I LOST MY LIFE COMPANION SONIA ON HER 75TH BIRTHDAY - FEB 19, 2023

 VISITING PRIVATE PLACE OF WORSHIP IN MY NATIVE VILLAGE IN CHAMBA, HIMACHAL PRADESH, AFTER 66 YEARS

In 1956 when I was about 10 years old, I visited this quaint looking private place of worship in my ancestral village named Gungias in Tehsil Churah of Chamba district in Himachal Pradesh. My father's elder brothers Mahant Ram and Kesru Ram were the custodians of this little private family shrine located in the darkest corner of a ground-floor cowshed and performed pujas there on special occasions. I have very faint memories of my last visit there 66 years ago, so when I visited it this year on June 6, 2022, I was deeply excited.

When I entered the old cowshed, I noticed a cow and her calf tethered to wooden stakes near the entrance.They were clearly visible in the light coming in through the open door, but beyond them, it was pitch-dark in the windowless basement. I tried to locate the position of the little shrine in the gloomy corner, but to no avail. I even tried using the in-built torch in my mobile, but it was too dim to show anything. My nephew Madho asked to wait a moment and then returned from his house holding in his hand a powerful flashlight. He immediately shone it into the dark corner to reveal what I have captured here with a DSLR camera, using its in-built flashlight. It is not all that bright, but shows enough details which I have labelled for the convenience of my readers.

If my memory can be trusted, I recall being awfully scared whenever I visited this 'shrine' in company with my Tayaji (uncle). While performing puja, he would ignite resinous thin splinters of pinewood on an iron stand for light, burn raw dhoop (natural incense) in an earthen bowl, chant some incomprehensible prayer in local dialect, blow on a conch shell and conclude the ceremony by ringing the metallic bell repeatedly. 

Having seen those objects of puja after such a long time, it took me some time to identify and label them. As a student and teacher of languages, I now realize there was something pagan about this method of worship which scared me.

REVIEW OF THE ‘KINDRED’ BY ALPNA DAS SHARMA

Writing a story within the parameters of a writing contest on a specified theme is a challenge unto itself. Dr Alpna Das Sharma, however, has met the challenge with a fair amount of individual and original creativity. The plot is credible and contemporary with ample scope for an emotions-rich narrative. The first-person narrator Anish reaches the depth of his family secret by retracing the path to the origin of his dilemma beginning 5 years ago and haunting him relentlessly all those years.

The mandatory 5 characters Alpna has evolved in the story are the narrator’s elder sister Anya, his parents, the house-keeper at their ancestral home, doctors at the surrogacy clinic, salesman at the bakery, manager of the orphanage and, of course, his twin sister Anamika. The delineation of these characters is objective, unbiased and realistic. His parents are representatives of a generation of post-independence Indians who moved from small towns to metros in search of their dreams and made it big. His reclusive but artistically talented sister Anya with her cynical and sinister sense of humour is the stereotypical representative of the global generation of disillusioned youth – questioning, questing and quarrelsome. Being a conscious party to the family secret of her parents’ decision to beget an offspring through surrogacy has hurt and embittered Anya deeply to shape her into an individual that she is. Her embitterment gets further intensified when her parents abandon the girl child begotten as a twin sibling in their surrogacy venture. In my assessment, she is the most authentic and realistic character in the story.

The resolution of a family secret and the author’s plot ends on a positive note. The reunion of separated twin siblings results in a deeper bonding between the two. The psycho-emotional dilemmas tormenting all the characters in the story are decisively resolved.

Dr Alpna Das Sharma has succeeded in convincing me that there is a real ‘Kindred Café’ in the outskirts of Mussoorie run by partially identical twins Anish and Anamika where I intend to dine one day when the pandemic is over!       

May 4, 2020

The third phase of lock-down has started today.
It is now mandatory to wear a face mask if you go out to buy groceries and other essential items such as medicines and so on. I have started using a face mask a school student living in my neighbourhood has made for me. Wearing a mask is not a comfortable experience. I immediately remove it the moment I'm back home after visiting the market. Then I wash it along with my hands. My wife and our domestic help have made it a habit to wash all vegetables and fruit we bring home from the market.
During the second phase of lock-down, we were constantly updated about the magnitude of the pandemic all over the world through media. 
The most depressing scenario in the second phase of lock-down has been the plight of millions of migrant workers returning to their native States in whichever way they can -- mostly walking. It wrenches one's heart to see these people trudging homeward like zombies. There is no effective system or mechanism to help them in their plight. It is all senseless disorder and chaos. Administration has failed completely in putting into place an effective system to deal with the grave situation created by mass migration of workers to their home States.

                                                                                        Picture Credit: aljazeera.com  

April 14, 2020

The first phase of lock-down is over. The second phase begins tomorrow.
Things changed drastically during lock-down phase one. 'Stay home, stay safe' became the mantra.
Everything except grocery and vegetable shops is closed. 
I have been venturing out to these shops once or twice a week. Most of the roads in my town are now partially blocked with concertina wire fences manned round the clock by stern-faced cops wearing face masks. I did not wear a face mask during the first lock-down phase, but stood obediently inside one of the chalk circles marked outside grocery and vegetable shops to maintain social distance.  
During the lock-down phase one, I kept myself busy with some photography, reading, browsing social media and online newspapers and watching news on TV. 
All online newspapers and TV news channels have nothing else but Covid-19. Data and statistics, both local and global. Reports on exodus of jobless migrant workers from metros and other places to their own villages and towns in UP, Bihar, West Bengal, Odisha, Jharkhand, Rajasthan and elsewhere. People walking on foot in the absence of buses and trains. A grim scenario. What has lock-down phase two in store for the world? 
The upside to the lock-down is the reduction in pollution levels all over the country. With reduced vehicular movement and closure of pollution emitting industries, the air ambience has turned pure and clean, making it possible to enjoy the view of Dhauladhar mountains in Himachal Pradesh visible from Jalandhar city in Panjab.

   

 

THOUGHTS, MUSINGS AND REFLECTIONS ON 2020 AD AS A LANDMARK YEAR

March 25, 2020

I turned 74 on March 22, 2020.
Like always, my birthday this year too did not hold the promise of a celebration.
But then, living in this age of social media, I take it for granted that many of my Facebook friends would plaster birthday messages on my timeline using worn-out cliches. I also do exactly the same on their birthdays.
On my birthday this year, I found out in the afternoon that there was no liquor in the house. So I went out to the nearest liquor store and found it closed. Somewhat surprised, I asked a shop-keeper why it was closed. He told me that the government had shut down all liquor shops with immediate effect owing to corona virus pandemic that had hit the entire world.
So I went home and did not have my usual evening drink before dinner. Not having it on my birthday did not upset me at all because I don't celebrate my birthday with a drink.
From today onward, the country has gone into the first phase of lock-down.
I know there would be no liquor during the lock-down, but I'm not upset about it.
I like my drink, but I am no alcoholic.

***

SAACH PASS VISIT 2016
Saach Pass is the toughest pass in Himachal Pradesh. It is higher than the famed Rohtang Pass in Manali Region. It stands at an altitude of 14530 ft. in district Chamba. The pass leads the way to Pangi tribal valley.
The road to the pass in a rough dirt road flanked by ice walls.
Here are some pictures of the area.

I visited my native place in Churah Valley of district Chamba in Himachal Pradesh this year from June 7 to 11. It is a cool place in summers with views of snow-clad mountains and lush green sub valleys and meadows. Here are a few recent pictures I took during my visit.

FACES OF FAITH

In the middle of August, I was in Chamba, Himachal Pradesh. While driving from Chamba to my native place Tissa, I bypassed long lines of pilgrims on their way to Manimahesh -- the well known abode of Lord Shiva in the Bharmour tribal area. Most of the pilgrims were barefoot. There were men, women and children. I could make out from their appearances that they were from Bhaderwah -- a hilly area in Jammu and Kashmir contiguous to Chamba district.
On my return from Tissa to Chamba, I saw these people from the terrace of a friend's house. Initially, I watched them a bit indifferently. Then something struck me powerfully. Can I do what they are doing? Can I walk barefoot from Bhaderwah to Manimahesh with a heavy bag strapped to my back and my three years old daughter astride my shoulders? Do I have the face of faith these people have?
The answers to all these questions were negative. It was only then that I realised these were not ordinary men and women. It was only then that I looked at these people with awe verging on reverence.
The following pictures of these people I took after the realisation are my little tribute to their FAITH.

Travel Travails on Indian Trails: Chapter 07

In late 1981, instead of the boys persuading me to take them on a trek to the Himalayas, it was I who persuaded them and three other teachers to go with me on a trek to the Everest Base Camp in the summer of 1982.

Why I did that can be understood in the light of another flashback into my life.

I have already mentioned that I had done an adventure course from Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, Darjeeling when I was seventeen.
It was not a personal choice. I was a member of the National Cadet Corps and every year, a few “promising” NCC cadets from all over the country were selected to attend various specialized training courses anywhere in India.
I was selected for the adventure course because the NCC officer was my uncle.

At HMI, Darjeeling, we were lucky to be trained by some of the most famous mountaineers in the world. Late Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, who had married twice and climbed Everest once, was our Field Director. Nawang Gombu, who had married once and climbed Everest twice, was our Deputy Field Director.
After completing the course, I had fallen in love with many Himalayan legends like Everest, Kanchenjunga, Annapurna, Dhaulagiri, Nanga Parbat and Nanda Devi.

~

In the years until I joined Mayo College in 1977, I had read every book written on major Himalayan mountain climbing expeditions. I had lived the experiences of those legendary mountaineers through imaginative participation, sharing their moments of grief and elation with deep intensity.
Place a copy of the the Kama Sutra and a copy of Sir Ed Hillary’s biography in front of me; I would make a grab for the latter.

I had read so many expedition accounts on Mount Everest I knew each step from Kathmandu to the summit of Everest like the back of my hand. Jiri, Namche Bazaar, Tengpoche, Pheriche, Lobuje, Gorakshep, Khumbu Glacier, Base Camp, Khumbu Icefall, Western CWM, South Col and Hillary’s Step sounded like home.

Alongside deep infatuation for Everest grew the passionate urge to see it with my own eyes, if not climb it. At that time, however, it felt like falling in love with Meena Kumari – the tragedy queen of Hindi cinema – distant and unapproachable.
The dream had remained dormant until I joined Mayo College and started doing small treks with Mayo boys. I came to know that Mayo boys had actually made a bid to reach Everest Base Camp a few years ago but had given up at 16000 feet after tiring themselves out by walking 150 miles from Jiri to Lobuje.

So in late 1981, I started persuading my colleagues Mr. Ramesh Shah, Mr. Arun Sharma and Mr. G.S. Bajwa to join me in taking the boys to the Everest Base Camp in the summer of 1982.
I had reasons to pick those three men.
Mr. Shah, a senior member of Math faculty and a mountain enthusiast like most Gujaratis would not be able to resist the temptation to see Everest for free.
Mr. Sharma, my colleague in English department, was desperately looking for the position of a Headmaster just as Mr. Dick Everhard had done back in 1978. A trek to the EBC would certainly open the gates for him.
Mr. Bajwa, an ex-sailor from the Indian Navy, had smuggling electronic goods from Nepal to India on his wish-list. He would not miss the opportunity for the life of him.

Still, they were reluctant to join me.
Their reluctance was based on their awareness of our Headmaster Mr. C.R.Gupta’s aversion to spending money.
Their reluctance evaporated when I suggested that a trek to Everest Base Camp could be made to appear like a big event for which funds could be raised through donations.

When we mooted the subject to Mr.Gupta, he was elated at the proposal. So long as money came in and did not go out, he was always elated. He happily signed the circular letter for parents which I had drafted cunningly to elicit maximum response from them. Even before we had started planning for the trek, more than sixty thousand rupees had already been donated by the parents.

The Chief Guest on the Annual Prize Giving function in November 1981 turned out to be a rich Sheikh from a Sultanate in the Middle East. He had studied at Mayo in the late forties and held an important office in his country.
Seeing the opportunity to raise more donations for our trek, we sought an interview with His Highness. He dismissed us promptly with a cheque for forty thousand rupees; there were other beggars waiting to have an interview with him, though he did not say that in those very words.

By the end of the year 1981, we had more than 100,000 rupees by way of donations for the trek. By then, I had already invented a name for our venture: “MAYO COLLEGE EVEREST BASE EXPEDITION 1982”. Wish I could delete the word ‘BASE’ from it!
The donations in kind too had piled up – kilos of sugar, rice, cooking oil, biscuits and chocolate from parents dealing in those commodities. Through the aegis of the NCC, we had been issued high altitude parkas and sleeping bags by the Indian Army which we had already started using for practice. After all, it does get quite cold in Rajasthan in winters.

~

Then began the next phase of our “Expedition” – planning. With the kind of funds we had already amassed plus the mandatory contribution of two thousand rupees by each Mayo boy wanting to join the expedition, planning a trek had never been such a delight!
Brain-storming sessions ensued from which Mr.Bajwa had to be excluded for obvious reasons. He was hulk of a man, but just that. Our Maker exercises immense discretion in the allotment of gray matter just as our Headmaster Mr. Gupta does in the allotment of money.
The first agenda item to be discussed and planned was the itinerary of the Expedition. Fully aware of the reasons for the failure of the earlier Mayo trek to Everest Base, we, first of all, decided to make the journey as comfortable as possible.

Thanks to the shoe-string budget at their disposal, the planners of the 1977 trek had almost killed the boys by making them walk from Jiri to Lobuje and then back to Jiri to save pennies. Since we had no need to save pennies, the Expedition would fly from Kathmandu to Lukla. The boys would be fresh and energetic and would reach EBC within ten days. We would hire porters to carry our gear and rations. We would make the boys stay in lodges and not in the tents to save money. We would give them bindaas food cooked by a team of Sherpa cooks. Finally, we would fly them back from Lukla to Kathmandu. Perfect.

~

On May 3, 1982, our Expedition comprising sixteen boys and four teachers reaches Kathmandu Airport at 6 in the morning to catch a plane to Lukla.

While we wait for baggage and security check in the domestic lounge milling with travelers both native and foreign, I notice a group of native men squatting on the floor and doing curious things. They have their baggage open in front of them from which they pick up brand-new shirts and T-shirts and start wearing them one on top of the other until all the shirts and T-shirts are worn.
At the end of the operation, they have so many shirts and T-shirts on them they look like Sumo wrestlers from neck to pelvis.
It is rather hot in Kathmandu in the month of May, so I am not convinced they are so cold they need to wear all those shirts and T-shirts at Kathmandu airport.
But wait a moment. Couldn’t they be getting ready for the cold weather at the destination – Lukla, Jumla or Jomsom?

I have almost lost interest in them when Shamendra Singh – a boy from a royal family in India and related to a royal family in Nepal – whispers in my ear.
‘You know why these people have trussed themselves up in those shirts and T-shirts, Sir? They are business people. They bought those shirts and T-shirts here in Kathmandu to sell them in their shops at Lukla, Jumla or Jomsom. Wear them all. No extra baggage, no extra payment. Only extra profit.’
By the time Shamendra has finished speaking, the group of ‘over-dressed’ businessmen is lined up in front of the check-in counter for Jomsom.

~

Until May 3, 1982, my colleagues Mr. Shah, Mr. Sharma, Mr. Bajwa and I had seen airplanes either in the movies or flying high up in the sky.
On the other hand, all the sixteen Mayo boys had travelled in them to the US, Europe, Canada or Australia on numerous holiday trips.
So when we walk to the small propeller-driven STOL Canadian airplane parked in a corner of the airport, all of us teachers have butterflies fluttering nervously inside our tummies.

Madhav: Hey, Shamu, are we flying to Lukla inside that kite?
Shamu: You guessed it right, man. Drones like a mosquito flying at 10000 feet. Been on it quite a few times.
Kong: Hope it doesn’t get stuck in a tree, ha, ha, ha!

I’m so nervous I don’t enjoy boys’ humour. Wish we had planned to walk from Jiri to Everest Base like our predecessors! Place terra firma under my feet and see how confident I can be.
Seventeen of us clamber into the small plane through its three-step ladder-cum-door. That is all this plane takes. Mr. Arun Sharma and two boys would be in the second flight to Lukla that morning.
The two uniformed Nepali pilots are already seated in the cockpit up front. Though I am scared, I choose a seat right behind them to the left of the narrow aisle. Would like to see how they fly the plane and be ready to lend a hand if need be.
The flight attendant bangs the door-cum-ladder shut when all seventeen of us are seated.
Then he moves up the aisle, distributing candies.
Then he checks if all of us have our seat belts on.

Mr. Bajwa: I don’t have a belt. I’m wearing track suit pants.
Flight Attendant: No. no, Sir! You fasten the seat belt.
Mr. Bajwa: What seat belt? You didn’t give us any. You gave us only one toffee.
Flight Attendant: Sorry, Sir, but would you mind getting up for a second, please? Let me show you how to do it.

Mr. Shah and I watch the demo eagerly so that the flight attendant doesn’t have to help two more ignormuses on his flight.

By that time, the pilots have switched the engines on. In a moment, the plane starts juddering as the propellers whirl at full speed. Boys are talking, laughing and joking loudly when the plane starts moving forward. Within seconds, it is air-borne. With my heart in my mouth, I see Kathmandu tilting to one side and then to the other. Oh dear Lord Shiva, let this plane land me safely at Lukla. I promise I would never ever step into one, especially when visiting your holy abodes in the high Himalayas!

As if answering my prayers, one of the pilots' voices rings out on the PA system.
‘Gentlemen, we are now flying at an altitude of 10000 feet. You can see the Great Himalayas to your left. Right at the centre of the range is the famed Gauri-Shankar group of mountains.’
I silently bow my head towards the venerated peaks shimmering white against a deep blue sky. All devout Hindus overcome their blues just by uttering the name of Shankar and when they can see Him side by side with his wife in the shape of another lofty mountain, they become as cocky as the Australian cricket team playing India at Melbourne Cricket Ground.
All the guys sitting to the right of the aisle (including Mr. Bajwa who weighs 104 kilos in his underpants) unbuckle their seat belts and rush to the left side to look at the mountains through the small windows. The plane starts tilting to the left so precariously one of the pilots has to order them back to their seats on the PA system.

I congratulate myself for choosing the best seat in the plane. I can enjoy watching the pilots fiddling with knobs and dials in front of them and occasionally tweaking those joy-sticks built like bull’s horns. They have earphones clamped to their ears and I keep wondering if they are listening to Nepali music on radio or just protecting their ears from the noise of the plane.
I also have the advantage of the ring-side view of lofty Himalayan peaks lined up on the horizon to my left. It is a bright and sunny morning and I can easily identify each massif or mountain. When I start recognizing the shapes of mountains around Khumbu in the far eastern corner of the view framed by the window, I know we are about to reach our destination.

One of the pilots comes alive on the PA system and asks us to fasten our seat belts for landing. Sooner than he has finished speaking, I find myself staring at the most frightening view through the windscreen of the cockpit.
The plane has slowed down and is lined up with a dusty airstrip below that starts from the edge of a cliff and ends up at the farthest end of a narrow shelf from where a steeply inclined mountain begins to rise up into the sky. The strip looks so short I am convinced the little plane would over-shoot it and then . . .
As I start praying fervently before my impending and premature meeting with my Maker, the plane is just about ready to touch the cliff-side edge of the runway. In a moment, I feel the wheels of the plane come in contact with something hard. The plane bounces into the air a few times as the harsh grinding noise of the brakes announces our return to terra firma.
Suddenly all the noise drops down to zero, the plane glides forward like a swan, takes a slow right turn and comes to a gentle halt on a wide and dusty clearing.
Thank you, Lord Shiva! Thanks for cancelling your unscheduled meeting with us!
Everest Base Camp, here I come!

~

We had paid a fortune to get our equipment and rations air-lifted from Kathmandu to Lukla.
When people saw it unloaded on the airstrip, they thought we were on our way to the summit of Mt. Everest.

Just as sugar attracts a horde of flies, our mound of stuff (which actually had a lot of sugar in it) attracted the Sherpa porters, guides and cooks from Lukla and neighborhood villages. We immediately fell for a young and handsome Sherpa guide and began negotiating with him. After considerable haggling, it was decided that the young Sherpa would engage a team of porters, cooks and yaks to carry our stuff from Lukla to EBC and then back to Lukla for a sum which we thought was quite reasonable.
Since our guide had an unpronounceable name, we decided to call him Tom.
After sealing the deal, Tom led us to a big lodge just above the airstrip.

Lukla in 1982 was still an archaic Sherpa village with a few simple lodges that catered to the continuous flow of backpackers from all over the world, especially during summer months.
Our lodge owners were a middle aged couple who readily agreed to accommodate the twenty of us in a large dormitory and also allowed us to use their big courtyard to sort out our mound of stuff. In a jiffy, Tom got all the stuff ferried from the airstrip to the courtyard where it was stacked neatly to be split into loads for porters and yaks the next morning at 6.

~

After dumping our rucksacks in the dormitory, we set out to explore Lukla. It was a cluster of houses and lodges on either side of the high-street which was also the trail to Namche Bazaar. It was a busy street with people and yaks moving constantly up and down.

Most tea-shops were filled with western trekkers who sat at the tables reading trekking guides to Himalayas and sipping tea. There were both men and women, young and old. It was reminiscent of Pushkar -- a holy town near Ajmer – where western tourists flocked throughout the year and sat in tea-shops reading Lonely Planet Travel Guides and smoking joints.

Lukla sits at 9000 feet and as we tried to soak in its ambience, we were content with the thought that we had begun the acclimatization process by staying a day at Lukla.

We had read and heard so much about the local beer called chhang Mr. Sharma and I decided to try it immediately after returning to the lodge. Mr. Shah being a Gujarati never touched alcohol; Mr. Bajwa drank anything provided it was free.

Though we hid the fact from each other until our return to Ajmer twenty days later, Mr. Sharma and I almost puked after the first sip of chhang at Mr. Ang Dawa’s lodge. It looked and tasted like the piss of a horse suffering from urinary tract infection. Still we drank it with the same kind of patience and perseverance as was required to drink potions made by our Mayo Hospital compounder.

I was so familiar with Nepal through my intensive reading of books on Everest and other expeditions I diplomatically changed the next drink from chhang to rakshi. When Mr. Ang Dawa poured it into our empty glasses from a huge kettle and Mr. Sharma took the first sip, I could see an expression of intense delight on his face despite a dense growth of salt-n-pepper on it.

Without the slightest hesitation, he called Mr. Ang Dawa back and bade him to refill the kettle with rakshi up to the brim and leave it on our table.

It took us the rest of the day to finish the kettle, but we never complained.

In the summer of 2007 a quarter century later before Mr. Sharma passed away, he and I met after many years and once again tried to recall unsuccessfully how we had managed to reach our beds in Mr. Ang Dawa’s lodge after finishing that kettle.

This is how Lukla looks now.

New Nature Images

Here are some nature images I shot recently.