprits to come riding on horses, we fixed a late night appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

            By the time the clock struck midnight, the cook was overcome by a drunken stupor, imagining himself to be the raja (king) of Tehri, ordering men in his durbar (courtroom) to get him more liquor. We took our lanterns and walked out slowly. It was dark but the light of the moon engulfed everything like a thin, white blanket. I could hear the rustling of leaves and pine needles against the winds. As we approached the Wilson’s bridge, the rippling sound of the river gained prominence. The entrance to the bridge looked desolate and mysterious. A mystical sea of mist covered the entire bridge. Suddenly, the cook grew silent, pointing towards the other end of the bridge. With eyes wide open, he broke down in a sweat of trepidation. He had seen the ghosts of ‘pahadi’ Wilson and Gulabo. A few moments later, I saw a wild mule walking towards us all by itself. I laughed uproariously. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson had decided to choose a cheaper option for a ride tonight, I thought.

            We came back to the guest house and went off to sleep. I arose from my torpor somewhere before dawn. The thrust on my urinary bladders was impossible to ignore even in sleep. I rushed to the toilet to relieve myself. As I stood there discharging the dispensable fluids of my body, my ears picked up the sound of a galloping horse. The resonance it produced kept on increasing. I walked out with my lantern to see the silhouette of a rider on a horse…………. trotting away into a sea of hazy mist.

Wilson's Bridge

                          



             

The 'Khansama'

 

'Shivling' peak

Gulabo's ancestral house

A woman drying pumpkins

An old picture of Gulabo

The Himalayan sheep

Mukhba

A view of  Bhagirathi from Mukhba

Harsil

Bhagirathi meandering through Harsil

The woman and the dog...

It was a cold December night in Delhi. As I walked across the platform of the newly renovated Old Delhi Railway station, I tried to figure out the exact meaning of the expletives hurled by my auto-rickshaw driver to a pedestrian crossing the road five minutes back. The pedestrian had unexpectedly come in front of the autorickshaw on a busy, clamorous street of ‘Purani Dilli’(Old Delhi)evoking the choicest of abuses from the driver. If you want to hear the rarest of rare words added to the thesaurus of hindi expletives, then Delhi is the place to be.

The Old Delhi station bore a clean, revamped look; courtesy the just concluded Commonwealth games. Restaurants, ATMs, burger joints and the smiling face of Delhi’s Chief Minister made their presence felt at the station rather conspicuously. I walked towards the foot over bridge leisurely. There was still no announcement for the train I had to catch.

As I climbed the steps of the foot bridge, I came across a hoarding with a quotation in hindi – “Insaan bano,janwar nahi ”(Strive to become a human, not a beast).Just below it lay a pool of spluttered betel juice, the floor stained red with the indelible venom many Indian men and women spit-paan. Just across the hoarding, a group of men sat huddled together having dinner. Not an uncommon sight in most Indian railway stations. Stations are a second home to Indians after all. But what grasped my immediate attention was a black, furry abandoned dog sitting beside them. The dog was unable to move on its hind legs, perhaps, a result of an unfortunate accident, I thought. The crippled dog stared at the food hungrily, knowing very well that its survival was completely dependent upon the left over food given to it by travelers. Unfortunately for the poor dog, we Indians tend to have a penchant of seeking fun through the misery of others. The men, while enjoying their home made ‘parathas’(Indian bread) and ‘sabji’(spicy vegetable curry), decided to feed their appetite for sadistic pleasure as well. What ensued was a rather deplorable sight! Bits of bread and vegetables were deliberately thrown away from the dog. Every time it saw the food, the dog limped on its fore legs towards the eatables, simultaneously evoking bouts of laughter and grinning faces among the men.

Disgusted at the utter depravity of the men and partly inspired by the quote I had just read, I decided to intervene. Looking into the bag pack I was carrying I found a few remaining pieces of fruit bread I had kept for my journey. I took out the loaf and lay it in front of the dog, thinking, at least for tonight the poor dog will not have to go through the ordeal to feed its stomach. How mistaken and foolish was I to think so? For the next moment, the crippled, miserable and hungry dog turned into an avatar of a trained narcotic sniffer. It sniffed through the bread suspiciously, almost as if it was sure I had plans to drug it tonight. After ten seconds of serious examination, the food I served was rejected. Perhaps, the spices of home made ‘sabji’ attract the palate of an Indian dog much more than that of bland, fruit bread. The dog went about its business of running to and fro for its heavenly dinner. I turned around to see an old, cadaverous, haggard looking woman gaping at me with big, round eyes. She hardly had anything to cover her in the biting winter cold. Burbling and scratching her head, she sat down in front of me. Without giving me a moment to react, she picked up the pieces of bread and started to eat them excitedly. I stood there…shocked, speechless and numb.  In a few minutes, the blaring noise of an approaching engine broke the eerie silence. I walked towards the platform with moist eyes and a heavy heart contemplating the travesty of life…