Hurrah to the forktail !!

 If you are seeing too many Wagtails that will be the first impression one gets, the undulating flight and restless waging tail.  It was my last few days in Himalayas and was desperately in search of a Forktail, something that you get to see in these mountains. Favourite haunt being rocky streams in forest or shaded wooded ravines, rarely seen in the open. I was at Uttarkashi town, and out on a very early morning walk, it was still dark as I began my trek from the town to further up the hill where Nation Institute of Mountaineering (NIM) was located, it’s about 5Kms of salubrious sight. As you climb the terrain changes to pine forest. Shifting to pine and destruction of oaks has been detrimental to the region, and has contributed to landslides.
Just about the road on the rocky side heavily shaded in trees I heard rasping calls, and was very soon face to face with the Spotted Forktail aka Enicurus maculatus . A relatively large bird in tidy black and white, a rather busy demeanor and a white cap like pate. For a moment I thought he is going to up his cap and say hello howdoyoudo!!  

      

The inimitable Ghalib

Mirza Ghalib is inseparable from the collective memory of later medieval period of Delhi. You can say medieval Delhi is Ghalib’s Dhilli.  His prodigious output, candid and dispassionate portrayal of incongruities of human life, converting day to day vagaries into creative excellence interspersed with stimulating metaphors and wit, are much popular to this day.  Very few in this country, indeed the subcontinent, might not have heard about Ghalib. If haven’t then Ghalib has the answer!!

poochte hain ki Ghalib khon hain?

koi bathlawo ki hum bahthlaye kya?

I am asked who this Ghalib is?

Someone tell me, who am I to say

 It’s a wonderful play of words, and if you read again the meaning changes and goes deeper. That in short is greatness of Ghalib. Must add, any translation of Urdu will never ever do justice to the original. Though I had heard about Ghalib in school, intriguingly never taught or part of curriculum, we used to do crap shaiyari …dhoor se dekha tho aunty naha rahi thi, pass jakhe dekha tho bais pooch hila rahi thi…kind of nonsense, it is in this context there was a line Ghalib ki gali se a rahi thi awaaz…you say it again to built up the tempo (arz kiya hai!!) and then… kaale kaale jamun lelo !!

Some of Ghalib’s couplets are part of popular imagination, not many maybe aware that the lines like dil-e nadaan tujhe hua kya hai were written by Ghalib!! This was also part of popular Hindi song from Razia Sultan movie made in early 80s

Dil-e nadaan tujhe hua kya hai?

Aakhir is dard ki dawaa kya hai

Hum hain mushtaq aur who bazaar

Yaa ilaahi ye majara kya hai?

….

O wayward heart, what is your predicament

What for this ailment, is the right medicament

Our fondness is met by beloved’s coldness

Why O god this curious predicament

….

It is quite long and worth listening to…

Another couplet that readers must have heard many times is

hazaron khwahishen aisi keh har khwahish peh dum nikle

bahut nikle mere arman lekin phir bhi kam nikle

Longings innumerable, longing exquisitely intense

how many, many fulfilled, and yet O god, how few.

I had completely forgotten about this man until I found myself in a seminar in 1998 arranged by Urdu Academy and Sahitya Akademi on Bi-centenary of Mirza Ghalib “Ghalib’s Worlds, Times, Ideas and Contemporaries” at IIC.  Mirza Ghalib was back, and so ended up reading few things. Few months back I happen to attend a program on Ghalib at International Islamic Centre, conducted by Kathak danseuse Uma Sharma -who performed on couplets recited by Pavan Verma. Such was the crowd that there was no space to even stand. A mehfil was also arranged next day. Uma Sharma is also the force behind the restoration work of Ghalib’s residence at Ballimaran in Chandni Chowk, which was reduced to a godown.  

   

Ghalib original name was Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan(1797-1869)and was the last of the great urdu poet of the Mughal Era. He used pen names of Ghalib (meaning excellent) and sometimes Asad (lion). Ghalib lived during the turbulent times as Mughals were collapsing, the 1857 mutiny and displaced by the British. He too had a turbulent life living mostly in penury. 

In 1809 when Ghalib was just 12, his poetry came in for discussion in the literary annals of the time Umad-e-Muntakhiba, this promising poet was compared with greatest exponents of Ghazal. The detail description of him appear much later in Aab-i-Hayat where his “subtlety of expression, variation of themes, exquisite poetic images, conceit style and satirical quips” where much appreciated. This article though lost its credibility for hyperbolic praise of court poet and contemporary Ustad Zauq, who was quite a mediocre. Incidentally the tiff between Ghalib –a talented mercurial essentially a street poet, and court poet Zauq has reference in an incidence. It so happened that once the palanquin carrying Zauq was passing through the street, Ghalib quipped bana hai shah ka mushahib phira hai ithratha “He is close to crown, is strutting about in town!!”. As people laughed and praised, it surely was humiliating to the court poet. Very soon Ghalib was summoned to the fort, court poet’s public humiliation was sought to be explained. Ghalib submitted most humbly that it was actually a “continuing phrase of the maqta of my new verse”, and to the surprise of everyone present, added …magar na is shehar meh Ghalib ki abru kya hai  “…otherwise Ghalib is a clown in people’s estimation”. Not convinced and rightly reading through Ghalib’s mischief Zauq demands full verse. Ghalib created this verse impromptu that gained appreciation of even Zauq…

harek bhath pe kehthe ho ki thum ki thu kya hai

thum hi kaho ki ye andaaze gufthagu kya hai

ragon meh dhodthe phirne ke hum nahi kayal

jab ankh he se na tapka tho phir lahoo kya hai

For anything I say, you answer with ‘what are you’

Why don’t you say, what is this style of conversation?

Flowing in vein we regard as vain

Unless blood it is that flows from the eyes

Yadgar-e-Ghalib (1896) by Khawaja Althaf Hussain Hali can be called as the first major work that detailed Ghalib’s achievements. Hali stressed that Ghalib’s greatness lies in his amazing range of themes and moods, devoid of melancholic grumblings, and finds new meaning whenever they are read again. This was followed by Kashiful Haqaiq (Imdad Imam Asar) and Yadgar-e-Ghalib (Abdul Rehman Bijnori) while the earlier mentioned was highly critical of Ghalib, latter pretentious. “Ghalib” (Abdul Latif) was the first English book and sought to degrade him by comparing with Shakespeare and other western poets. The much acclaimed book to come out during this time was Shairul Hind (Maulana Abdul Salam Nadvi), a consummate discussion. Ghalib’s influence was such that stress was placed on new metaphors, similes, and resorting to rhetorics became a rage. Ghalib Shikan was another invain attempt to belittle Ghalib.

na tha kuch tho khuda tha, kuch na hotha tho khuda hotha

duboya muche hone ne, na hotha tho meh kya hotha

when nothing was, then god was there

had nothing been god would have been

my being has defeated me

had I not been, what would have been

(this couplet can also be seen at his tomb, located in Nizamuddin, very near to the Dargah)  

Rambabu Saxena’s History of Urdu literature in english bestowed acclaim and cemented his contributions. Saxena divided Ghalib’s poetry into three broad categories. The earlier poetry characterized by judicious and subtlety of expressions, later in sublimity and craftsmanship, “his humanitarian mysticism and astonishing fluency in using evocative language and fresh imagery”. The author also points to Ghalib’s liberal and humanist worldview. The Urdu translation of this book Adabi Khutoot-e-Ghalib (Mirza Mohammed Askari) included letters addressed to literary issues by Ghalib, throwing light on meaning of couplet. Ghalib Nama (Sheikh Mohammed Ikram) threw light on Ghalib’s personality his relation with religion, indeed Ghalib was not religious but wasn’t against. Gulzar’s episode on Ghalib begins with aged Ghalib tottering in the dawn at the steps of mosque, vacillating and returning. Quite compelling, these TV episodes brought a rather subtle, romantic and angst filled side of Ghalib, Ghalib Nama though points to Ghalib being prone to frequent outburst of anger and rage “at times he hurled such harsh and rasping comments at his opponents that cannot be repeated”.  Malik Ram’s Zikr-e-Ghalib tapped some new sources and provides historical perspective to time in which Ghalib lived. Ghalib’s philosophical concepts came in for detailed discussion in Fasal-e-Kalam-e-Ghalib (Shaukat Subzwari) and Afkar-e-Ghalib (Khaleefa Abdul Hakeem). Subzwari makes it clear that “Ghalib was not a philosopher but a philosophical poet”.

hum muwahhid hain hamara kesh hai tark-e-rusum

millaten jab mit gaye ajza-e iman ho gaye

In the oneness of god we believe, we reject custom, tenet and creed

for when they all are effaced, a true faith spring forth indeed.   

1930s onward saw leftist intellectual interest in Ghalib with the formation of Progressive Writers Association. This includes Ghalib:Shakha Aur Shair (Majnoo Gorakhpuri), Ghalib –Ek Mutala (Mumtaz Hussain), but the one that stands out is Ghalib Ka Tafakkur (Ehtisham Hussain). Hussain focused on couplets that reflected the historical realities, though he is critical on contradiction in Ghalib’s worldview and philosophy! Other contributors include Ali Sardar Jafri, Mohammad Hasan, Zoya Ansari, Anwar Azeem, SR Kidwai etc. Prof AA Suroor has written articles on Ghalib and asserts that Ghalib “put premium on wit” and his “couplets exudes meaning slowly”. Prof. Asloob Ahmed Ansari wrote thought provoking books Naqsh-e-=Ghalib and Naqsh-Hai-e-Rang gave the most extensive analysis. Hasan Askari writes that Ghalib is surprisingly closer to romantic poets

husn-e farogh-e sham-e sukhan dur hai Asad

pahle dil-e gudakhtah paida kare koi

It’s true a poet’s words should burn and melt, and glow like candle-flame

But foster first a feeling heart that can, like candle, melt with flame

Ghalib Ka Zauq-e- Tamasha (Wazir Agha), Ghalib Kuan Hai (Salim Ahmed), Ghalib: Life and Letters (Ralph Russell and Kurshid Islam), Ghalib (Gulam Rasool Mehar), Ghalib Aur Ahang-e-Ghalib (Yusuf Huseein Khan), Mushkilat-e-Ghalib (Niyaz Fatehpuri), Mutala-e-Ghalib (Asar Lucknowi), Ghalib-Ek Ashufta Nawa (Aftab Ahmad Khan) etc were other significant contributions on Ghalib.

hai aur bhi duniya mein sukhanwar bahut ache
kehte hain ke ghalib ka hai andaaz-e-bayaan aur.

There are many good poets in the world,

but they say Ghalib’s style (of poetry) is different 

In popular culture there were movies made on Mirza Ghalib, the first one was directed by Sohrab Modi (1954) wherein Bharat Bhushan –the superstar of that era, played the role of Ghalib. The second was nine episodes for TV by Gulzar (1988) with Nasiruddin Shah in the lead. Sohrab Modi’s movie was a runaway success, hugely appreciated it also won President’s Gold medal. Interestingly the story was to be written by Sadat Hasan Manto but due to partition of India and his shifting to Pakistan saw to it that the dialogues/script was written by Rajinder Singh Bedi. Manto was deeply influenced by Ghalib, many of his short story titles were borrowed verses of Ghalib. In a letter to the editor of Urdu journal Naqash (1955) Manto writes “in my own life I was never ashamed of literary creations comparing with my contemporaries, because nobody could compete with me. But when I came here (in mental hospital where he was being treated for alcohol addiction), then Ghalib made me worry a lot. He is taunting. He said to me: you are my thief, you took my verses as title of your story …instead of being thankful to me you wrote a film story about me where you show none of my qualities and, on the contrary all my defects are shown…” . Ghalib had this couplet that probably will clear any misgivings!!

ho gaya koi aisa bhi jo Ghalib ko na jaane,
shayar to who achha hai, magar badnaam bahut hai.

Is there anyone who isn’t aware of Ghalib?

He is a good poet, but quite infamous. 

Indeed Ghalib had no misgivings on his talent and was quite confident about his place in posterity, though in jest… 

hui muddat ke Ghalib mar gaya par yaad aataa hai
woh har ek baat pe kehna ke yoon hota to kya hota.
It has been a long time since Ghalib passed away, but still remembered

for his saying on each event of what if this had happened that way.

Gulzar’s Ghalib I happen to watch again (I have the CD, it takes about 5hours), the renditions are by Jagjit Singh. It starts with a poem by Gulzar, (it is long one, due to paucity of space I have cut it)

Ballimaraan ke mohalle ki wo pecheeda daleelon ki si wo galiyan
saamne taal ke nukkad pe batero ke qaseede
gurhgurhati hui paan ki peekon mein wo daad wo wah-wah
chand darwaaze par latke huye boshida se kuch taat ke parde
…..
Asadullah Khan ‘Ghalib’ ka patha milta hai.

The lanes of Ballimaran so much like the confusing arguments
With partridge stories at the lane’s corner.
The sounds of applause amidst the gurgling sounds of chewed betel leaves.
…

There, the whereabouts of Asadullah Khan Ghalib are found. 

From my scribble pad...

The Tree

The still tree carries the night in its branches

the way  it spreads and twists into knots

wheeze forbidding thoughts

unfurl frightening strangeness.

It is at the dawn, you hear

the sobs like bird songs

stillness as becoming

dark shapes bearing beaming patterns

scintillating sight lit in the glorious morning.     

Red-billed Blue magpie: Enchanting bird of Himalayan foothills

 It is difficult to miss this corvid that inhabits along the Shivalik, and rather common in the upper reaches. A striking looking large bird that appears straight out of fairytale. Red-billed Blue Magpie aka Urocissa Eythrorhyncha has everything that is arresting to the sight – a mix of red, purple, blue, white, orange, black and what not, add a long blue white corrugated tail and you get magpie of the hills!

Found this pretty one delectably placed against the faint sun on a morning walk, along the downhill of Dhanpo village that had a patch of jungle. The mountains hills are stripped of trees, I was told that the hills here had huge trees once but were logged and transported to Delhi during colonial period. Wondering how they transported these all the way to delhi? The serpentine river Yamuna, the faint roar that I could hear, hold the key. During monsoon the in spate river was also carrying loads of premium cargo that were properly tagged as it reached the plains. 

Dhanpo: Jaunsari hamlet in the hills

Dhanpo is a quaint little tribal hamlet near to Lakhwad village ensconced in lower Himalayas. It’s about three hours from Dehradun, towards Chakrata. Public transport system is minimal; I had to travel on the top of a jeep on a road that had deep ravines on one side and a determinantly vicious driver on the wheel. Not for faint hearts!! Narayan Singh Tomar is popularly referred to as Netaji, and he surely is one, was the person I contacted over phone. A man who immensely enjoys talking, talking may not be the right word but monologue as if he is addressing a gathering. He needs cue to start during which he will observe you closely from toe to head and may even exchange pleasantry with passerby, to make it worse, can meander away from the issue in focus and return at will.  To his favour I must add the man has zest and energy of a doer, an organizer.  He amply demonstrates these during get together. He introduced me to the gathering “as the man who will take Dhanpo to the world through computer” and performed the enviable task of explaining internet to largely illiterate audience. This included distorting his hand into representation of a globe and moving his finger to and fro as if to explain whereall Dhanpo will be heard, to an awe struck audience. I, in the meanwhile, was making keen attempts to sink into ground via underneath the table!!         

This is Jaunsari-Bawar belt, and Dhanpo is a Jaunsari tribe settlement. Jaunsari is a corrupted name of Jamnapar, as Jaunsar region is on the other side of Yamuna river. I tried my best to know about Jaunsari tribes from the inhabitant but the information is sketchy. Few days later I visited Anthropological Survey of India library at Dehradun and gathered few information from various books.

Jaunsaris are mainly concentrated in Dehradun region; they are combination of various groups of polyandrous community (that includes Koltas, Bajgis and Khasas) living in geographical region. They speak Jaunsari which belongs to the family of Indo-Aryan languages, they also know Hindi. Till recently fraternal polyandry was in practice. What makes Jaunsari tribes interesting is the belief that they are descendent of Pandavas, as fraternal polyandry has been existing for ages until ofcourse the Hindu marriage act!!   They are primarily dependent on agriculture and animal husbandry.  In the pecking order the Khasas are at the top, and acquire Hindu caste influence, therefore play a dominant role in matters. Khasas are land owning, the other sections, in particular Koltas, were treated as bonded labours, indeed till recently prohibited from owning land therefore exploited. I was reading that a study conducted in 1980s found that 31 villages in Jaunsar-Bawar belt had instances of Kolta women trafficked to the plains by Khasas (Dr.DPS Khanna, Garhwal Univeristy). Though patriarchal, women play an important role most likely as an influence of once prominent polyandry. A day later I was up hill at Chakrata talking to Mr Kriparam Joshi, a retired principal of school and a man of immense knowledge about the culture of the place, who informed that Jaunsari tribes are the one of the few tribes in India who actively practices casteism, as Hindus do. He referred to it as bad influence as has happened with Christians and Muslims. Funnily as Jaunsaris are tribes they enjoy the status of ST so we have strange combination of “Brahmin Tribe” while the lower sections of Jaunsaris enjoy the status of both ST and SC. They mostly chose SC status for less competition in jobs, as the reservation is about 17% while ST is only 8%.      

 Though Jaunsaris are classified as Hindu tribes they don’t worship Hindu gods, preferring their own God, principal one being Mahasu. Neither in the characteristic of gods nor in the manner of worship have much semblance with Hindu practices, animal sacrifices are common.  Polyandry now seems nonexistent, though interaction with children at the village I gathered they refer aunts as mothers and so on. The only story that I gathered from the talk on Jaunsari was about their god Kailu, a temple located at the top of the hill. Kailu is a warrior god with sword in his hand. It so happened that many centuries ago a tyrant ruled the region, he asked for human sacrifice. The villagers were fed up and looked for savior. They were prophesized by power from above of a warrior in Kashmir but as they took the journey they realized there really isn’t any help. One day from the ant mound a figurine emerged who was to be their god and savior.     

       

The older traditional houses are double storey wooden and rather striking, though cavernous they keep the house warm in winter. Dhanpo has to its credit a tradition of what is now described as Organic farming. It is not a concept (which a news report –indeed BBC –was quoted as saying has no much nutrition difference than pesticide induced food!!) but a way of life. It is integrated in the outlook towards life. Every home has cows, buffaloes and goats; these are collectively assigned a space on the outskirts of the village. Each family has a shed called gowshala. It helps in that the village is maintained clean while defecate from the animals are easily collected and converted into manure. This then is distributed to plots that 40 odd families, that consists the village, hold for cultivation. There is also vermiculture pits, I was shown around by Ms Meena Devi who also is the President of SHG, she explained on medicinal values of some plants.   

      

Women of the village have taken the initiative to create a group called Durga Mahila Swyam Seva Samooh, the guest house where i stayed runs under their aegis. The women are refreshingly open and not unduly alarmed interacting with strangers. Most likely they haven’t really travelled in Delhi metros where the local guardians of government keep blaring every few seconds “not to talk to strangers” and so we have “all strangers” looking up and down with grim faces, no courtesy, no smile…ah back in the city. You will be a dead soul if this enters your being. And so a stranger dying on the street is just a stranger, from this pits also emerge self serving bleeding hearts, the paratroopers of issues! Delhi government is very clear on how to create ideal citizens. Though I understand the risks involved with strangers but these are never norms as is being attempted.    

 For once I too was quite comfortable and relaxed, with trusting people around there is peace in the being. Though initially I too was apprehensive and discomfited by easy nature of people, slowly it dawned that this is real, and I am in a very real world. And so while you have your dinner the women will gather around, ask a line about taste of food, as they discuss among themselves their private matters in jaunsari language. The unfortunate fallout of being on the quieter part of the human spectrum of social skills is that very soon you are nonexistent. But they were considerate to drop in a line like ‘aur kha lo’ ‘acha laga’ and so on. Though must add later I insisted on quieter surroundings and lesser people. On a late night I also had an experience of about a dozen women coming for a visit, they carried grains and lentils as gift. Anyone visiting Dhanpo (and they must) should be open to any kind of surprise. The facilities at the room are minimal but decent, the view is great, food is homely and yes organic. So if you are in Dehradun or Mussorie drop into Dhanpo for a day or two, and enjoy the hospitality of tribes of Himalayas, and ofcourse salubrious climate. 

The video posted at  http://youtu.be/WNukDWzvuwo is a night of get together that was arranged at the janmilan hall, wherein the women exhibited their zest for life and rhythm. What is incredible is that they are multifaceted…indeed these words are created. People are hardworking and do their work with dedication so in the morning you see them tending animals, carrying manure, climbing trees to cut leaves so on by mid noon they are cooking some really tasty food and later they are singing and dancing!!

Post script: things go wrong…

The above piece was written on the third day of my stay, I was about to leave but then I extended it by a day. The problem could be that, Indian villages are romantic getaway only for few days then the reality of surroundings barge in. Few kids happen to visit me where I was staying, while the regular kids were around. I asked about them, the kid shrugged, winced and said in appalling manner that they are from harijan basti. Little above Dhanpo is a few metres of no-man’s-land lies Harijan basti. It almost looks the same except that they are smaller and quieter, yes cleaner. Though small children are seen running around but I found teenage children and youngsters quieter lot. Elders subdued and avoided direct eye contact. I informed one of the elderly ladies who served me food and interacted everyday, about the appalling behavior of the kid. Till that moment a charming lady, she spewed “we never take food from them. I will never eat food prepared by them”. I said that is not right. A man who till now rarely spoke, shy manners, was regular presence found his voice and said vigorously “that is how god made them, they are no equals”. No wonder the kids treat these unfortunate children with such dislike, it is the elders who give the cue. Suddenly the pretty village, charming people and tasty food all got bitter for me. I don’t blame Dhanpo, it is only a microcosm of what is nasty India. These are the manners and attitude that is extended and seen in different contexts and views at the national level. The nasty India carries the seeds of incredibly mediocre India. As long as nasty India exists whatever pretensions Indians have at the high table of international relations about their caliber it will be just not enough since it is a byproduct of bias and cruelty. Such demarcations of villages on the basis of castes, these brahminical references should be made illegal. They created egotistic zombies out of otherwise ordinary compassionate people. And yes anyone visiting Dhanpo must also visit this section and enjoy their hospitality. I am sure no one has monopoly on hospitality and humbleness!!  

     

Despite these problems I reiterate you must visit Dhanpo atleast for the lead women have taken, their incredible passion for life and all the living that surrounds them. There is a quintessential compassion for life that is typically Indian. Dhanpo should be in the itinerary for anyone visiting Gharwal.  And yes in dance and celebration everyone come together…

The Duck story

 The Northern Pintail (Anas Acuta) is one of the most abundant winter migrant to the subcontinent, you will see gregarious flocks settling in the wetlands or water bodies in hundreds, sometimes within the city (I spotted few in the lake at Delhi zoo!!). It is a pleasure to watch them effortlessly float, preen, take a dip, sometimes almost stand on the water and fan its wings. The drake (i.e. the male) is rather charming looking bird-a white strip flowing through its chocolate colored head; the downward slant of its head makes it look as if shy. It has a long, pointed, central tail feather hence the name. Spotted this one at Yamuna Biodiversity Park (popularly YBP), this patch with a lake is now well protected also a dissemination centre so on, though I am not a big fan of Delhi but must concede the green cover and environment related concerns have increased. Cheers to that!!

Sandor Weores: The reader reads the poem but the poem also reads the reader 
 
Now I expend my life exultantly
like the oriole in the tree;
till it falls down on the old forest floor,
singing with such full throat its heart must burst and soar
 
What attracted me to Hungarian culture centre was an exhibition on photographs of birds –that too I saw the notice at the gate while passing through the route, and I came out knowing about Hungarian poet Sandor Weores (1913-1989). How wonderful!! It was an evening of poetry reading and talk on Sandor Weores, incidentally commemorating his 100th birth anniversary (conducted by Dr. Margit Koves). I really haven’t heard about this poet before so it was kind of a revelation. What made it special was the presence of niece of Sandor Weores –Ms Agnes Kriplani, she did an amazing presentation of recitation on pictures of nature. Weeks later I met her at the culture centre library, we got talking and she said “I am her kind of a person!!”. Wow now that surely is a compliment. 
A prolific poet, Sandor started writing at the tender age, when fifteen, he was published in leading journals of the time. Widely travelled he is also known for his work of translation from Chinese, Assyrian, Sumerian and Sanskrit. His poems were influenced by ancient Chinese poetry, Lao Tse, Upanishads, Babylonian epic, Egyptian hymns, Negro and Polynesian mythology (incidentally West should feel wrong in using words like Negro…we don’t have to carry their guilt). His works range from mix of classical and strains of folk, from simple nursery rhymes to sophisticated epigrams. The poems carried rhyme and rhythm, linguistic invention and verse melody, magical and language specific yet content defying meanings all in the serene harmony of poetry.        
                                                                                                               
The panic world is baffled at my gate;
‘Madman! Egotist! Traitor!’ its words beat.
But wait: I have a bakehouse in my head,
You’ll feed someday on this still uncooled bread

His poems were an effort in finding human beings place not only in the world but in the cosmos. Poet according to him “is the one who must retain the childhood, embryonic or perhaps even pre-conception quintessence of our being”.
 
Aphorisms

Word chases its meaning.
Dust hurries; stone takes it time.
Am I to take part in my own funeral?
You are here with your beautiful distance.
The tomb listens.
Coffin, naked virgin.
If born to your daughter, you are immortal.
The motionless approaches all the time.
Form is motionless, only its appearance dances.
Dangernightly.
Vapor thorn.
Icecomb.
Snowhorse.
Windcrystal.
Rustling water, sky.
They twine into a frameless looking-glass.
Here we lie, running around.
Your unknown selves.
Life is never alone.
For the second time the first gets lost.
Shadesong.

I am two, subject and object;
Only death can make me one.

More and more lonely gods.  
 
The Old Ones

They are so derelict, the old ones.

I watch them sometimes through the window
as they trudge home in an icy wind
with a back-load of firewood-
or in a panting summer
as they sit in the evening porch-
or on winter evenings by the stove
slumped in deep sleep-
they stand in front of the church
with palms stretched out in sadness, downcast,
like faded autumn leaves
in the yellow dust.

And when they stutter through the street
with a stick, even the sunshine looks askance at them,
and everyone makes it odd to say:
“How goes it, old man?”

The summer Sun,
the winter snow,
autumn leaf,
crisp spring flower
all pour an endless song in their ears:
“Life-cauldronful of old meat,
life-cartful of old hay,
life-candleful of gutted wax:
you are eaten up,
you are thrown away,
you are burnt to nothing,
you can sleep now…”

They are like someone
ready for a journey
and starting to pack.
and sometimes, when their gnarled hands
caress the blond hand of a child,
it must purely hurt them to sense
that these two hands,
hard-working hands,
blessing hands
are needed now by no one any more.

And they are already prisoners,
prisoners in chains, drowsy, apathetic:
seventy heavy years shackle their wrists,
seventy years of sin and grief and trouble,
seventy heavy years have chained them to wait
for a kindly hand,
a dreadful hand,
an unarguable hand
to give its command:

“Time now, lay it down”
 
Monkeyland is a poem that is mistaken for children’s poem, explained Ms Agnes Kriplani with a wry smile indicating tiredness with philistines invading the Net. The poem is a euphemism on state oppression during the time when authoritarian rule dictated people’s actions.

Monkeyland

Oh for far-off monkeyland
ripe monkeybread on baobabs,
and the wind strums out monkeytunes
from monkeywindow monkeybars.

Monkeyheroes rise and fight
in monkeyfield and monkeysquare,
and monkeysanatoriums
have monkeypatients crying there.

Monkeygirl monkeytaught
masters monkeyalphabet,
evil monkey pounds his thrawn
feet in monkeyprison yet.

……..

With moneysupper memories
the monkeyouthouse rumbles, hums,
monkeyswaddies start to march,
right turn, left turn, shoulder arms-

monkeymilitary fright
reflected in each monkeyface,
with monkeygun in monkeyfist
the monkeys’ world the world we face.
 
The Alchemist 
 
Roaming white speculative planes
and dulled to love’s transaction
he discounts his real passion
for those limits where rough life reigns.

He smiles on all invention
computing its weight as none,
accepts the dear objection
his own dense formulae own.

Icepacked in interstellar fury,
yet pure as the golden cygnet
drossed and dressed in mercury,

he roams to infinity, yet
back with fevered Iseult he
is Tristan seeking the first clue.

From my scribble pad… 

Learning English (and lessons on mediocrity)

At first I wore it as a garb
it seeped into my skin 
each cell battled invain.
The conqueror now chooses the thoughts
rearranges dreams
manipulates what fits the scene.
The ferocious ancient tamed
wags its tail.
Restless wisdom blunted in opaque outfit
is a joker in the show.
Colonized mind draws in strange tongue
a fracture that goes deeper and deeper.
I mime the language
that has bartered my soul
and left me a carcass of conflicting schemes.   

 

The Himalayan Griffon at Corbett

I must say I am exceedingly lucky to have not only seen a Himalayan Griffon but was at a touching distance!! It so happened I was at Corbett in Kumaon, and also so happened that a Himalayan Griffon had injured itself and was in care at a local resort. I need point here that the forest officials have been quite callous and don’t seem to be concerned or shall I say bothered, it is individual or group effort and care that see these incidents have positive end. And finally, it so happened that on the day of my visit the Vulture was set to be released. Wow. So here I was incredibly excited and facing the Himalayan Griffon. What a massive bird. It seems that the vulture had started to like the place and refused to budge out of the confinement despite much prodding by the volunteer in protective gear. The bird surely is aggressive. They left the door open and I trained my camera standing at a distance…minutes passed it won’t come out and so I went near the door and lo the bird hops out and few long strides was up and away, in the melee I forgot to take the picture. Geez. But must say the bird truly is a beauty, what an amazing sight. Some of these vultures have wingspan as long as 10ft. My good luck was on a long leash, the bird alighted on a tall tree few hundred metres away. So we crept up to the tree, and I got some really wonderful pictures. Later the bird was seen soaring the sky thousands of feet up, how exhilarating indeed.

The Himalayan Griffon Vulture (Gyps Himalayensis) inhabits in mountains of the higher regions of the Himalayas, the Pamirs, Kazakhstan and on the Tibetan Plateau between 1500 and 4000 metres of elevation. It performs altitudinal movements during winter, and frequent lower areas while the young birds wander down onto plains (the above is a juvenile). The Himalayan Griffon Vulture is the largest of the genus Gyps. They feed only on carrion and gather around carcasses located by soaring and gliding over large areas with their keen eyesight. They find mention in the history of the Tibetan culture as the dead bodies were left to be fed by these Vultures during the very cold periods of the year. The frozen soil did not allow burying the dead. I am sure we are aware of practices by Parsis, but those are mostly White-rumped or Indian Vulture (long billed). 

Gumani Pant: the voice from Kumaon hills

I was at Ramnagar in Kumaon region of Uttrakhand state tucked in the feet of Himalayas along the Shivaliks. Few enquiries and some luck I was at the door of seventh generation of poet Gumani Pant. The elderly man was taken by surprise. We talked about general things, I was handed some books to refer. The one that caught my attention was Says Gumani by Charu Chandra Pande. Other source includes Gumani Kavi Virachit Evam Bhasha Kavya by Devidutt Pande and Gumani Neeti by Rebadutt Upreti.

Gumani Pant (1791-1846) was one of the earliest voices from Kumaon, apart from his dexterity with Sanskrit he was the originator of khariboli in Hindi verses much before Bharathtendu Harishchandra –to whom it is credited. Gyan bhaishajya manjari is work of Gumani on medicine, dealing with maladies and philosophy in the form of couplets in Sanskrit. His Panch Panchashika is a theological work based on the philosophy of the Upanishad. Gumani witnessed rule of three sets of rulers during his lifetime –the Gorkhas, the British and the Tehri king. Apart from felicity with different languages Gumani’s versatility is reflected in the choice of subjects, from sublime to ridiculous, here he see jest as one of his friend slipped and fell (must add the English translation is wanting)

Yo brahmand chadi udi kamar ki dwi tuti pada

Akhan meh athi dah ye bhakath ch meri khabar ko karon

O ija babjyu kaka sun sabbai mishri khana su daiyo

Layavo dudh sithab pran udni ha ram yo meh maryu

Oh the universe behold my waist has broken into two

My soul breaks away and takes wing

My eyes burns, Oh is there no one to look after me

Mother, father, uncle  …hear O hear

I’ve fallen, I’ve hurt, don’t you see?

Give me sugar candy to eat

Oh quick I say, fetch milk, hurry –

Otherwise I will die, Oh Ram, I am done!

This poem is whispering of fruits called Kafals (myrica esculanta) that yields small pea size stone fruit. The colour of the ripening fruit is pink, which gradually turns darker.  

Khana layak indra ka hum chiya bhulok ayi pada

Prithvi me lag yo pahad hamri tthathi rachi dev lai

Yeso chithe bhichari kafal sabai ratha bhay krodh lai

Koi aur buda khuda sharm lai neela dhumaila bhaya

We are created for indra, the king of gods

But unfortunately dropped down below

Among the mortals here

And even here, on this planet alas!

We are made to dwell on these rugged hills

How unfair is the play of the destiny

Thinking thus in their hearts against god’s injustice

All the kafals turn red in fury

And yet others, who were old and haggard

Turned dusty blue in utter shame.     

Gumani lived during the period of turmoil as the colonialism was taking its root in the subcontinent. Colonial Britain was spreading its tentacles through East India Company, he verses makes the irony a satire

Yo angrej kahan se aya kon wathan meh rahta hai

Kahan aye ke raj kare sab lok isi ko chahath hai

Hindustani boop isi ka tej na koi sahta hai

Jo honi na rahe hue bin suno Gumani kahta hai   

Where from does the British hail? Which homeland is his abode?

And where does he reign? People even try to seek favour from them

No Indian prince can face his fierce might  

Says Gumani, it was thus ordained: whatever is to happen will happen   

Here is one poem that talks of good times and opulence

Kela nimbu akhod dhadim rikhu naring adho dahi

Khaso bhath jamoli ko kalkalo bhuna ghadera ghaba

Chuyda sangh uthyol dhudh bhaklo thyu gaay ko dhanodhar

Khani sunder mauniya daphduva gangawali roaniya

Banana, lemon, walnut, pomegranate, sugarcane, orange, ginger and abundant curd

Arum in dried leaves, tender stalks and corns, aromatic rice baked beaten flat or boiled

Thick delicious milk of cows and granular butter indeed

Big cakes of rice powder fried in clarified butter

That is what they eat, the people of gangawali

According to UNESCO’s list of languages Kumaoni is placed under unsafe category -which requires consistent conservation efforts. Kumaoni is one of the Pahari language (other being Garhwali), and is very much influenced by now extinct Khasas language.  It has many dialects (about 20 recorded) that change with the region.  

Jim Corbett: a hunter turned conservator, naturalist, a writer, a magnificent fellow

If Corbett Park is the oldest wildlife sanctuary in the country, it is a tribute to Jim Corbett. The man had a colossal presence in Kumaon region, born in Nainital (1875-1955) he was instrumental in initiatives for conservation effort.

I was reading these interesting observations “All birds and all animals have their own language and though –with few exceptions –one species cannot speak the language of another species, all the jungle folk understand each other’s language. The best three of the exceptions are, the racket-tailed drongo, the rufous-backed shrike, and the gold-fronted green bulbul. To bird lovers the racket-tailed drongos is a never ending source of pleasure and interest for, in addition to being the most courageous bird in our jungles, he can imitate to perfection the calls of most birds and of one animal, the cheetal, and he has a great sense of humour. Attaching himself to a flock of ground feeding birds –jungle foul, babblers, or thrushes –he takes up a commanding position on a dead branch and, while regaling the jungle with his own songs and songs of other birds, keeps a sharp lookout for enemies in the way of hawks, cats, snakes, and small boys armed with catapults, and his warning of the approach of danger is never disregarded. His services are not disinterested, for in return for protection he expects the flock he is guarding to provide him with food. His sharp eyes miss nothing, and the moment he sees that one of the birds industriously scratching up or turning over the dead leaves below him has unearthed a fat centipede or a juicy scorpion he darts at it screaming like a hawk, or screaming as a bird of the species he is trying to dispossess does when caught by a hawk. Nine times out of ten he succeeds in wresting the prize from the finder, and returning to his perch kills and eats the tidbits at leisure, and having done so continues his interrupted song” ….. later in same chapter he writes “I don’t know if racket-tailed drongos can learn to talk, but I do know that they can learn to whistle tunes. Some years ago the Anglo-Indian station master of Manakpur Junction…supplemented his income by teaching drongos and shamas to whistle tunes. Trains halted at the junction for breakfast and lunch and it was a common sight to see passengers running over to the station master’s bungalow to hear his birds, and returning with a cage containing a bird that whistled the tune they fancied most. For these birds, plus an ornate cage, the station master charged a flat rate of thirty rupees”.  (from the book Jungle Lore)  

Here he capsulate years of field knowledge of tracking into easy understanding “all animals that run down their prey have big toes as compared with their pads, and all animals that stalk their prey have small toes as compared with their pads”….. “if you look at the tracks of a house dog and cat, you will see what I mean by big toes and small pads in the track of the former, and small toes and big pads in the track of the latter”. Aha that we should look out for next time as first step towards identifying tracks, and then extend that to jungles. Corbett also gives insight into identifying poisonous and non poisonous by the track.   It is quite an interesting read. Another reference is found in book The Man-eating Leopard of Rudraprayag “…when a leopard or tiger is walking at its normal pace only the imprints of the hind feet are seen, but when the normal pace is for any reason exceeded, the hind feet are placed on the ground in advance of the forefeet, and thus the imprints of all four feet are seen. From the distance between the imprints of the fore and the hind feet it is possible to determine the speed at which an animal of the cat tribe are travelling.” 

 

                            I came to know about Sultana daku in 1997-98 from ‘punditji’ who runs a sweet shop in alley of Karol bagh. There were three elderly people running the shop those days, averaging an age of 80, the owner who sat at the counter in Gandhi cap, the waiter cum does-everything-else man and finally the cook. Now though the waiter survives aging 85, still serving delicious, rather subtle sweet sandesh, from palm jaggery and milk concentrate. The shop has a long history; started in 1940 it has seen many ups and downs. Nehru and Patel, yes Jawaharlal and Sardar, were regulars. Till three decades back the shop supplied sweets to power that be, including Pranab Mukerjee (who now is President of the country). I have spent hours and hours of lazy afternoons in this shop, mostly reading some books I carried. In the meanwhile Punditji regaled me with the stories from the past, of Sardar Patel who once came rushing in his jeep and asked punditji to come with him, and then he takes off…the problem being he keeps repeating the stories.  One of the stories he narrated was about Sultana daku. Punditji hails from Nainital, when he was about 10, the family went for a pilgrimage trek to haridwar, for darshan. They hid the currency coins in flour that they carried to prepare food on the way, as was the custom those days. They were attacked by the dacoits and things looted, as they were ruing their fate came Sultana daku riding on his horse and demanded what happened. On hearing he not only compensated for their loss but also gave them his share as offering to god. Another story of how Sultana looted only rich, in this case a moneybag named Karak singh, and the daring tactic he used apart from his benevolent nature towards poor made him part of local folklore. Sultana notified the fellow the hour he would come to loot, and came dressed as a cop in the guise of protection and cleaned up the coffer!!

Corbett has devoted a chapter in his book My India on Sultana daku appropriately titled Sultana: India’s Robin Hood. Eminently readable the chapter ends on a poignant note that reverberates in the mind for a long time. “ I could have wished that justice had not demanded that Sultana be exhibited in manacles and leg irons, and exposed to ridicule from those who trembled at the mere mention of his name while he was at liberty. I could also have wished that he had been given a more lenient sentence, for no other reasons than that he had been branded a criminal at birth, and had not had a fair chance; that when power was in his hand he had not oppressed the poor; that when I tracked him to the banyan tree he spared my life and lives of my friends. And finally, that he went to his meeting with Freddy (the cop in-charge of catching him), not armed with knife or a revolver, but with a watermelon in his hand”.

The book My India opens with a dedication that includes “…in my India, the India I know, there are four hundred million people, ninety per cent of whom are simple, honest, brave, loyal, hard working souls whose daily prayer to God, and to whatever government is in power, is to give them security of life and of property to enable them to enjoy the fruits of their labours. It is of these people, who are admittedly poor, and who are often described as ‘India’s starving millions’, among whom I have lived and whom I love, that I shall endeavor to tell in the pages of this book, which I humbly dedicate to my friends, the poor of India.”