tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64317127591850460432024-03-01T11:11:49.825+05:30In the Forest of the NightWhat is here is nowhere else; what is not here, is nowhere...
For the land south of the Himalayas is special...
And it is about my experiences in this nation, as a traveler,
as a forester
and as a viewerkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.comBlogger810125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-24593466470851971172024-02-25T13:48:00.003+05:302024-02-25T13:48:46.838+05:30 "Lost" - by David Whyte<p> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">"Lost" - by David Whyte</span></p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">Stand still.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">The trees ahead and the bushes beside you Are not lost.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">Wherever you are is called Here,</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you,</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">No two trees are the same to Raven.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">No two branches are the same to Wren.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">You are surely lost. Stand still.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">The forest knows Where you are.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve-breaks;">You must let it find you."</span>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-46936662777715624822024-02-22T11:40:00.004+05:302024-02-22T11:40:29.298+05:30Where the Mountain Stories Are: Losing Stories<p><span style="text-align: center;">There are no more
stories left to be told. Our world is exhausted listening to them. Stories made
the world go around, they said. But the world is in a state of paralysis now
which makes one believe that the stories are going extinct.</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Take the mountains
and their stories. Of ghosts and lore and of stories galore. Of wronged saint women,
repeatedly broken, mostly perishing but revered as stories in the present. Stories
of the ghost gods who protect the children of the hills from all calamities.
Such stories are drying up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Such stories no
longer remain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">******* <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-48665423956413080212024-02-20T16:33:00.004+05:302024-02-20T16:33:40.786+05:30 Where the Mountain Stories Are: Broken Poems<p> </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">I went in search of
the elusive gold <o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">And walked far and
wide, over streams and hills.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">There were glimpses
of riches and glitter, all of which within reach,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">And yet, I ended up
alone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">For in search of all
that gold, I forgot the larger goal,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">For in my search for
happiness, I left the good days behind.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">******<o:p></o:p></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-66096180188904749202024-02-07T12:20:00.007+05:302024-02-29T08:53:00.387+05:30Where the Mountains Stories Are: The Abiding Sway of Village Deities<p>Whoever goes to the mountains goes to his mother, said an
ancient sage. And such is the pull of the mountains that for generations,
countless souls have walked up and down countless slopes as they searched for
the self within.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From tall and forbidding granite walls that are unscalable
to isolated hillocks dotting the countryside, each hill and mountain holds
stories within. And nowhere are those stories told best than in remote mountain
villages, traditionally cutoff from society at large and under the constant
shadow of a landform that while overtly inert is as much a part of our planet’s
life history as the next ant or human.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a remote corner of the Himalayas lies one such sanctuary,
one where the goddess Nanda resides. It is the belief of the locals that
angering her is a recipe for uninvited disaster and as your friendly villager
rattles off the list of the deceased and decapacitated, one wonders at the
arrogance of those who must have scoffed warnings before tramping on the
venerable mountain. Whether the nature goddess forgive the trespasser can be
gauged from history, but the list nevertheless remains impressive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It remains difficult to this day to accurately define the
emotion that passes through one as a mountain cliff suddenly breaks through
from the clouds. Perhaps, this same emotion drives hordes of mountaineers,
trekkers, pilgrims, tourists and itinerant god men to make that arduous trek
upwards. And while every region may claim otherwise, nowhere do Himalayan peaks
achieve their singular identities that in the state of Uttarakhand as peak upon
tall peak cover your vision and turn your line of sight into a tunnel. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nanda Devi, standing at an awe inspiring 7817 metres above
sea level remains to this day, not merely a mountain but the devi to local villages.
Intricate traditional customs such as the Raj Jaat continue to hold their sway
over the region. Another famous deity of the Uttarakhand hills is Latu devta at
Wan, also the adopted brother of Nanda devi, who herself is considered to be the
avatar of goddess Parvati. Countless lore abound but what is unique is the
presence of a single deodar or the god of the trees. It is believed by some
that the devta resides inside the trunk of this massive deodar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many more folk traditions abound in such remote villages, carefully
tying the threads of ecological conservation and spirituality, traditions that
have continued to play a major role in conserving these forests in the light of
unbridled development push in the hills.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This close proximate connection with the gods translates
into frequent communication with deities of various types. With Jagar, local
deities are woken up from their dormant states and asked for favours. Villages
also have their Bhumyals whose responsibility lies in protecting the boundaries
of the villages amongst others. At the family level, Kul devtas continue to
sway decision making. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In many ways, the landmass now known as Kumaon has always
been dominated by Nanda Devi, much as Garwhal is considered to be the abode of
the char dhams and the Jaunsar Bawar region known to be under the protection of
Mahasu devta.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The lore of Nanda Devi transcends the spiritual and
the super natural. In the midst of its almost impregnable sanctuary and towards
the many ridges that extend outwards, stories, myths and legends abound. Once,
a spirited adventurer set out to document the true extent of the sanctuary,
which while lying on one of the busiest pilgrim routes on the planet and at
such extreme altitudes was at the same time largely distant from the rush seen
on the highway leading towards the Badrinath shrine. Almost fortress like, the
peak which looks over most of the state of Uttarakhand, it still remains
largely untouched by human interference. Whether the intrepid traveler was
impressed is still shrouded by lore but Nanda Devi still remains the fortress
that the mountain was. <o:p></o:p></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-91943711418135099242024-01-22T07:51:00.004+05:302024-01-22T07:51:18.191+05:30Where the Mountain Stories Are: Tripping through the hills in Winters<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;"><i>This one is a slow one. As I have been lazing through the
hills and dooars of North Bengal, so many stories stick with me. And most are
slow, as stories they may drag forever and seem real as the pieces come
together. Maybe, these stories were meant to be slow in nature.</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like that of Bhutan across the border, inter-twining as
lives and cultures intersects in a region that certainly counts as remote for
both countries. Across Parengatar lies the hills of Bhutan and what is probably
a gleaming pothole free road. There are excellent medical services and people
protect their forests. And it is with them that the villagers of Parengatar
would trade millets, seeds and other items of general use. The lament that this
trade got disrupted during the COVID and the border crossing never reopened but
also that such traditional forms of trade are now meaningless with the global
spread of the market economy. Most story tellers are yet to explore the impacts
on our collective heads post these diseases that made us all slightly
different.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From Parengatar and the Kholey Dai festival where stories
were the flavour of the season, one entertained the self by glancing in any
direction. Stories everywhere, of the Teesta and its continuing impact on the
average psyche, of the realisation that climate screaming is true and the world
around them could change really soon. There were other stories, one that of a
giant jhula, strung from four tall bamboos, tied to one another and joined with
a heavy bole, where adults could relieve their childhood without fear of
judgement and ended up appropriating the space more than the bewildered
children, forced to wait for their turn.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Kholey Dai is a festival of harvest and hope, a celebration
of the ripening of paddy and the joy associated with its bounty as the village collect
the threshed paddy and separate the multipurpose hay. Out here, a group of
Mallus from Gangtok along with locals and the organisers used hay in the most
extensive manner possible, including writing the word Kholey Dai, as stall
construction, as curation elements, as stage props and finally, when in the
cold, most people would gather around the stage, as a comfortable and warm
support for our tired bums.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such stories and that of bamboo. For Bamboo is everywhere.
Moving slowly through the countryside, in myriad totos and some trains, the
influence of bamboo takes mythical proportions. For they are used everywhere
and in everything, providing all sorts of support to desperate communities and
to well heeded profiteers. But my bamboo story is that of the straw for sipping
Dhongru, or the mysterious millet beer. As the top layer of rotten beer is
sipped in loud, the sea of millets can deter even the most ardent fan. However,
the straw is precisely used for this purpose for it creates a mesh type
protection at the bottom and forces through more of the liquid into one’s
thirsting throats. Through this magic bamboo straw, we could somehow taste Dhongru
during the festival.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Predictably, my eyes started hovering towards the many
familiar faces in what was now an obviously mongoloid dominant landscape. Faces
I place from childhood, ingrained as childhood memories are. Obviously from
Jharkhand, I speak to various Oraons, Mundas and other tribes folk who tell
stories of their frequent encounters with elephants, living as they are when
their ancestors were brought in, at the borders of the ever-shifting forest. Wage
rates hovering in the 230-250s, but with the almost certain guarantee of a pay
check at the end of the month, lakhs of tea-tribes as they are known as
continue to live in the dooars, land which even to the most untrained but seen
from a high point was probably meant to be this giant jungle in nature’s design
book and not the increasing fragment of heaven and hell that it has become for
all wildlife and thousands of unfortunate humans, who may be as bewildered as
the would themselves and reach in the only way possible to a poor human,
fightback and so the circle of violence and reprisals continues in the dooars.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the Mouchuki bungalow, way above Samsing after a long
deserved but tiring walk from Suntalekha, I entered upon a paradisaic world
where nothing else existed but the jingle of occasional goats, whispers of
women going uphill to harvest or that of the bungalow caretakers who have an
active opinion on all issues currently plaguing the planet. It was a silent space,
and the constant hum of silence makes stories hard to gather. But some stories
came into view. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Stories were made when I tumbled downhill and in a spurt of fast
walking, the impact of which is being felt to this day, I managed to get on top
of a local jeep and drove to Chalsa sitting atop that vibrant jeep and the
diverse country it took us through. Video calling friends as the tea gardens
flew past, I got a ring side view of morning affairs in the many houses along
the road.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lataguri was a special one. The place booked had ceased to
exist, the money lost, a tired soul, a fatigued body and finally an auto that
took me to this strangely wonderful resort that hosted shady business with
aplomb. I got a separate veranda and spent the next two days wondering if an
elephant would finally breakthrough. A lone teak sapling, growing fetishy fast
was snapped into two and the telltale signs of elephant passage was visible.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gorumara National Park is honestly an epitome of the word
park, for it is but a park and that shall remain the harsh reality. 80 sq. km,
ringed by a circle of conflict driven fire, angry villagers and tired forest
squads. The landscape is often described as the best managed division in North
Bengal but I’m beginning to doubt all self-congratulatory tones nowadays. The
completely smooth operator of the resort I was in, arranged his own vehicle
graciously and arranged a hurried visit to the Medla watch tower. Now, it was a
lesson worth experiencing. With the northern boundary of this longish park cut
by a highway and a railway line that offers beautiful views of the forest. The highway
we took was another matter, for when the diminutive bus driver decided 2 up the
ante, we just zip through the dense forests of Gorumara National Park and
resort Lataguri no time. Wonder thinks about the speed management techniques
employed in southern Indian park such as Nagarhole, Bandipur or Mudumalai and
so on they could be useful in managing the speech of drivers and other vehicles
in the forest of this region.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Widely praised as one of the best managed divisions Gorumara
national park officially occupies a critical space in this entire landscape. However,
telltale signs of conflict are everywhere especially along the southern border
as we drive along the canal and then take a lift into Ramsey landscape weather
squad forest driving score is there something sometimes known as is often
employed full time due to continuous exchanges of volatility between humans and
elephants<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">reaching that one story that I remember is that of adivasi
guide who was so well informed so trained with extremely poor pronunciation
vocabulary and grammar do but he was well trained and he was eager to learn
more wish that we could be able to taken for mountains of life another aspect
of the management of resources in Gorumara is the rather engaging role of JFMC or
joint forest management committee as they are involved in ensuring that the
guys are given provided on kaise get to own money every day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lataguri was also marked by this infamous flyover that is
always in the state of getting ready like most like was in India. The flyover
apparently has a gap in the middle which is visible and one for India few days
back 2 bikes with 4 people 4:00 in the morning drove stunt and it was only in
the morning when there 200-part body so found along the railway tracks below
what's flyover kind of is haunted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Listening to old Hindi music making me nostalgic as the lazy
days passed by, I explored the town of Lataguri for two whole days and then
took a bus and then a train to Hasimara.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Which brings the discussion back to conservation yet again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The railway route cuts through the Chapramari forest like a
slice. In many ways, also through Gorumara. The slice is impressive for the
railways is one institution which still takes its entire existence seriously.
The line is sanitized on both sides for as much as 3 metres each making the
crossing a gargantuan task for the unfortunate animal. This corridor is
officially stressed if not altogether damaged. And I am not considering the fault
lines caused by highways on all sides. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This region of the dooars is still under [population or
feels so due to the tea estates but conflict seems to be all around. Our
elephants are in some deep shit.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The train takes one through some glorious vistas especially
of the Bhutan hills and lends to itself a very romantic air, one broken by occasional
outbursts of forests that somehow seem disconnected yet when looking through
google earth, makes you aware of the several interconnected forest patches that
ensure continuity of habitat, inspite of the numerous linear blocks that they
face.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On a high, the train whizzed through the Jaldapara National
Park offering brief sketches of the grasslands within and the many rhinoceros
who have made this park their home. Through all the poetry, one couldn’t help seeing
the other side of the track, which was almost always under human habitation,
acres of paddy offering themselves as subjects of intense conflict. And as the
train turned towards Hasimara, the disjointed parts of the dooars shriek their
acknowledgement through all the beauty. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The beautiful dooars is a broken-down version of what it
once was, a vast sub-tropical paradise with few parallels across the world. A
perfect blend of climate, geography, altitude, and rainfall made this landscape
a forbidding jungle with only the toughest humans daring to occupy these lands.
Even as the toto took me southwards, it was obvious that the eastern boundary
of Jaldapara and Chilapata is home to an even faster highway, one that carries
fast goods into Assam. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chilapata forest is an astounding piece of natural beauty,
driven by high amounts of rain and having the comfort of being protected from at
least one side, overlooking the Jaldapara forests. And the results were clear.
The Torsa river surprisingly resembles Nile in the ancient books or a grand
delta. The entire river basin was a riot of water and tall grasses, enough to
hide elephants. And as far as the eyes could see, the grasses and this precious
river habitat, one that is almost impossible to now witness, were alive and
happy in the distance. High protection must be the reason here. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the eastern part of Chilapata is not so lucky. It is surrounded
instead by a giant web of habitations and fields, with both wildlife and humans
living in close proximity of each other. A few elders point to the fact that
the quality and quantity of fodder available inside the forests has
deteriorated. At the same time, reiterate some forest officials that the number
of elephants has increased over the years due to better management. Not after
the truth, I was awed at the ingenuity of the big elephant in breaking down
barriers. Even on the day we were there, an elephant had knocked down a
strategic pole, otherwise protected by electric fences and somehow managed to
enter the village. Night brought more events. A gaur decided to enter the camp
and the dogs decided that they would have none of it. So, after an hour or more
of cacophony, the mighty gaur suddenly decided that he had enough of messing up
with the local dogs and decided to return to the forest. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chilapata still operates through few homestays and small
resorts, lending a highly rustic haze to an otherwise regular safari, one where
the driver takes you hunting for a large mammal. Unlike Kabini where everyone
runs after the tiger, apparently the gaur is the most prized animal. The vital
corridor that Chilapata is, there is a sense that while it protects the eastern
bank of the Torsa, the forest itself is plagued by conflict in its eastern
boundary. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No story of any forest is now spoken in joy or fondness. It
is all about conflict and sad memories and destruction and encroachment. I
found it surprising that most of the people with these memories were themselves
of the generation that destroyed much of the forests and yet they fondly
remembered the old forests. Perhaps, a human’s primal connection to the wild
remains unbroken. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By now it was apparent that the magnificent Dooars is just
another massive conflict zone that is deteriorating further as the days pass.
The entire landscape is broken into smaller forest patches. As urban sprawls
spread horizontally, one worries at eh state of the remaining forests. It is
all about connectivity between the remaining forests for if connectivity goes,
it takes away chances of healthier populations in the future. Right from
Siliguri where forests border both sides of the road as one drives towards
Sevoke, Mahananda sanctuary, Neora Valley National Park, Chapramari, Gorumara,
Jaldapara, Chilapata, Torsa, Buxa and further are all remnants of once dense
forests. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Travelling eastwards, the railway tracks leading upto to
Rajabhaktawa inside Buxa remind you of better decisions that could have been
taken while planning lines through forests. The railways contributes itself as
a giant-sized animal killer, in forests across India and especially through the
Terai region. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Buxa Tiger reserve is unique for revenue settlements inside
the park means the mushrooming of small homestays and an occasional resort that
thrives on the mass tourist. All sorts of business go on inside and my memory
of taking a rather hectic walk, marred the visit to Buxa fort. The fort itself
had been a prison once and looking at its location, just loved the idea of anyone
being stuck here during those days when connectivity was minimal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Large teak plantations welcome you after the entry ticket to
Buxa is bought and you sit on a blocked auto. Entire compartments are full of
giant teak, likes of which one sees only in Kerala. But the question of why
Teak is still growing here is a question that will never find a good answer. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The presence of villages such as 28<sup>th</sup> Mile,
Santalbari, Jayanti and others inside the reserve, ones relatively modernised
by the impact of tourism, yet distinctly rural, meant that outside elements
could easily enter into partnerships to create wildlife tourism options. It
also meant that a free for all situation exists in the landscape with resorts
and homestays mushrooming everywhere in the region. I left soon after.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jayanti was another matter. Manoj dada, Mohan dada, Budo,
Milan and his family, various snacks shops and a lot of riverbeds to walk
around, Jayanti and especially Milan’s homestay made the stay memorable here. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fairly non-descript, the village is the remnants of what was
once a bustling mining town. Dolomite was extracted from the mountains opposite
and transported by train to be further processed. This probably would have
meant a lot of fear and astonishment amongst indigenous wildlife who most
certainly either went extinct or moved away. The town is a textbook case of
poverty. Even the rich look poor here. The more fortunate ones have opened
homestays or at least a room or two. Many operate small grocery shops which
amazingly, from the perspective of an urban elite is astonishing as most of
these shopkeepers earn not more than 7000 per month. That leaves the many men
who have nothing to do. Sometimes breaking rocks to lay roads inside the
forest, sometimes acting as guides, without much agriculture to call their own,
sometimes taking casual visitors to the Chota and Bada Mahakal mandir, but
mostly playing cards under the big tree opposite Neelkanth homestay. Such is
the life of the people of Jayanti.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rajesh dada, dressed in shorts and a short-jacket
combination at all times, surprises you when he announces after a long interval
that he is the owner of the establishment. By now, the guest probably has
checked in and finished their lunch when finally, the room boy mentions that
the diminutive person talking a while back is indeed the owner. Something about
Manoj dada was off. Was it his behaviour, which was impeccable, attitude which
was welcoming, nature which was all giving or his ambience. His ambience gave
the smell of death. One could not yet place it till on the last evening; one
finds out that he is an incorrigible alcoholic. That solves the riddle, at
least. His ambience was off.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anil perplexed me beyond imagination. Hardly interested in guest
relations, I was thankful that he finally gave the room to me. Guest relations
notwithstanding, his housekeeping skills were impeccable for the room at the
Very Last Cottage was neat and clean. I landed in the middle of a harried Anil
who perhaps was the epitome of the good life for me. His wife had had an accident,
and this meant that she had been out of commission for weeks. The guy in
question had to wash clothes and cook food, which he remined me several times
and several villagers also reminded me several times. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, when I glanced upon the unfortunate wife, faced
with an entire village’s agony of seeing Anil do extra work, she seemed like an
angel out of the woods. Strong minded, she literally gave up the walking
support in the three days, I was there. Starting with slowly climbing down the
very steps, where she fell from for the first time after the accident, she was
determined not to mess up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Slowly climbing down, sitting in the sun, having her hair
combed by her neighbour, walking around the whole day, slowly starting to cook
the next day and finally beginning to walk without support, it felt my life
revolved around her for a while.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dada was another matter. Busy bee that he was, he was up
with utensils early on and went around the village distributing milk from the
many cows and calves that he had. He had that ancient Mongoloid master’s
ambience and spoke to me about several things, God and beyond. We met one
afternoon while I was on a call, and he said that what else can one do but live
life daily. He also lit dhoops every morning, lending a strange ambience to
this very last cottage, at the edge of the forest, where elephants occasionally
walk in and walk out with a trunk full of salt and flour and barking deer are
seen walking around. He spoke about God matters and called me one too. When I
explained that my idea of God would ideally stem from that very first creature
living in the sea, whether in the form of a plant or animal and then the
creature finally lending itself to growth and all that is around us which we
see now, I would say that God was that creature.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dada agreed with his wise face, piercingly small eyes and a
gentle smile and went back to the forest, roaming with his cows and goats.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just when I thought that Jayanti will not cease to surprise
me, it continued so. Since I had forgotten that Jayanti is known as the queen
of the Dooars, busy as I was in the affairs of the village, a walk beckoned me
to the very edge of the clean water flowing down from the hills. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From this angle, Jayanti River with the bald granite
mountain providing an ancient sense of character to the region, the river
sparkled gently. Running fast through the rocks, almost touching the ground,
every tourist fell on one’s knees to take that impossible landscape image. All
will fall for such is nature. When we seek to see ourselves separate from
nature and merely enjoy its delights, natures cease to unfold its spread of
magic. It leaves us with the more outward manifestations that nature decides to
share, one that shows us only glimpses of its deep essence. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sparkling river took me upstream where a narrow gorge guided
me further into the dense valleys. The river, spreading and thinning at
different times was a constant companion and its silvery white water ran
through one’s sights, cooling them forever perhaps. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gorges rose on both sides and a largish hornbill flew from
one perch to another. The return traffic was thinning as well as darkness was
soon to cover the land. But walking quickly, through some boulders and then
some sand and finally, a rather anxious stretch covered on both sides by lantana
like bushes, making one an easy target for any upset elephant.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It all opened up to a wondrous magic land as the Jayanti’s
bed narrowed through the gorge. A bamboo bridge to cross as thew gusts hit you
straight at the face. And then a Maggi shop. After a visit to the stalagmite
formation of Chota Mahakal, drinking some sulphur laden water, one crawls back
to the Maggi stall, run by a bunch of wild people from Lepchaka. The lady, in
question was tough and the men were tough as well. Everyone was busy setting up
a brand-new hut for the upcoming Shivaratri season and they showed me around
one of the huts. Each hut was a shop firstly and behind, were a number of
tenting mattresses, upon which slept the gang. There was also an inside room
next to the dorm of boys where the lady could sleep. Sitting, chatting with
them, I finally left in the dark. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It took me a long hour and the shadows of the gorge above
were of different forms. I could sense the pull of the giant boulders and rock
faces. The Buxa range of Indo-Bhutan is also a part of the ancient rocks of the
Himalayas. The ancient folds, running mainly along an east-west axis, were worn
down during a long period of denudation lasting into cretaceous times, possibly
over a hundred million years. During this time the carboniferous and Permian
rocks disappeared from the surface, except in its north near Hatisar in Bhutan
and in the long trench extending from Jaldhaka River to Torsa River, where
limestone and coal deposits are preserved in discontinuous basins. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dolomite was also mined here. In the 5 days that I stayed in
Jayanti, made umpteen friends and ate well. I could also see the poverty flying
all around, another victim of development.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, after a night of some awesome karaoke, I left for
Cooch Behar after saying bye to everyone at Jayanti and then on a long bus
drive that cut through beautiful forests and then ran parallel to a railway
track that must surely seen a lot of blood. For what role does a railway track
have inside the remnants of what was once extensive forests. Finally, the usual
ultra hustle of Bengal became apparent as we entered and never left Alipurdooar
as traffic, houses, villages and ponds all merged with one another.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Cooch Behar is a place that was always in my imagination. Traces
of memory remain from the early days when the mention of Cooch Behar was in
reference to some far-off places, and I was not aware of the kings and queens.
Later, as I read about the kings and queens and their many guests, curiosity
grew. With the invitation of the Bhatiyali singers for Rivers of Life, my
imagination ran, and I imagined Cooch Behar to be rising out of forested sub-tropical
paradise with giant trees all around and a mist oozing out. Adding to the
millions of rivers of my imagination, I imagine people going about their daily
lives in boats. But perhaps, that happens a few kilometres downstream of Cooch
Behar as the various Himalayan rivers merge with the Brahmaputra. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Staying in a city where voter ID card is the most prevalent
form of identification, I ended up watching Dunki, going to the palace and
getting sufficiently impressed by its dreamology, walked here and there and
finally, after a surreal encounter with an auto rickshaw driver in the middle
of the main junction of the town, and after what was a relaxed conversation, I
left for Sevoke the next day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Journeys are made out to be just as they are experienced and
in that cold winter morning as the auto rickshaw driver took me far away from
the city of Cooch Behar and dropped me at the bustling railway station, there
was not much but mist around.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Assured that it is going to be a cold and cold journey, I
was seated at peace when many many kids from the nearby village jumped on to
the train. It being the first of January 2024, these kids were all headed to
Sevoke as I was. However, I was not aware that Sevoke evokes picnic like
emotion for this is what these kids were upto. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As the kids poured into the train, I was covered by young
girls who did not care a damn for rules or behaviour. They chatted with me as
though we knew each other and in no time, we reached Sevoke which was 3 hours
away. Saying bye to them as the bus moved to Kalimpong, knowing that I will
never see that one particular kid in specific, the one who was sitting opposite
me, I felt that all is good in this world where one can still talk to one
another.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My stroke of movement continued as I reached the road, asked
a Fauji who directed me towards an incoming bus. Within moments, I was on the
way to Kalimpong through the newly destroyed Teesta.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sitting in the back row, the bus glided up the hills, it was
one of those glorious journeys that seem to happen to us humans when we are in
a positive mood. Reaching gently, I found a beautiful homestay, Flower Patch
and settled in. A walk to Yin Yang, then some good chowmein and finally, back
to the homestay, I was ready for the day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tea kept pouring in as it has been over the past 20 days. I
never did realise that Tea is such as integral part of my life but all
together, the tea, the view and some good old ancient stuff kept the homestay
happy. It overlooks the Teesta and all the associated valleys that reach down
to Siliguri. A bald patch on one of the opposite hills speaks of a long-lost
landslide or perhaps nothing. But no one I spoke too, could conjure a cultural
link to the that strange looking mountain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Night in the most single single room made it a glorious
time. The room was small in the real sense, with a bathroom that overlooked the
Kanchenjunga. My room window was above a valley that had a temple and a lot of
water in a water stressed environment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The evening went by and after a few forays to the roof and
the open viewing deck, I settled down to wearing an inner coat, one that held
me in good stead through the night. My time in Kalimpong was done.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next morning, a walk or two, breakfast in the form of a
terrible dosa, booking my shared jeep to Icche Gaon Fatak and bye to amazing
hosts at the Flower Patch, I walked through a crowded and water starved
Kalimpong, and after securing a lifer, I actually sat in the front window seat
of a shared jeep that took me through crowded towns and villages, each
invariably looking like an extension of the other. And then, I was dropped at
the Icche Gaon Fatak.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It has been 15 or more days since my travels began and this
one was probably as tough to reach as Mouchuki Bungalow near Samsing which was
my first steep walk. A lot of Momo, some tea and some bull-headed determination
and I was on my way. The momentum was enough to carry me all the way above the
crowded marketplace and higher. Finally, at the very end of whatever disguised
for my energy those days, I met an amma who offered me various types of rooms
and to my guiltiest pleasure, I found just the right cottage for all my needs.
Overlooking a hang with the village just below, the cottage opened to a view of
the Kalimpong side of these hills and all I could make out was valleys upon
valleys of mountain sides.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I settled at the Rawas homestay and with amma, dada and
Harikaka, it took me an improbable amount of energy to leave this idyllic
heaven. Idyllic but lazy. By the second night, dada who also owned the place
would place the food beside me and coax me into eating or the food would turn
cold in minutes. Not one to attempt a blanket crossover, I had to struggle
eating every night as the cold set into this hilltop village. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The cat visited me one night and decided to explore all
around. Hardly scared, barely even curious, it just decided to explore as suited
its mood and in no matter, came and snuggled next to me. I was also lazy and
decided against shaking it off, leading to a rather therapeutic moment of human
animal interaction when all the worlds’ sadness seemed far away and all that
mattered was the cat’s soft breathing as its cavity of a heart took heavy
breaths in the cold night.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Days were spent lazing, mostly semi-dozing and doing
nothing. Even the owners offered to send me off on a trek for free, but Hari
kaka knew that I was happier in doing nothing. Finally, one evening, I did go
on this ethereal walk-through palm and cane laden paths, where dense bushes of orchids
offered a continuous shade, I walked deep into the forest path and felt light
again. Light footed and light-hearted, the walk as sweat and chill mixed was a
treat to recall.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I returned and video played with the dogs, a hot tea and
some pakodas awaited the tired soul at Rawas homestay.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Icche Gaon is not without its peculiarities. First is the
growth of multi-storeyed mega tourism structures where the approach road is
still being built is beyond comprehension. Some establishments use the night to
blast loud music that reverberates perhaps as far as the Mighty Kanchenjunga
itself. Each night was an experience in endurance and as the body finally lulled
itself into sleep, dying thoughts would revolve upon the flavour of the evening
which currently was in the form of Jamal Kudu from a movie called Animal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet, finally, reverse-tripping, I went on a walk rampage.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Starting from Icche Gaon, I climbed up and then down to
Silari Gaon and then through some dense forests, finally reached the
Pedong-Silari junction. Already tired but happy after a good long walk, I was
barely beginning to climb up when a jeep came swooping by. And to my surprise
was going all the way to Samsing, which had been the beginning of my travels. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Atop the roof, hanging to whatever took our fancy and
finally finding myself right above the driver, separated by a thin sheet of
metal. As we froze making the climb from Pedong and drove through well
preserved mountain forests, we sat frozen till the jeep dropped us off at Lava.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had been hearing of Lava having turned into a tourist hub
and crowded as Darjeeling or Kalimpong, yet it took a walk through its long
winding street all the way to the Neora Valley National Park check post to
understand the impact on fragile ecology. Lava is sitting on a volcano, and I
was not sitting on one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I continued walking down, all the way to Sherpa Gaon and to
the tea garden which seemed out of place in a tropical paradise that Sherpa
Gaon is. Much like other tea gardens in the area, the true native vegetation of
this lands is forest and agricultural homesteads that are not ecologically
damaging. Wishful think that it is, instead of protection, it is apparent that
the remaining wildlands are rapidly transforming into curated spaces. Tea seems
foreign, howsoever hard we may try to convince ourselves.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I continued my downhill walk and after an eternity where a
good Samaritan driver offered me a lift and then finally, the same jeep that
had brought me from Icche Gaon the previous day, gave me space at the top. All
alone, this journey is memory worthy for I desperately clung to life, sitting
alone on that windy rooftop. Somehow holding onto my bags, I stayed perched as
a pissed bird stares directly at a howling storm and got down only when the
driver asked me too. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Damdim, Oodlabari, walks, a tempo through the Sevoke
forests, autos and a last walk to the airport and suddenly all that remained of
this moment was memories. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-65428746098697084982024-01-14T16:27:00.005+05:302024-01-14T16:27:34.876+05:30North Bengal Expenses<p style="text-align: right;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>North Bengal Trip<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">15122023 – 1000 – Purchases<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">18122023 - 4500 - Mokochuki camp<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">20122023 – 1500 – Food at Mouchuki<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">20122023 – 200 – Travel to
Lataguri<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">20122023 – 5000 – Lataguri – Camp
Banani (Includes 2444 for Banbitan)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">20122023 – 2100 – Watch Tower
Ramsai/Medla<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 20<sup>th</sup> - 14300
<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div style="text-align: right;">21122023 – 1000 – Handicrafts and
other things</div><div style="text-align: right;">22122023 – 600 – Food at Banani</div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">22122023 – 45 – Train to Hasimara<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">22122023 – 400 – Toto to Jungle
Book Chilapata<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">22122023 - 4055 – Chilapata<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 22<sup>nd</sup> - 6000
<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">23122023 – 500 – purchases at
Chilapata<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">23122023 – 800 – Safari<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">23122023 – 300 – Tips at Chilapata<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">24122023 – 600 – Auto to Buxa<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">24102023 – Ticket at Buxa – 150<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">24122023 – 300 - Auto to 28<sup>th</sup>
Mile<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">24122023 - 4000 - Buxa: Santalpara<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 24<sup>th</sup>- 6650<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">25122023 – 1000 – Food at 28<sup>th</sup>
Mile, Buxa Valley Resort<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">25122023 – 500 – Snacks<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">25122023 – 550 – Guide plus entry
charge to Buxa Fort<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">26122023 – 100 – Tips at Buxa
valley<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">26122023 – 30 – Bus from SSB camp
to Jayanti <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">26122023 - 1400 - Buxa: Jayanti
Riverside<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">26122023 – 450 – Food at Jayanti
Riverside<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 26<sup>th</sup>- 4030
<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">27122023 – 100 – Tips at Jayanti
riverside<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">27122023 – 1400 – Stay and food at
Neelkanth: Jayanti<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">28122023 – 200 – Tips at Neelkanth<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">28122023 – 3000 – Stay at Very
Last Cottage: Jayanti<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">28122023 - 500 - Snacks from
Jayanti market<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 28<sup>th</sup>- 5200
<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">31122023 - 1300 – Food at Very
Last Cottage<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">31122023 – 50 - Bus to Cooch Behar<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">31122023 – 600 – Hotel: Cooch
Behar<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">31122023 - 400 - Snacks, Movie:
Dunki, badam, gol guppe, cold drinks<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 31<sup>st</sup> - 2350<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">01012024 - 135 – Travel to Sevoke
including Rs. 100 for toto<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">01012024 - 100 - Morning coffee, 4
mungfali, samosa, tea<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">01012024 – 110 – Bus to Kalimpong<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">01012024 – 140 – Lunch<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">01012024 – 800 - purchases <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 1<sup>st</sup>- 1285<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Grand total from 18<sup>th</sup>
till 1<sup>st</sup> evening: 15 days – 39815/15=2654<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">02012023 – 100 – Dosa<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">02012023 – 1100 – Stay at Flower
Patch Homestay<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">02012023 – 150 – Tips, pan, momos
at Icche Gaon fatak <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">02012023 – 100 – Jeep<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">02012023 – 200 – Purchase at Icche
Gaon<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">05012023 – 2700 – Stay at Khawas
Homestay <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">05012023 – 200 – Tips at Khawas<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">05012023 – 100 – Jeep to Lava<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">05012023 – 200 – Food at Lava<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 1200 – Stay at Nivvana
homestay<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 100 – Tips at Nivvana<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 150 – Jeep to Damdim<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 20 – Toto to Oodlabari<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 50 - Goods gaadi to
Chowki<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 20 – Auto to Darjeeling
More<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 20 – Auto to Bagdongra<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 400 – Food and other
things at Bagdogra<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">06012023 – 700 – Stay at Kaustabh
Lodge<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">07012023 – 100 – Tea and breakfast
at Bagdogra<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Total till 7<sup>th</sup> -
7601<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;"><b>Grand total from 18<sup>th</sup>
till 7<sup>th</sup>: 47416/20=2370<o:p></o:p></b></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-39976356150676998802024-01-11T19:01:00.004+05:302024-01-11T19:01:34.561+05:30Where the Mountain Stories Are: Tripping through the hills<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">This one is a slow one. As I have been lazing through the
hills and dooars of North Bengal, so many stories stick with me. And most are
slow, as stories they may drag forever and seem real as the pieces come
together. Maybe, these stories were meant to be slow in nature.</span></i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like that of Bhutan across the border, inter-twining as
lives and cultures intersects in a region that certainly counts as remote for
both countries. Across Parengatar lies the hills of Bhutan and what is probably
a gleaming pothole free road. There are excellent medical services and people
protect their forests. And it is with them that the villagers of Parengatar
would trade millets, seeds and other items of general use. The lament that this
trade got disrupted during the COVID and the border crossing never reopened but
also that such traditional forms of trade are now meaningless with the global
spread of the market economy. Most story tellers are yet to explore the impacts
on our collective heads post these diseases that made us all slightly
different.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From Parengatar and the Kholey Dai festival where stories
were the flavour of the season, one entertained the self by glancing in any
direction. Stories everywhere, of the Teesta and its continuing impact on the
average psyche, of the realisation that climate screaming is true and the world
around them could change really soon. There were other stories, one that of a
giant jhula, strung from four tall bamboos, tied to one another and joined with
a heavy bole, where adults could relieve their childhood without fear of
judgement and ended up appropriating the space more than the bewildered
children, forced to wait for their turn.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Kholey Dai is a festival of harvest and hope, a celebration
of the ripening of paddy and the joy associated with its bounty as the village collect
the threshed paddy and separate the multipurpose hay. Out here, a group of
Mallus from Gangtok along with locals and the organisers used hay in the most
extensive manner possible, including writing the word Kholey Dai, as stall
construction, as curation elements, as stage props and finally, when in the
cold, most people would gather around the stage, as a comfortable and warm
support for our tired bums.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such stories and that of bamboo. For Bamboo is everywhere.
Moving slowly through the countryside, in myriad totos and some trains, the
influence of bamboo takes mythical proportions. For they are used everywhere
and in everything, providing all sorts of support to desperate communities and
to well heeded profiteers. But my bamboo story is that of the straw for sipping
Dhongru, or the mysterious millet beer. As the top layer of rotten beer is
sipped in loud, the sea of millets can deter even the most ardent fan. However,
the straw is precisely used for this purpose for it creates a mesh type
protection at the bottom and forces through more of the liquid into one’s
thirsting throats. Through this magic bamboo straw, we could somehow taste Dhongru
during the festival.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Predictably, my eyes started hovering towards the many
familiar faces in what was now an obviously mongoloid dominant landscape. Faces
I place from childhood, ingrained as many childhood memories are. Obviously
from Jharkhand, I speak to various Oraons, Mundas and other tribes folk who
tell stories of their frequent encounters with elephants, living as they are
when their ancestors were brought in, at the borders of the ever-shifting
forest. Wage rates hovering in the 230-250s, but with the almost certain guarantee
of a pay check at the end of the month, lakhs of tea-tribes as they are known
as continue to live in the dooars, land which even to the most untrained but
seen from a high point was probably meant to be this giant jungle in nature’s
design book and not the increasing fragment of heaven and hell that it has
become for all wildlife and thousands of unfortunate humans, who may be as
bewildered as the would themselves and reach in the only way possible to a poor
human, fightback and so the circle of violence and reprisals continues in the
dooars.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the Mouchuki bungalow, way above Samsing after a long
deserved but tiring walk from Suntalekha, I entered upon a paradisaic world
where nothing else existed but the jingle of occasional goats, whispers of
women going uphill to harvest or that of the bungalow caretakers who have an
active opinion on all issues currently plaguing the planet. It was a silent space,
and the constant hum of silence makes stories hard to gather. But some stories
came into view. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Stories were made when I tumbled downhill and in a spurt of fast
walking, the impact of which is being felt to this day, I managed to get on top
of a local jeep and drove to Chalsa sitting atop that vibrant jeep and the
diverse country it took us through. Video calling friends as the tea gardens
flew past, I got a ring side view of morning affairs in the many houses along
the road.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lataguri was a special one. The place booked had ceased to
exist, the money lost, a tired soul, a fatigued body and finally an auto that
took me to this strangely wonderful resort that hosted shady business with
aplomb. I got a separate veranda and spent the next two days wondering if an
elephant would finally breakthrough. A lone teak sapling, growing fetishy fast
was snapped into two and the telltale signs of elephant passage was visible.<o:p></o:p></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-15702000508123685342023-12-23T11:08:00.009+05:302023-12-23T11:08:50.776+05:30Forests of Life: Walking on as they say<p><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Forests of Life was an effort towards spreading the message
of the need for and importance of conserving our priceless forests that have
existed for millennia.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">From 2<sup>nd</sup> November, we explored stories revolving
around its birth and evolution over millions of years, its role in sustaining
lives and above all, the unique relationship that human beings and forests have
mutually developed towards each another. We talk of - <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests of Life:</b> Entering a bustling corridor,
the visitors were welcomed by a series of panels that begin with the story of
life, role of various organisms – unsung heroes in a way – in sustaining lives.
From this quick introduction to forests and its many critical organisms, we
moved to the next section with the Forest Map of India, first drawn
comprehensively by Champion and Seth and now imagined using various layers of
information. This is followed by celebrating the forests of Karnataka and
finally, the section concludes with a mesmerising <i>paper cut art</i> by one
of our interns, depicting various layers of the forest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests of Wonder</b>: As we step away, videos
taken by our interns accompanies a burst of vivid smells. Try and identify
these forest smells as you walk through intern stories celebrating this wonder
of nature called forests. Pause for a few moments at the Plant and Animal maps,
imagined through Artificial Intelligence by an intern and wonder at the beauty
of our vast ecological wonderland that is India. Step away from the forest of
wonders with mesmerising images of Himalayan forests.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests of Coexistence</b>: Our forests have
long been burdened under the pulls and pushes of infinite stakeholders. Often,
the stakeholders who matter are left off any dialogue. But in a true forest of
coexistence, communities have learnt to live under the shade of the benevolent
tree and has thrived under its shade. Call it the mother tree or the forests
secret language, communities acknowledge that somewhere deep below the ground,
the forest talks about its children and takes care of them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests of Pastoralism</b>: Coexistence can
never be best exemplified unless one brings pastoralists into a discussion.
Traversing endless distances, through deep forests and open grasslands,
collecting stories and crafting tales, pastoralists were the living breathing
nervous system of a once vast disconnected land. Bringing life sustaining
dairy, enriching the soil by camping in agricultural fields, handing medicinal
herbs, pastoralists have continued to play a critical part in ensuring the
survival of domesticate biodiversity. Persecution however has accompanied many
societies since the colonial powers began putting a stranglehold around a
traumatised land, still recovering from the repercussions of the mutiny of
1857. We pay our homage to the pastoralists by bringing out stories of despair,
hope and coexistence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests of the Wild:</b> India’s wildlife can
be defined in a few words – Unbelievably resilient and incredibly fragile – A
strange dilemma now exists. Wildlife benefits from protection but the area that
can be reasonably protected is small. Also, does protection mean eviction of
indigenous communities when they have lived in symbiosis for millennia. On the
other hand, wild animals’ journey from protected to non-protected landscapes
often. How do we ensure their protection. Is removing human presence, however
miniscule more important than protecting the critical corridors that connect
the wild. Forests of the Wild asks these questions to our young visitors.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">6.<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><b>Forests
of Threat, of Fragility and at Crossroads: </b>The forests of India are facing
a multitude of threats, leading to significant conflicts and challenges for
wildlife conservation. Over the past years, numerous distressing incidents have
unfolded, highlighting the perilous situation for the country's natural
habitats and the creatures that inhabit them. Instances such as the tragic
death of a terrified elephant calf, engulfed in a fireball and pursued by an
angry mob of villagers, have brought to light the dire circumstances faced by
wildlife. Furthermore, the alarming statistics reveal the extent of the crisis.
Each year, hundreds of leopards perish, primarily due to unnatural, man-made
causes. In addition to these heartbreaking losses, the relentless destruction
of vital forest lands continues unabated. Furthermore, the encroachment on
indigenous communities' lands threatens some of the last pristine forests in
India. The challenges faced by forest rangers are also cause for concern, with
162 of them losing their lives from 2012 to 2017 while guarding India's
forests, a staggering three times more than the second-placed Democratic
Republic of Congo. Adding to these ongoing threats, new data from recent years
reveals a concerning trend. The loss of wildlife and forest habitats continues,
with increasing encroachments, poaching, and habitat destruction posing
significant risks to the survival of India's diverse flora and fauna. These
challenges underscore the urgent need for comprehensive and effective
conservation efforts to safeguard India's precious natural heritage for future
generations.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests
as Networks:</b> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-ligatures: none; padding: 0cm;">The story of our forests is more than its
anthropogenic benefits. When in the Western Ghats, in the midst of never-ending
sholas and floating grasslands, or in the highlands of Central India where
giant Sal trees tower above all, or in the Himalayas where the deodar is
beloved as the ‘Tree of the Gods’, forests continue to be the givers of life, a
reminder of the critical role that earth system processes play in ameliorating
the world we live in. Visitors walked through a set of panels exploring our
intricate relation with all things natural, considering that we ourselves form
but a minor yet pre-eminent part of the wonder that nature is. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><b>Forests
of Action and Hope:</b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-ligatures: none; padding: 0cm;"> From sacred forests to wooded groves in
remote villages, within industrial complexes, government institutes and
universities, in defence land and temple premises, from parks and heritage
trees in cities to complete wildlands – forests, big or small, have a thread in
common. Distinct and mutually independent lands, they are repositories of
unique biodiversity, and often a signature remnant of ancient landscapes that
once thrived in India. We walk through such stories of action as individuals
and groups come together to protect our natural heritage, tending and responding
against growing threats and with the hope that forests will outlive the severe
trauma currently under process across our planets.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">For, if forests had a voice, they would ask us
to take it easy and revisit our current lifestyles rather than poisoning our
very life sources. Rivers, forests or mountains, we are here to tell stories.
And you, you are here to create more such possibilities.</span><o:p></o:p></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-72510844435598010112023-12-23T11:07:00.000+05:302023-12-23T11:07:13.152+05:30Rivers of Life: A journey through India’s Rivers: Festival Diary<p>Rivers of Life featured an evocative
photo exhibition, and a generous participation from folk singers,
conservationists, academicians, and storytellers who shared their unique
experiences around diverse river landscapes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">School and college students from across Bengaluru were invited to
explore the photo exhibition and interact with other students, activists,
researchers, folk artists, academics, and storytellers. The celebration
extended till the 16<sup>th</sup> of November and through these two weeks, we
came to learn more about our rivers, its cultural influences, a river’s role in
livelihood, its vibrant biodiversity, and the people working tirelessly to
protect our rivers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The exhibition proved beneficial for students as the vast
volunteer team of members, students and interns carefully explained aspects of
a lifecycle of a river, about civilisations along its course and about the
vibrant biodiversity at the interface of rivers and earth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Shining a light on our relationship with nature and mounting
environmental concerns demanding immediate attention, the visual retelling of
the story of Indian rivers -- one of hope and despair -- was an outcome of the
efforts of young volunteers and members from non-government organisations who
traversed across the country to document over 70 river systems, capturing both
the pristine beauty and the relentless onslaught these have come under,
reducing many to a trickle. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The idea was to encourage youngsters to look for river stories and
document the state of the river flowing in their backyard. Students and young
professionals were encouraged to document the state of our riverine environment
without a restriction of using professional cameras. Interns received training
in using phone cameras and were encouraged to take images as naturally as
possible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The programme saw various events each day across venues at the
University. Specific focus was made to represent rivers that have been heavily
polluted. Urban rivers that once heralded the rise of civilisations and now
often, subjected to intense anthropogenic pressures were also covered in
detail. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Stories and tales were discussed in detail during the festival.
Folktale performances by Bhatiyali singers from the Cooch Behar district of
West Bengal presented narratives of boatmen and communities that live along the
rivers in Bengal. The lilting folk art of Baul artists was wholeheartedly
welcomed by the student fraternity. The artists presented the mystic narrative
of Sufism and Vaishnavism and connect the flowing nature of the river with the
human body, mind, and soul. The film festival, curated by CMS Vatavaran
centered on life by the riverside, several story telling sessions and
river-based fun activities engaged young students through multiple discourses.
Leading experts and academics held multiple interactive workshops for students
and teachers on topics ranging from conservation and river ecosystems to
community engagement. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With more than 10000 participants visiting over two weeks, the
festival aptly came to an end with an interactive session with Toda and Badaga
community members who introduced the audience to the people and places of the
Nilgiris and their close association with water and a hope that our rivers will
remain protected through generations. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-24705193433651067742023-12-14T14:31:00.001+05:302023-12-14T14:31:34.662+05:30Each factory, every industry, is union carbide in slow motion, we are all dying slowly - Abhijeetkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-52914627305973921782023-12-13T22:13:00.001+05:302023-12-13T22:13:09.654+05:30The first thing that we should do understand the dress of the native and then dress accordingly. You will see a place differently.kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-32085051243344885462023-12-13T22:05:00.000+05:302023-12-13T22:05:00.074+05:30People are not so jaded in the countryside. They still like cheap thrills!kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-16817301277476132832023-12-13T21:40:00.004+05:302023-12-13T21:40:44.611+05:3051. Post Script: Can we boycott the next COP please?<p>COP has
been a misnomer since its very beginning. With 28 of these high-profile events held across a crisp checklist of dotted across an unfortunate
planet, we must not waste time questioning its accountability and perhaps culpability
in furthering this current era of divergence, from normalcy, from norms, from
rules, from traditions and above all, even further away from nature.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Conference
of Parties with its telling abbreviation is this centuries favourite conference,
a gripping tale told ever so frequently, with twists that implicate high
priests like Barack Obama and exposes hypocrisies on a real time basis. Nice by
storytelling standards, the promises of COP certainly have not been met. Every
citizen is now aware, yet not everyone is truly prepared. And COP should
ideally focus its remaining social capital on reducing the impact of what might
be coming.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">However,
COP is not required now. For it has not only failed to meet its objectives, but
it is also complicit of a larger crime. That of the gradual erosion of its
potential and the abuse of the long rope given to it by us, the citizens of
this world. COP has been nothing but a disappointment. Agreements deliberated
for days, walkouts over disagreements, often over the placing of a single word,
the repeated whitewashing of the true impact of Climate Change, an often-criminal
negligence of allowing this to happen through the years when COP was supposed
to be most active. Infact, if you count from 1992 when COP began till date,
there is almost a symmetry of the carbon spike witnessed that matches these
dates.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Above all,
broken promises. COP promises and never disposes. The Kyoto protocol in 2007
came up with a promise of reducing the world’s carbon emissions. It did not
materialize. The Paris agreement agreed to keep emissions within 1.5 degree
Celsius. We will probably and permanently cross 1.5 degrees by Christmas or sometime
next year. COP agreed to repatriate funds and reallocate them humanely and
effectively. The promised sum has not often materialized, especially for
nations who needed the support most. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">COP also promised
to reduce the global north-south divide and ensure fair carbon trading as
developing countries sought to develop in the same neo-liberal path as the
esteemed members of the global north such as the United States. However
problematic the idea of allowing developing countries to use the carbon needed
to reach the quality of life as measured by current standards and often
subscribing to the western notion of life, many would argue that so called
laggard countries have an equal right to aspire to the same degree of income
levels. COP possibly opened many new wounds between the north and south as
agendas become clearer during global negotiations. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">COP has
also been a happy ground for corporates, governments, non-governmental
organisations, each peddling their agenda, their country, their company. The messaging and nonchalance is reminiscent of the
haughtiness that has prevailed with the advent of the hyper-economy post second
world war – an economy where only paper money talks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">COP has
failed as imagination, and it is a drain on the country hosting it and the
delegates visiting it from far and wide. For an event that is meant to espouse
a solution to the growing climate crisis, it has not responded sufficiently or
authoritatively to force the solutions through. We missed several opportunities
along the way and the list is exhaustive, if not dismal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There is
another elephant in the room with global level forums such as COP. That of the
inherent divide that global north and south exude and increasingly the divide
that organisations within developing nations. COP has become another go-to
event in environmental circles and for all its criticisms, the convergence of
so many human beings is merely seen as a badge of pride amongst visitors. That
is the worst possible use of fossil fuels, if we really want to think about the
individual ecological footprints of all delegates who visit to bask in the
shine of COP.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We must now rethink the
strategies for the next COP so that the global community comes together to
discuss meaningful options rather than push technocratic solutions to these
vast webs of interlinked changes on our bio-physical world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Calls to
boycott COPs are not a recent occurrence as virtually all COPs are met with
resistance. Yet, the event marches ahead triumphantly. And with every COP, the
world population returns empty handed. When enquired, officials point to the
cumbersome process of achieving unanimity for each step of the process, a
requirement that ensures watering down of the statement to meet a particular
ideology’s assent. At the end, we citizens receive a rather tamed version of
the current upheaval we are experiencing. However, optimism still prevails that
COP 28 may lead on responding globally to this highly
localised crisis that countries, states, districts, villages and even
households are likely to suffer in the coming years, if not decades.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Questions
of unanimity and the more vexatious question of binding versus non-binding
agreements, and they arise during each COP and then largely forgotten or at
best, written by dreamer-writers who wish to change the world with their
keypads, point to the latent links between the global north south divide,
racism and the overarching influence of political process over what is
essentially a dialogue of our planet’s wise, be they scientists or traditional
knowledge holders.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
influence of the ruling class, omnipresent yet discreet, forceful yet savvy, is
this dark presence that stands in the way of a planet wide mobilization against
our own predicted vulnerabilities. When politicians ensure that these
agreements remain non-binding and safeguarded against penalties, it is apparent
that the urge to hunt for the cheapest source of power will only be over when
the resource itself is over. But the ruling class has already indicated that it
is looking beyond a climate change devasted world by continuing their search
for fresh sources of fossil fuels, new sea routes in the Artic over what is the
demise of decades of efforts to save the North Pole and the continuing
disregard of scientists attempting to warn the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There is no
hope for future COPs. A joke floating in the web is that the large corporates and
governments have really decided to turn off the tap for meaningful discussions
and the easiest way to do it is by promising small amounts of money for
piecemeal activism or just not doing anything, which seems to be the new normal
presently. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">COP 28 and
its failures will be best summed up in the most ironical satire of all times,
that of a man in suit, chairing over the world’s largest climate event, an
event whose philosophy is to eradicate fossil fuels. Oh, what a glorious
dilemma we have all put ourselves into.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
</div>
</div>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-68726119249220863132023-12-12T07:40:00.005+05:302023-12-12T07:40:40.691+05:3050. Final: The prelude to the end <p>Two and a half billion years ago, when the
Indian sub-continent was still a mass of volcanic eruptions, life slowly began
to take form in what is known as the Great Oxidation Event. As microbial cells
found in what is now the Deccan Plateau suggests, the Indian sub-continent
started cooling and took its present form almost 65 to 55 million years ago,
Rishi ventured.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Saanvi nodded. And an entire bunch of interns
looked up in awe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On this still evolving mass of land,
miraculously placed at the intersection of diverse biogeographical zones - high
mountains, dry deserts and lush coastlands, all jostled for space as if it were
an outburst of life itself. A range of biodiversity thrived and though
virtually impossible to imagine now, the length and breadth of the country we
know as India would have invariably been a vast contiguous forest, except
perhaps in Rajasthan and parts of Punjab, maybe they are too. The earliest
records suggest that there were dense forests in India in the Permian period,
around 250 million years ago<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
while humankind evolved only around 1 million years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, geologically our forests are older than
us, asked Heer, a graduate student from Bengaluru. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yes, forests are old, older than our limited
minds can see. But they have always been an integral part of our culture and
society. Evidence of forest management have been found in old scriptures, sermons
and chronicles of early monarchies. Did you know that the word forest means
outside and is derived from the latin word ‘Foris’, offered Rishi in response.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi was in the office of a local NGO, who
had invited him and Saanvi to talk to a cohort. He had decided to talk about
his thesis, making waves across villages in Central India.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He added, furthermore, many trees and shrubs are
regarded sacred because of their medicinal qualities as well as their proximity
to a particular deity. On the other hand, if you look at early kingdoms, they rose,
established rule of law and inevitably declined, each new ruler added to the
existing code of administrative knowledge. Invariably, forest management was
accorded a high degree of importance. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Ancient India thus saw forests in many ways -
on the one hand, there was growing cultural acknowledgement of the importance
of nature and natural areas, on the other hand, there was a continuity of
policy prescriptions on managing forest resources while on the other hand,
forests were considered to be a forbidden space and local as well as state
sponsored efforts were often underway to cut forests and replace it with benign
cultivation and space for new towns and villages.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, there was evidence of reverence and evidence
of ruthlessness when it came to managing forests. Many groups out of fear or cultural
affinity, revered and feared forests. Religious texts as Aranyakas and
Upanishads contained several descriptions on the management of forests. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What about the Vedic era, asked someone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Ohh, it is very interesting. There was a lot
of flux in that era, right. It is believed that during around the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ramayana, dense forests existed in
Naimisharanya, Chitrakoot, Dandakaranya and Panchwati, places that are
mentioned frequently in the epic. Observations from Chinese travelers record dense
forests in Lord Krishna’s birthplace, Mathura. Some records suggest that
impenetrable forests were observed along the Indus during Alexander’s invasion
in 327 B.C.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">According to Vedic traditions, <i>“every
village will attain wholeness only when certain types of forests are preserved
in and around its territory</i>”<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>. The
Ishopanishad, dating back over 2,000 years says, “<i>All in this manifested
world, consisting of moving and non-moving are protected by the Lord. Use its
resources with restraint. Do not grab the property of others – distant and yet
to come’</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Significantly, one of the
first great social influencers, Gautama Buddha asked people to plant trees
atleast once in 5 years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My dadi says that our forefathers worshipped
forests, asked Mallika.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yes, true. Forests were revered due to their
intrinsic association with hermitages. Scores of holy seers took refuge in the
wild, spending lifetimes in the difficult environs of a forest-based lifestyle.
Several such hermitages have grown into pilgrimages or temples of today. The
hermitages served a unique purpose as not only were these sites considered sacred
due to the presence of holy men but also operated as a form of a no man’s land,
where even royal authority, royal symbols or the taxation system was not
permitted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">ord Shiva at its base. His mother said it
had been done before their time and the tree had grown around the trident. We
believed her and believe her today as well, though she laughs off these ideas.
Maybe, mothers forget the tales they tell their children when they are young. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Can you name some hermitages, asked another
student.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Many, Rammaka Ashram close to the town of <i>Sāvatthi
</i>(<i>Śrāvastī</i>) and mentioned in the Buddhist text <i>Majjhima Nikāya
was one. Agastya-kuta or Agastyamalai which is in the </i>present day Kalakkad
Mudunthurai Tiger Reserve and is considered the residence of Sage Agastya is
another. There are more such as <i>Sutiksna’s </i>hermitage, in Dandakaranya on
the bank of the river Godavari, <i>Vasistha’s</i> in Assam, 16 kilometres<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from Guwahati, <i>Rishyashringa</i> ashram
near modern day Sringeri, <i>Matanga Muni</i> ashram on the banks of river
Prachi near Cuttack, Orissa, hermitage of Rishi <i>Vishwamitra</i>, <i>Kapila
Muni</i> and <i>Dadhichi rishi</i> on the left banks of river Prachi, Orissa.
There are more, many more.<span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But what about destruction. You cannot absolve
the vedic men and women of being saints, can you, asked Heer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Right, a deeply antagonistic relationship also
existed with forests. This large-scale destruction seems to hint at the growing
dominance of us over nature. While royal recognition was commonplace, raids on
natural areas were also documented, especially in the age of the epics. Stories
such as the large-scale hunting by Duhsanta, burning of the Khandava forest by
Arjuna around the later day city of Indraprastha in the Mahābhārata, and the
control extended by Kuru kings over the Dvaita forest point to the establishment
of claims over land, pastoral grounds or grazing lands. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Often, these large-scale incursions into
forests also indicate an extension of territorial power over forest dwelling
communities. The country was covered in vast forests during that period and any
effort towards establishment of civilization required clearing of land, for
settlement as well as agriculture. The legend of King Prithu milking the earth
(Prithvi) in the form of a cow<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
perhaps points to the start of agriculture in India. Prithu is also credited
with the feat of clearing forests and establishing townships. Besides,
domestication of wild animals for warfare and farming were also considered
important landmarks towards and establishment of a settled civilization. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But credit is still due to those ancient
books. Vedic texts refer to preservation of Mahavan, Shrivan, and Tapovan
forests around a village. Mahavan, ‘the great natural forest’, adjoins the
village and provides a place where all species can coexist. Shrivan, ‘forest of
prosperity’, is established after clearing of an original forest, in order to ensure
economic resources and ecological security. Shrivan could be in the form of
monospecific stands (plantations) or species mixtures (agroforests). Tapovan,
‘forest of religion’ is the home of sages and set aside for the practice of
religion. No animal or tree could be harmed in these natural and untended forests.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Which kings did better than the rest, would
you know, asked Saanvi, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Since the earliest time, many kings took the
initiative to protect forests and imposed penalties. Around 300 BC<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
with the establishment of the Mauryan Empire, domestication of elephants was
prioritised for warfare. Rulers such as Ashoka left lasting influences on the
code of environmental management and is rightfully celebrated as one of the
first environment crusaders of all times. Protecting sacred forests (chaityas)
was a practice around the 5th century B.C. In Vaishali, the Buddhist places of
worship came up in three mahavanas (great forests) named Gotamak
chaitya, Chapala chaitya and Ananda chaitya<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, it was Ashoka who instilled the ethos of
forest protection, asked another student.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">No, even earlier, we have records from
Chandragupta’s time. Chandra Gupta Maurya is said to have appointed a high
officer to look after forests and provided for protection of animals.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Kautilya’s Arthashastra classifies forests and
stresses the importance of protecting certain types of forests. He prescribed
changes in landuse from jungle to agricultural fields and orchards. In the
transformation of natural to 'cultivated' wilderness people could maintain
optimal density of plantations, depending on the carrying capacity of the land,
he explains. Perhaps this foresight explains why forests and wilderness in
India remained intact for centuries despite wars, urbanisation and the spread of
agriculture and commerce. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">What about the later Guptas, another hand
rose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In the Gupta period (300-600 AD),
Kalidasa's Shakuntalam mentions that taking care of forests was apparently
considered a virtue for the nobility, though hunting was permitted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And what about the medieval era, asked
Saanvi again, clearly her interest was piqued.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Early Medieval period (6<sup>th</sup> to
13<sup>th</sup> century) saw royal claims over the forest increase, especially
as kings started to donate forest land to various religious beneficiaries who
were also granted tax exemptions<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.
During the rule of Ghiyasuddin Khilji around 1320, the process of clearing
jungles started "at a serious pace" around Delhi for reasons of
security. These forests were replaced with orchards. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While the Mughal period (1526-1720) witnessed
stability of the society that depended on settled villages and revenue-yielding
land<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
chronicles of Mughal expeditions do note forays through thick jungles. The
Akbarnama narrates that Shahbaz Khan, one of Akbar's generals, had to spend
"<i>nearly two months engaged in cutting down trees</i>" before
capturing a rebel fort in Bihar. However, the Mughals struck a balance between
deforestation for strategic reasons and protection of the green wilderness.
They protected forest for their own sake, and built orchards in, and around
their cities. Emperor Jahangir introduced the famous Chinar tree in Kashmir
valley.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, you mean to say that b</span><span lang="EN-US">y the time, the British took over, India’s forests were still uniquely
wild landscapes populated by wild animals yet conspicuously an essential part
of daily life of the people. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yes, I cannot say with certainty. History is
as deceptive as a cunning man. But it does appear that though we were steadily
going downhill, still there was an abundance of protected as well as completely
wild forests.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And then, came the British, another student
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi paused. Why do you care for history. He
pointed to one rather serious child and asked, what is your major.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Biology, she answered. Geography, Biology,
Economics, Mathematics, Physics, Biology. A few hands went up for Humanities. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This is interesting. One history student in a
group of 12 and you ask questions of history with such curiosity. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But answered a shy boy with wild unkempt hair.
But we never really learn these things in our regular sessions. This is not
history, but part a hint at understanding why we are being asked to save the
world. Before we save others, we must know what happened that brought us here.
And you talk to us, not at us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi shrugged. Students these days, he
remembers his professor, exasperated at his many questions. You think you know
all. Wait till you grow up. You will know that you know nothing. He smiled,
thinking for a moment, how ancient will he look in front of this vibrant bunch
if commented something in the lines of ‘Students these days.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">You never answered what happened as the
British came. We know they plundered and build houses, they made railways and
they slept most of the time. But, what did they do to the forest, asked
someone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, colonial England went crazy. They saw this
rich country, rich in resources and cared two hoots about the intrinsic value
of these socio-cultural biomes. Everything was economic. They replaced customary
norms, brought in a centralized top-down regime and alienated millions of
forest dwellers. A nation whose forests were famously protected by kings like
Ashoka ended up being managed by a British power, joking around as they
practiced an ‘Era of Scientific Forestry in India’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But why this single-minded focus of the
British in craving for our relatively healthy forests. What happened to their
forests back in the small island they called home, asked Saanvi.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, they cut most of it and by the sixteenth
century, much of Western Europe had been deforested, and Northern Europe was
supplying Britain with large quantities of wood. Between 1600 and 1700,
Ireland's forests were devastated to meet England's needs of timber for
shipbuilding, iron smelting, and tanning<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.
There is a quote by someone called <em><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Oliver Rackham in the ‘History of the Countryside’, where he says,
‘to convert millions of acres of wildwood into farmland was unquestionably the greatest
achievement of any of our ancestors</span></em><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">’. <o:p></o:p></span></em></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><em><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Saanvi got up and stretched her numb limbs. ‘Well, that has been
interesting. But can we break for a while.’ Her NGO friends came rushing in, as
if we were royalty. Cups of hot tea was passed around, samosa too, the
students, still barely out of their teenage hunger days gouged on the offering.
Rishi could not help thinking, Habits don’t change. We served them then, we
serve our rich now. We fall over ourselves when offered a chance to serve. But,
perhaps it is the Indian way of treating guests. Maybe, we treated the British
as guests for too long, long enough for us forget that they were no longer
guests but rulers. But then, we serve kings better than we serve guests. So
here we are, a hundred years after our last invaders left and we are still
fawning over new age rulers. The Indian way’.</span></em><em><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><em><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A few students came up to Rishi, questions in their mind. He knew
the feeling, young minds laden with fire, curious to know things, easy to
mislead. The biggest crime ever committed by our selfish race is to lull a
young mind into acquiescence. He would never let that happen, as they say, ‘Not
in his watch’. </span></em><em><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What happened then, asked this group of
wild-eyed graduates.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What happened. Rishi paused. So many things.
Where does he start. The alienation of adivasis or the collaboration of native
rulers in tearing up this country. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He stumbled, searching for the right words. ‘Managing
a country of this size centrally meant dismantling a complex social and
institutional framework. Even as the British spread their tentacles, medicinal
plants and non-timber forest produce were still being collected under ancestral
domains. There were local rules for timber extraction, for fishing and for hunting.
It was not a perfect world but forests were largely intact. Local laws were
formed, discarded, amended and had been modified for hundreds of years. Indigenous
law was respected. Credit goes to the British that in a state of bewilderment,
they saw through the complexity of this nation and decided that it won’t
suffice. If they had to get rich super quick, they needed to dismantle
everything and codify laws as per their economic and political interest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yes, I wanted to ask of their intentions. My
father says that it was all economic, nothing personal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, in my opinion, he is right. They were
neither conservationists nor environmentalists but champions of industrial
revolution and in their new found sense of power, they were drunk on their
superiority.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Initially, records suggest that they were totally
indifferent to the needs of forest conservancy - indeed, upto the middle of the
nineteenth century, the Raj saw a "fierce onslaught on India's forests<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[9]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>. It
was only when forests began to vanish, did they fear a dilution of their Royal
Navy’s influence. For the British, the “<i>safety of the empire depended on its
wooden walls</i><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>”.
So, they promptly declared teak as a “<i>Royal tree’</i> and introduced
measures for its protection as early as 1806<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Saanvi cut in. Lets not talk all business now.
We still have an hour to go. She herded the students back to the session and took
Rishi’s hand. ‘Be careful of what you say and don’t say too much,’ she said.
‘Your theories creates anger and anger leads to thoughts. Let’s not get these
students too excited.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi smiled. How the tables have turned. A
year apart and Saanvi turn moderate. A year apart, he seems to be finally
seeing the truth. He smiled again. Saanvi saw the twinkle in his eyes and
smiled back. She held him as they stepped into this room of bubbling energy and
unabashed frankness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘So, Rishi will speak for another hour as he
documents the fears and hope that Indian forests await in the coming decades.
As I said earlier, his talk is a part of his PhD effort, seven years spent in
libraries and in forests as he proposes an alternative path of forest
management in India.’ But don’t trust everything he says. Conduct your own
enquiry too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi smiled. Since his return from the hills,
he had been behaving strangely. For one, he smiled a lot. Silent beatific
smiles. No ruffling, no curiosity, no talk. Something has snapped inside,
Saanvi thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What happened then, when the British got
scared, asked a staff member, cleaning up the packets of Marie biscuit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, whenever they got scared or worried, the
British responded with science and reason, Rishi replied. Nandan, a Gond whose
forefathers would have lived through the British debauchery shrugged, ‘I did
not understand’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Uncontrolled cutting of Sal forests, deodars
in the higher Himalayas and teak across most of its natural range prompted the
British to introduce tree protection measures. In 1874, in an address to the
Royal Scottish Arboricultural Society, Hugh Cleghorn, the first Inspector
General of Forests<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
in India, told his audience that “<i>the government in India began to be
seriously embarrassed by the scarcity of timber; its attention was directed to
the management of the indigenous forests</i><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘So you see Nandan, they decided to get around
this self-created problem by inventing a bureaucracy, in this case a forest
bureaucracy. And the bureaucracy in its wisdom, set about managing the forests
‘scientifically’ and then, our forests truly flourished.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi was being sarcastic but neither Nandan
nor the attentive students got the drift.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Saanvi stepped in, ‘It was complicated. On the
one hand, they were worried about depleting forest and introduced unprecedented
restrictions, on the other hand they unleased one of the most elaborate plans
to harvest timber using the science Rishi spoke about’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘Yes, did you notice the first change in
terminology. Trees were no longer called trees but timber. Value, money,
economics, profit, nationhood took precedence. To hell with the natives’, Rishi
commented.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What then, Cleghorn came in and others too,
what happened then, asked the only person studying history at the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What happened. </span><span lang="EN-US">With their
own kitchen depleted, the British set about raiding our heritage. That is
precisely what happened.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> You know what is ironical. The
British did not even have their own forestry service as late as 1850<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn14" name="_ftnref14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.
Forestry was largely managed through the aristocracy, often on large private
estates and it was towards France and Germany that they looked upto so that
they could train a fledgling cadre of forestry professionals. Not only was the
first inspector General of India Dietrich Brandis a product of the German
school of forestry, but influential successors such as William Schlich
(considered to be the founder of forest science in Great Britain) and Berthold
Ribbentrop were all German. These three Germans went on to head India’s
forestry department from 1864 to 1881 to 1885. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Germans, our first forest managers, that is
interesting, commented a voice.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yes, In 1864, Dietrich Brandis was appointed
as the first Inspector General of Forests in India. He was told to initiate
scientific forest management in all provinces under the British Rule in India.
A botanist from Bonn University, Germany, he helped set up the Indian Forest
Service and roamed the length and breadth of this vast nation. His first years
was a whirlwind of activity with surveys and travels. But something about
Brandis continues to intrigue me, as inspite of such a hectic schedule, he
still found time to work on his book, <i>Indian Trees</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What happened then, did the fellings stop,
asked another student.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rishi nodded, No. On the contrary, the years
1865-75 saw enormous felling of trees. To compensate, large-scale plantations were
propagated to meet the commercial needs of the British. One of the first
plantations was the oddly named Changa- Manga plantation near Lahore in 1868
and soon plantations came up over the entire subcontinent, especially Teak in
Burma, Eucalyptus and Casuarina in Madras and Dalbergia sissu in Punjab.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nandan chipped in, I have heard that
plantation crops were also introduced at the same time as forest plantations,
changing much of India in a matter of years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">True, apples, rubber, tea, coffee, eucalyptus,
acacia, wattle and so much more. They made sure that unlike the other invaders
who loot and leave, their legacy would survive through ages. Someone in the
British political system was obsessed with leaving his or her name wherever
they go. And India, even now is partly British in many ways. But that is
another story, for another time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The British were also obsessed with record
keeping and bringing order to everything they touched. To prepare topographical
records, the Forest survey branch was constituted in 1873 mapping more than one
and a half lakh sq.km. of forest land. Various training schools opened.
Scientific journals were promoted with the Indian Forester published as early
as 1875. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Did they not bring order, the British, asked
Heer. Some technical tools like mapping and record keeping were valuable traits
to learn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Earlier, I would have said yes and no to your
question but presently, but I am not so sure now. Yes, they brought a lot of
modern thinking, but if we were a closed nation till the 1950’s and way back in
economic indices, would it have mattered. Wouldn’t India like the rest of the
world, like countries which were never conquered anyways may have joined the
global story of growth post 1950. And in the process, learnt how to do things.
Ok, we may not be world leaders in English language, but much of the land wouldn’t
have degraded. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But the railways wouldn’t have been built, Saanvi
jumped in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The demand for the fledgling Railways
contributed to the exploitation. Was it really the one true gift by the British
to Indians. If you ask me, it is estimated that between 1860 and 1910, railway
tracks increased from 1349 Kms to 51,658 Kms. It was calculated that every year
one million sleepers were needed and was cut in t<span style="color: red;">he
Punjab hills and the figure increases. </span>That is a lot of trees!!! A lot
of Sal was also lost as the emptying of Jungle Mahals of West Bengal and Bihar
suggest. When Sal was overharvested, deodar was drained. The sub-Himalayan
forests of Garhwal and Kumaon, for example, were all "felled in even to
desolation". <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And w</span></i><span lang="EN-US">as Scientific
forestry so bad <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, the much-hyped ‘Scientific Forestry’ was
an import of the continental European thought process</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">and
had a significant German influence with some elements of French forestry
management. The aim was to maximise yield and profit. This entailed an
overwhelming dependence upon on quantification of data, organisation of various
tree size categories and measuring growth and loss rates, which provided
information on predicting sustained yield<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn15" name="_ftnref15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>. While
this appeared to be methodological on paper, practices successful in
continental Europe with temperate weather were transferred to tropical forests.
It took time and learning before foresters could modify their methods in order
to adjust to the Indian Monsoon and diverse geographies. While the foresters
adapted their techniques, soon it was realised that favouring “the valuable
commercial species and eliminating the less valuable and those interfering with
the growth of the former<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn16" name="_ftnref16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>”
would henceforth become a defining characteristic of Indian Scientific forestry<a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftn17" name="_ftnref17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[17]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.
The European experts learnt the hard way that Indian forests are largely mixed
in nature unlike the temperate forests where single species dominate the
landscape. Ultimately, scientific forestry in India focused almost exclusively
on promoting economically viable fast growing species while neglecting environmental
and ecological considerations leading to long lasting ecological degradation of
forest ecosystems.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, where were we at the time of independence,
asked someone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">By 1947, most forest areas had already been
recognized and documented. A world-famous Forest Research Institute was set up
in Dehra Dun in 1906. Some were protected, some were managed by communities, in
several forest’s communities had become alienated, sometimes wildlife took
precedence, often economic compulsions. But mostly, the plight of the forests increased
because of unprecedented felling of trees had reached alarming levels. The
demands of the first and then the second war led to a resource crunch and by
the time, the British finally left, our forests were rather depleted. <span style="color: red;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, tell us what happened to the others, to
the adivasis. How did it impact our daily lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The current roots of adivasi alienation has
its roots in British policies. Scientific forestry where indigenous people had
their ancestral domains. So, around mid-1800s, forests became commercial
resources and the adivasis as well as wildlife non-consequential. A friend who
belongs to the Ho community once said and I quote him, ‘First, they told us to
settle elsewhere, then asked us to stop jhum. Soon, they damned our rivers. We
could not graze nor access our gods. Finally, they marked boundaries and separated
our clans and our domains. Depending on their mood, they would ask us to stop
harvesting, our amla and honey was not ours. One day, they told us that we
can’t enter our forests, nor fish from our rivers. They would laugh and call us
thieves, encroachers, poachers. What was our fault of someone else cut our trees
and told us to leave the forests of our forefathers”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A student raised her hand, Sorry, but I still
don’t get how they did it, how did they alienate so many people’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Saanvi nodded. Let me answer it in a different way. It is for certain that our worlds have been upturned by climate change. We are only worried now as the message has hit us home. The truth remains that if it
were not for our sense of well being, we would have pushed the discussion on
climate change under the carpet as we did for the greatest crime in human
history – unrestricted land conversion and that is where alienation comes in. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Some people took over ancestral lands and broke the concept of commons. Some people were pushed to the margins of their homes without caring for the fact that us humans care most when we care for our homes. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">And now, without homes, we just unleashed a triple whammy - no real custodian of our forests, destitute nature of evictees and a loss of the idea of the commons. That is what we did to ourselves, these past decades.</p>
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> https://www.biologydiscussion.com/essay/forests/essay-on-forests-in-india-ecology/57704<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Prime R. 2002. Vedic Ecology: Practical Wisdom for Surviving the
21st Century. Mandala Publishing Group, Novato, California, USA. 157 pp.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Shrimad-Bhaagvat Jee, Skandh 4: Chapters 17–18</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> http://edugreen.teri.res.in/explore/forestry/history.htm<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> https://www.medievalworlds.net/0xc1aa5576%200x00372f19.pdf<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> David Arnold and Ramachandra Guha in Nature, Culture, Imperialism.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Forestry in British and Post-British India, A Historical
Analysis<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ramachandra Guha<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> https://aeon.co/essays/who-chopped-down-britains-ancient-forests<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[9]</span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Forestry in British and Post-British India, A Historical Analysis,
Ramachandra Guha</span></p></div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[10]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Madhav Gadgil and V.D. Vartak, Sacred Groves in Maharashtra: An
Inventory, in S.K. Jain (ed), Glimpses of Indian Ethnobo-tany, Oxford
University Press, Bombay, 1981.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[11]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> http://www.fao.org/3/x5348e/x5348e04.htm<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[12]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Cleghorn shared the post of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Inspector General of Forests in India with Dietrich Brandis.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[13]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Hugh Cleghorn, ‘Address Delivered at the Twenty-first Annual
Meeting’, Transactions of the Royal Scottish Forestry Society, 7 (1875), 206.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn14" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref14" name="_ftn14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[14]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> https://www.eh-resources.org/colonial-origins-scientific-forestry/<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn15" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref15" name="_ftn15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[15]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Orazio Ciancio and Susanna Nocentini, ‘The Forest and Man: The
Evolution of Forestry Thought From Modern Humanism to the Culture of Complexity.
Systemic Silviculture and Management on Natural Bases’, in: Orazio Ciancio
(ed.), The Forest and Man (Florence: Accademia Italiana di Scienze Forestali,
1997), 42-43<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn16" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref16" name="_ftn16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[16]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Stebbing, The Forests of India, vol. 2, 578.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn17" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///D:/Personal/18072022_The%20Hell%20we%20Grew%20Up%20In.docx#_ftnref17" name="_ftn17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[17]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"> https://www.eh-resources.org/colonial-origins-scientific-forestry/<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
</div>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-29757123709046473262023-12-10T07:25:00.000+05:302023-12-10T07:25:00.336+05:3049. When with a planter, be a plamter<p><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">A friend of a commune gang member, Uday Vir
lived in and managed one of the few organic tea estates in India, a most
beautiful corner of the world.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The estate was itself a relic from an
earlier world. As Prahlad crossed the last villages, the gain in height led to
a world where Nilgiri Langurs ruled. In this bitingly clean air, life itself
seemed sanitized. The langurs, otherwise endangered, were playing in large
groups. Jumping from exotic Acacia trees that have spread to the very corners
of the Nilgiris, the Langurs were content in hearing their own echo. And they
loved shouting from the tree tops, resulting in a continuous cacophony of
monkey sounds for endless minutes. He slipped into a side road, one that can
scare the living any day of the year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Dense groves of acacia had smothered all
forms of life. And what was worse is that their roots now entangled with each
other, creating an unlikely maze of interlocked body parts. Walking was
impossible here.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The acacias had created a tunnel atop the
road. As he drove slowly, it dawned upon him that it was neither day or night,
this hazy feeling was the effect of warm air trapped within this tunnel. The
road had turned treacherous and he slowed down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">As the road turned towards the final climb
to the estate, the assistant, a tall strappy Coorg who goes by the name of
Machaih and his crew were busy lopping at fallen branches. The estate
maintained this stretch of government property and with scarcely any human
around, it was but natural that forest officials wouldn’t be seen in these
parts for months. Stopping for some chit chat, he spoke of a leopard<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>setting up home near the tea factory. The
leopard had been seen many times on a high cliff, oddly nodding and seemingly
drunk in the wake of the smoke that billowed out from the tea factory. He added
with a chuckle, that the workers think that the leopard has got addicted to the
smell of tea leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The estate was nearby. Wide grasslands,
stocked with some of the healthiest herbs concocted by nature covered much of the
view. Numerous layers of coconut leaves presented themselves. These were of
course used by the estate to protect the fledgling tea plants from the
unforgiving frost in this high ridge and appeared to provide a layer of
clothing to entire mountain sides. Here and there, high altitude wetlands
bustling with its own unique lifeforms bubbled throughout. It was idyllic. I
could have been anywhere now – Scotland, Mongolia, the Himalayas or the
Steppes. It wouldn’t matter for nature was in fine display and even man’s
remodeling had not yet damaged this slice of heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">If this estate had in its power to inspire
poets, Uday Vir’s house was another illusion in itself. Perched high in the
estate, it stood all alone. Natural grasslands and an occasional shola tree,
the house had been built like a fortress by our architecturally minded British
friends. Why they made it the way it was, remains a mystery. The estate is
flanked by two-kilometre-deep gorges on one side, covered by some of the
thickest evergreen forests in India. On the other side, it is protected by a
ten kilometre long drive through treacherous acacia forests, the one I drove
through. On the third side, lies the Mountain National Park, a semi-circular
strip of land that marks the exact spot where the mountains crumble to the sea,
leaving an unnatural chasm between an otherwise normal mountain range and the
surrounding plains, bathed in tropical heat. This estate was the most secure
piece of real estate on earth. And the British still made a fortress here.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Well, we get to enjoy the labour of our
erstwhile cranky rulers. Uday Vir stood outside one of the many secret doors
that opened into the house. Lets go for a walk, he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Uday Vir was leading the way and as they
climbed, it became apparent that the house was on one of the many hills that
lead on to the next stretch of high mountains. This apparent illusion is a
special mountain trait for every walk you do, anywhere on earth, you will met
with another and then another rise in the hills till you decide to turn back or
surrender to the elements and continue walking. They walked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">This is the Toda universe. Everywhere you
see, every plant growing egregiously is known to Todas. Long after we are gone
and this estate is in ruins, the Todas will continue to graze their buffaloes
here. Uday Vir was a bibliophile but his obsession with Todas veered on the
spiritual. Prahlad listened attentively to his every word.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">You know, amongst the many things that have
passed on in these past decades, I worry most about the cultures which grew out
of centuries of coexistence but have been brushed aside in this change in our
fabric. And people like Todas suffer. Do they continue holding onto their
stories or do they discard their ancestry and join the mainstream. This worries
me a lot. This world, where everyone is the same, where stories are no longer
told, where children grow up on a diet of social media and all of us read the same
newsfeed. In this current world, groups like the Todas will surely fade away,
soon I fear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Prahlad had been reading up on Todas and
Uday Vir’s warnings were very real. The small population were in real danger of
getting assimilated. Scholars with doctoral work, window shopping for decades,
wrote monumental manuscript and move on. But hadn’t the whole world done the
same to many more tribes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">They came upon a rise. One could see the
plains of Kerala with entire mountains abruptly torn away and probably the
Arabian sea beyond. A dense layer of mist lay hanging above the deep valley. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">It was breathing, this valley. The very
definition of Life visible in one of the last impenetrable forests of India.
Countless grasslands, shola forests and a smattering of tea gardens was visible
on the other side. An equally mesmerizing scenery, it resembled a painting made
by the gods themselves. Bald summits, leading upto rolling grasslands of a
perfect green and jabbed by thin outcrops of trees, now you know why the Todas
held so much significance to these ranges. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Grinning madly, Uday Vir pointed out
ambiguously towards the south, that is where you guys are planning to set up
that commune. Missing the woods for the tree, ahh, he shouted. Prahlad, this is
where true bliss is. And true bliss is when you find the alacrity to sift the
mundane for the unreal. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">This is your true commune, Prahlad. How can
I even start to describe this. How can I pretend to shoot this for eternity. He
laughed aloud as he shouted in a slightly windy summit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">For a few lucky minutes, the sound of the
mountains magnified by an endless current of air. We stood forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Uday Vir slapped Prahlad into
consciousness. They made their way down in silence as if they had just attained
Nirvana and had no idea of what else to do in life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Back at his house, in those last few
seconds of sunlight, they ambled around his expansive living room. It is a
museum, Prahlad mumbled. There were a few old walking sticks, stacked in one
corner and an assortment of sketches on another. Mounted tigers, atleast three
and an assortment of various animals, deftly attached to the walls. It was an
entire world, set in a puzzle but in front of us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">This, Prahlad is my lifetime’s work.
Collecting wares as I moved from one job to another, from one place to another.
You look so perplexed all the time, you may still find something worthwhile to
do, something more than building a commune. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">As he kept his commentary active, Prahlad
picked a tiny trap, for small game perhaps. There was a larger fish trap as
well with fish damned at the exit. A complex design that stemmed the reverse
flow of the fish, trapping them effectively. Once could see the frantic fish,
hemmed in by a magical contraption made by the very first men on Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The treasures were spread everywhere. There
was a section with totems of all types, symbols of animals or plants that serve
as an emblem of people that links them to their mythical past. Tortoise,
tigers, snakes, fishes and an overwhelming number of trees, totems find
acceptance throughout the subcontinent. And they signify a deep synergy between
the natural world and the human world, still very much a part of the natural
world of an earlier era. Keeping an ear on his helpful commentary, Prahlad
stood mesmerized by these tiny, often ordinary carvings and felt its value to a
traditional dweller of the land. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">When a totem tree is said to have
completely covered a newly wed from torrential rains, before wishing them away,
it also signifies a totem’s role in a traditional society of those days. He
added, you know totems had a conservation value. Whichever animal or bird
signified the totem of a clan was assured of almost certain protection. And so
were various totems that linked to the well being of its human neighbours. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">He was impressed. Here was a man who
collected invaluable remnants of a fading past and knew enough to lecture a
bunch of graduate students. Uday Vir picked one of the many totems and
respectfully placed them at the proper spot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Open Sans;"> </span></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-39260872438276259142023-12-09T07:22:00.000+05:302023-12-10T07:23:31.552+05:3048. Just a kid searching for life<p> Alone in the mist, fraught with
expectations of the unknown, shadows leap silently and then, the mountains
beckon. Straight ahead as far as the eye can see, the vast perpendicular massif
of approximate age and snow filled valleys, beckons me seductively. No known
human feeling can match the feverish desire to walk the mountains, as it stands
in front of you. I had to walk someday, walk in the high mountains.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Here in the high Himalayas, nature retains absolute
control over us. Here, we had not yet pummeled her into accepting our diktat
and fall into line. Here, the word raw exacts its true meaning. Here, in the
high Himalayas, we are all pilgrims of nature and it was here that I came to
walk.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was meant to be a test of my frail body
and whether I would last long enough to cross the high pass. Yet, think of it
as nature itself and this cluster of 6000-metre-high peaks was not different
from the Maikals. You could only access both the features through a back
breaking ascent and surprisingly, both climbs often ended into wide open
plateaus, with endless grasslands in the Maikals and undulating <i>Bugyals </i>in
the Himalayas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I set out in a chilly December morning. With
no preparation and a prayer, I set out for <i>Churi, </i>a small village on the
other side of the valley, crossing the tourist village of <i>Asal </i>on the
way. Asal was the new haunt of the intrepid Indian traveler, lured by tales of
easy weed and pleasant views. They came in droves, but none actually made it to
my village, a few hours away. While most lacked the stamina to make the climb,
the rest took partying to dizzying heights, ogling at runaway Israelis and
breaking glass bottles. Sometimes, out of fatigue, locals end up trashing some
of the boisterous visitors, but generally they turn away from these over
dressed, bloated corporate servants polluting the cool climes of these high
hills in ways and means that are disgusting to say the least.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But <i>Asal</i> was not my destination. I
passed the crowded town and moved towards the small bridle path that leads upto
<i>Churi</i> Village. <i>Churi</i> is the last village below the snow line and is
known for its idiosyncratic ways. Liquor is banned here and roads stop some
distance away. Only a true piligrim can make it up to <i>Churi, </i>the rest
are not welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As I walked away from <i>Asal</i>, remnants
of the foreigner crowd that make <i>Asal</i> its home began thinning. There
were a few random tents with smoke wafting across, a few quiet couples sitting
around and then, as I walked up the first incline, silence took over. Nothing
but the vast forests of deodar and chir pine covered everything in its midst. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Having climbed three steep inclines, I sat
down to take a break and perhaps have a biscuit when I noticed a giant of a dog
staring at me from a few feet away. Brown in colour, enormously muscled yet
with the eyes of a pup, he must have been rather young, not more than twelve months.
He was staring at me but not in a threatening manner, rather as a curious
bystander. I offered him a share of my snacks. Shy but not scared, he gobbled
the snack and stood ramrod stiff again. Those eyes could have melted hard iron
and I ended up giving off the entire packet to him and found him following me
though the woods as I took off in the woods.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I thought nothing of it then and let him
follow me and continued my trek. It was a silent though beautiful experience.
Alone in the forest, softly walking amongst wet leaves and with a giant baby
dog trotting along, three quintessential aspects of a classic mountain walk came
true. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The walk turned into a blissful stroll and
we whistled on. The forests were denser and I met a few hikers who had stayed
over at <i>Churi</i> and spoke of the stunning views and gripping cold up
there. Saying hello to many, I offered my packed lunch to the dog whom I called
<i>Kiddo</i>. We reached a camp site by late afternoon and promptly slept off
under the giant beautiful sky. When we woke up, <i>Churi</i> with its ancient
temple and a strict code stood majestically across the hill. However, the day
had been long and after a quick meal, I was inside the tents. <i>Kiddo</i>, my
dog slept outside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The next morning, it was to be a tough
climb to Gun-tatch through some dense forests and steep trudges. Reaching the
tatch as Bugyals are known here, <i>Kiddo</i> and I were witness to a sight
that remains a special gift from the Himalayas to mortals like us. The semi-circular
tatch rolled into giant trees and the trees called out to the snow-covered
mountains. If picture perfect is a phrase, some random white man must have been
coined the term sitting right here. Personally, it was an underwhelming feeling
of humility to be with nature that day. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The walk continued and though some sheer
inclines, we kept on climbing towards the <i>Kasumpti Pass</i>. In between, the
gods decided to let us on in the fun and sent some freezing rain across, rain
which turned into snow or hailstones soon after. Yet we climbed, up and up,
though the slush and the sights, through the forests on to our campsite for the
night. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As dusk slowly made its way across the
mountains and valleys of the Himalayas, we were treated to wide swath of the
Himalayan range as far the eyes could see. A botanist would have shrieked in
joy here. Slowly but inevitably, big trees gave way to high altitude shrubs,
scraggly yet majestic and exuding smells which are indescribable. Just the
smells of these shrubs is reason enough for one to visit these high altitude
heavens once in our lives. <i>Kiddo</i> was loving the sights and smells as
well and would often jump deep inside the roots of one of these giant shrubs to
hunt unknown enemies, in between he found time to gulp down mouthfuls of
desiccated snow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The walk had been difficult but what it
revealed was awe inspiring. Across all ridges and cliffs, the tree line visibly
came to an end almost at the exact same mark, as if they knew that nature stands
guard. Grasslands crept up, herbs everywhere, rocks sprouting, loose mud,
slippery paths and then the first hint of deep snow, in the first valley and
then another. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Suddenly snow was everywhere and as
suddenly as that, <i>Kiddo</i> transformed. From being my companion to a wild
free soul, he went crazy over the snow. Jumping across huge boulders, he would
dive straight into the snow and play with his imaginary friends, eat snow like
we hog rice and roll around. <i>Kiddo</i> was home and I knew that he was happy
here. He bounded up and when I caught up with him, there he was, chomping on
some old bones picked up in this animal’s paradise, resembling a zen master of
the high Himalayas.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We were at 14000 feet and the mountains laid
out their mysteries in full display. Here we were and, in a manner, befitting
the gods, were treated to peering clouds and a hapless sun, nowhere as strong
as the plains of India. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That night was cold and I worried for Kiddo
who refused to enter my tent. But when I woke up, for the final climb to the
pass, he was eagerly waiting for his treats and be on his way. We ascended
through deep fields of snow, one step at a time, Kiddo way ahead, returning
often to exhort me to not be a slouch. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The mountains teach you many things. One,
it lays out in full display, the extent of your will. Breaking even the most
motivated climber, it teaches you, throughout the endless steps that your
spirit is way stronger than you imagine. The mountains teach you to be humble.
I have seen the most ostentatious personalities break down in the hills, their
perceived perceptions of themselves cathartically shallow now. I have seen big
strong men beg for strength when faced with the final climb to a high pass and
I have seen them change when they return. Change into a much humbler version of
themselves. The mountains reiterate the human desire for comradeship, seen
rarely except in military formations. Agile trekkers wait for the slow to catch
up, coaxing them to make the last climb, sharing food, medicines and jokes as
they walk. Friendships forged on high mountains are unusually strong in this
overwhelmingly self centred world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I found myself standing next to a vertical
slope of more than a kilometer and a rusted board, that pointed towards the
left. There was no path visible, was I to just trust this piece of iron and
plunge into the light snow. Perhaps, I could walk to the next ridge and search
for a bridle path. But the mountain rose all around. Remember, I was at the
pass and a pass corresponds to a relatively high gap in the mountains, used for
trade since ancient times. The mountains and the ridges around me were
definitely higher than the pass. This is it. This is where I take a leap. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Kiddo knew better. He jumped into the steep
slope and began rolling in joy. I had no ceremonies to attend so I too tenderly
stepped into the snow and landed on my bum. Slowly sliding along with the snow,
suddenly I found myself twisting as gravity pushed me downwards, miraculously sliding
through a deep snow field as fast as my body could cope. Kiddo kept sliding or
running parallel to me all the way. It was 60 or 80 seconds of a crazy,
mind-numbingly thrill made priceless by Kiddo deciding to accompany me through
the wild slide. My butt finally braked the motion and I found myself atleast a
1000 metres below the pass with a barking dog and an almost involuntary prayer
of thanks to nature. I fell back, looked up to the clear sky, held my Kiddo in
my arms and collapsed in the warm snow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As I began my descent, I took one final
look at the still mountains, the slide marks still visible and knew that I experienced
something unique today. Kiddo, merrily oblivious to all these emotional
fluctuations was busy concentrating on some cows who in turn were warily
looking at this crazy dog running up to them at a mind-numbing speed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We walked down and the shrubs vanished, the
trees returned, meadows turned green and we knew that the mountain shall wait
for us to return again. We walked down-hill, resting at another beautiful camp
site and finally reached a small village where a giant dam is being built to
ensure that we must play god with god and do that right inside God’s sacrosanct
territory. Huge trucks and giant concrete beams were strewn around and
ambitious agendas to dig tunnels through these giant mountains were in place so
that no river may ever run free and no fish may dare to thrive, but the needs
of us humans continue to be met as only we can think of these outrageous ideas
to fill our quota of greed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was too soon, this shattering of the
beautiful utopia just a few hours walk away. Even the mountains chose not to
reflect upon the chaos below and soon covered itself in a deep impenetrable
mist. As I reached the nearest bus station, the realization that Kiddo may
belong to someone gnawed at my thoughts. The conductor sportingly allowed Kiddo
to be boarded and I paid for his ticket. Still in reverie, me and Kiddo sat on
some steps amongst mountain people who did not mind a dog keeping them company.
It was only when I found a crowd at Asal bus stand, that I realised that word
had spread. There was welcoming committee for Kiddo and various family members tearfully
held on to him as he stood awkward, looking at me briefly and then as if
smiling, warmed up to his various brothers and sisters gathered around him. It
happened so fast that I was left standing alone, looking at Kiddo who was now
called Buster and who suddenly decided not to look towards. I said bye to my
kiddo and walked off. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-45165921670139162512023-12-08T11:20:00.000+05:302023-12-08T11:20:00.330+05:3047. Rather like a survivor of a mining disaster<p>Rishi woke up with a thud. These winter
mornings are damn annoying, he cursed. Gingerly, he took the blanket off and
watched himself plummet in seconds. He had a pair of ‘inners’ under his winter
pyjamas but the weather had its way. He ducked again, back into the warmth of
the welcoming blanket. Wide awake now, his mind drifted to the bone freezing
country he was in. Even at twelve in the noon, it rarely goes beyond freezing, falling
as the day progressed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He had to get up, find the warmest jacket
there was, put an ancient looking monkey cap on and brush his teeth before his
gums froze. For a moment, he thought he heard a tinkling. Yes, the cows were
out for the day and he will be branded a <i>shehri</i> if he misses his
breakfast again. With an almighty yelp, he finally got dressed and came out to
a spectacular view. Rays of an unusually bright sun falling at the very peak of
an otherwise gigantic mountain. An entire world covered by dusty snow, deodars
groaning under the weight of the bounty that keeps them alive, dark rock
shadows that rub off the mystery around mountains and a perfect triangular peak
as he opened the front door. Somewhere in the Western Himalayas, it was a view
to go over war with.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Rishi was home, a remote corner with stray
villages living under the gaze of our constant enemy. And he was enjoying the
rarest of all gifts in the winters, direct rays of the sun. Significantly weak now,
a bright sun never failed to bring cheer in people here with clothes let out to
urgently dry in lines already bent under the weight of heavy winter blankets. For
a moment, he forgot the stress of an activist-researcher in a
disproportionately unequitable country. His life occupied by his constant urge
to help his Baiga friends and protect the forests of Dandakaranya, burning him
from inside all the time. Here, he was just someone who came back to his roots.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Prahlad, somehere near coimbatore gave up
on his Punjab darshan plans. Spurred by his never-ending pursuit to fulfill his
want, he had taken three friends frightfully close to death and unwillingly
scarred his childhood imagination of the world. Things appeared melancholic as
he thought of his first house, standing alone in a Martian climate. It was
truly a scare. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">All three of us were rather quiet in our
long journey to Delhi, obviously ruminating over the strange incidences of yesterday.
Sometimes, thoughts blurred. How did we travel over that terrible road to
Girmint. Where did we have lunch yesterday, was it in Girmint or elsewhere.
Where did most of my landmarks go, the land seemed contorted as if struck by
some giant storm. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Having said his silent bye, Prahlad took
off to his tiny home cum office in a spur off the Nilgiri Hills, nestled by
high cliffs and deep valleys. He always looked to returning back to this alternate
state of existence. He who, had been a banker for most of his life, caring for
nothing more but adding to his sales target each month, suddenly turned away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He invested his savings and joined a small
commune, aspiring to create a model on sustainable living. It was still
experimental but suited his strangely extrovertish introvert nature. He took
care of the site while other investors were occupied in their daily jobs. In a
way, it paid off for him. He got to stay in a quiet space and was handsomely
rewarded for his efforts. There were always many Prahlads, with a variety of
jobs, but all the Prahlads had one thing in common – a desire for solitude in
the midst of a world crashing away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I had stayed behind at Delhi. Joining my
mediocre group, I returned to the daily grind of the office life. Living in
Noida and taking 4 metros each to reach my distant office in the heart of
Delhi, I was just an ordinary cog in everyone’s machine. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was still covered in a shroud, this town
Delhi. Gusts of smoke were billowing down from the northern plains and all we
could do is bear and type away. The particulate matter was down to 400, much
better than the alarmingly high levels in the past weeks, but still enough for
an ordinary citizen to smoke a pack of cigarettes every single day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I had the most ordinary life amongst all my
friends. Rishi worked as a researcher in distant forests, dabbling in adivasi
rights, wildlife protection and occasionally as a small-time businessman,
procuring forest products from the villages and passing them to the highest
bidders. There was a renewed interest these days in the bounty of the forest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Prahlad was a contractor. He would bristle
at the suggestion, but that is who he really was. A contractor with a MBA from
a prestigious institute, banker for a bit, HR guru for a while and then all of
a sudden, as we lost track of him, in his latest avatar, an IT specialist. I
always wondered at the amazing people who offered new jobs to him, they were
complicit in making him the ‘Jack of all, master of himself’ syndrome. Highly
versatile, he was busy building fences and setting up demo plots for organic ginger,
while strutting around as an overpaid manager of a tiny estate in one of the
foothills of the ancient Nilgiris.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In a way, both Prahlad and Rishi carried
their childhoods within them. Rishi naturally gravitated towards the forests,
Prahlad had his grandfather’s pioneering spirit, always willing to break new
rock and galloping ahead of life. I on the other hand, was a part of a billion
strong force who end up passing entire lives in drudgery. After my schooling, I
entered a moderately renowned college, did pretty much nothing in those three
years, thought of becoming a journalist but found myself short of words when interviewing
at a prestigious journalism school and at the end of it, the only skill I
gained could positively identify one form of weed from the other. Uniquely
skilled in only one art form, I occasionally dabbled in some peddling, not
enough to rouse attention but enough to prefer my side hustle to a regular job.
Ohh, my regular job is at a firm selling medical instruments. I sell medical
cabinets and hospital gear to whoever wanted it and usually, if not for the
medical gear, prospective buyers would queue upto me at various hospitals
looking to score some good quality recreational drugs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was just one of the millions who had come
to Delhi to find purpose, instead we found a job with endless cups of free
coffee and a subsidized lunch. I was just another face in an overcrowded city.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Saanvi was different. Still in her
twenties, she had known Rishi in her college days when she applied for an
internship for a research position floated by his team. Wonderfully nonchalant,
she turned up at his remote field station, in the midst of ancient forests and
newer mines and got down to work. Younger by almost ten years, she upturned
Rishi’s soft policy of sidestepping issues of ecological degradation in these
forests and went straight after mines. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She was and continues to be fearless,
having turned into an activist in a country known to randomly dispose dissent.
She was no rabble rouser but having worked for ten years in the shadow of a
rapidly declining forest, she quietly proceeded to protect these forests. Her
communication had helped her achieve some seemingly impossible targets,
including cancellation of leases for upcoming mines.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Rishi observed her for years and confessed
that he is smitten by her dedication. Having declared her as her guru, the
tables had turned. He followed her everywhere, in perhaps the same fashion as
she had followed him in the earlier days, picking cues, debating topics and
asking endless questions. In a few years, this city girl from Trivandrum became
one with Dandakaranya. The forests loved her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-72656491910870354682023-12-07T08:28:00.005+05:302023-12-07T08:28:34.419+05:3046. Not really a hell where we grew up<p><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">There were more entries. Several pages. But
they stopped by 1985. That was the time when he was transferred out of Girmint
and in a turmoil. We leafed through it. You are taking a treasure home, smiled
Robert.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Suddenly Robert exclaimed from somewhere.
We rushed and saw him looking over the most beautiful dystopia that we had ever
seen. Giant saucers of water, filled to the brim and still shining in the
fading light of the barren moon, all the sinkholes were full. I could count
hundreds of such saucers, stacked upon each other. If it was not an
environmental disaster, it may have tuned touristy. People decked in their
Sunday best, falling off from designer buses, sitting in lazy armchairs by the
sinkholes, gorging on the jhal muri served by one of the many locals, who in
another avatar, were now tour guides. Hahaha, I laughed strangely to myself.
From hunter gatherers to famers to labour to illegal miners and now, as tour
guides.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Robert shouted us out of our reverie. He
had magically got some tea and there we were, sitting in the driveway, one last
time, having tea as generations did before us. Robert remarked, I feel bad
going back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">So did Prahlad. He had been
uncharacteristically pensive in the past two days. And it had really been his
trip than ours. But his childhood was scarred here. And adulthood does very bad
when confronted with loss. Not sure what to say, even how to react, Prahlad lay
quiet since our drive to Girmint last afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Prahlad felt bad. It was not merely the
loss of his childhood paradise that rattled him. He had shuddered in
anticipation of the morning. We were already packing but Prahlad seemed to be
in no mood to hurry up. He went out for a walk and soon enough, I saw standing
by the stream that was the stage for many a childhood game. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Over the next couple of hours, while we sat
by the bungalow, Prahlad came into view and vanished, over some rise on the
ground, near the ammunition depot and walking gingerly through the sink holes.
He came back to a hearty breakfast at Chowdhary’s Uncles house. Saying bye was
difficult for him, he seemed to exude the air of finality, he knew he would
never return here. But equally scary was the realization that there may be
nothing to return to.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Having said our byes, I thought of making a
broad sweep and see a few old landmarks as we returned to Asansol. It was
another bad decision, atop the multitude of awry decisions we had taken in the
past twenty four hours. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">There was destitute all around. As we
strained and crossed the Peterson Bungalows, the scale of the disaster made
Robert agitated once again. We drove to the old club with a few walls standing,
we drove to the older mines where his grandfather had worked and saw entire pit
heads empty. Desperation had led to a rush for anything valuable and the giant
iron columns that made a pit head were all stolen. Entire buildings had
vanished, every bit of brick reused. A number of old pits were now pools with a
strangely calm surface. Nothing had changed and everything had changed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">With death everywhere, nature had taken
total command. Every nook and crevice was wildly profuse and last night’s rains
had added an extra layer of colour to the natural greenery of the old Bengal. We
saw a few depressions, perhaps old pits or a type of sinkhole that we had not
yet seen earlier. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">As we crossed the mammoth bungalows of the
bade sahabs with their swimming pools and manicured lawns, they appeared
ghostly. People were longer staying there though the houses could occupy
several families at a time. But they were on the other side of the massive
collapse that struck the region and even destitute locals could not afford a
risk to their lives. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">We drove on and entered Ukraine temporarily.
This was Upper Dhawra, with nearly all its buildings below the eye level.
Buildings, trees and vehicles stuck out of the earth as if they were being
pulled into a man made quicksand. Everything was ravaged, houses stacked one
upon the other, and millions of broken pieces strewn around. I drove slowly and
from amidst the dystopia, we saw the company school not only standing but
housing atleast 10-15 children in its verandahs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Shocked, we stopped briefly. And the
teacher immediately called out to Prahlad. He knew him or perhaps a face that
resembled him. We smiled. Prahlad truly has a recall value in these mines.
Three generations of living can do that to you sometimes. You may have left but
your memories pervade for a long long time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Having chitchatted, we made out way towards
the ground where a giant langur had slapped Prahlad in the middle of the
ground. As he ran wildly, trying to hide from a rampage, his sister had ran
into the big field without fear and outshouted the langur into hiding. We stood
on a rather disheveled ground, if it could still be called one. It was
undulating now, suited more to daredevilry but definitely no longer to play
games in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">We slowed and drove past the ground when we
came upon the lake. This lake which changed Prahlad forever, made him a boy-man
as he saw a friend floating dead. At an age, when our multiplication skills had
not yet cross beyond reciting units of 10. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The dead lake looked even more desolate.
The company had to drain it long back and fill it with debris to plug a hole
that led to the mines. The shallow water on top was green, thick with plants
and no longer as threatening as we had imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Prahlad asked me to move on. There was
nothing more to watch. I drove on, passing by other colonies, by the office
where his father had staved off a mob, by the durga mandir now overgrowing with
neglect, by the sweet shops where we would gorge on rasullas, by the old barber
who would make us sit on a plank of wood, placed precariously on a wobbling
chair and execute the most innovative ‘Katora cuts’, we used to laugh about in
school. We passed the gates, exhorting workers to give their best and his
father’s last project before transferring out of Girmint forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The Kushadanga incline was a strange
hybrid. Neither a deep underground pit, nor an open cast mine, it was an
incline with a ropeway that slowly dropped off people and coal into a 45 degree
slope that descended a few hundred metres below the ground. This ‘incline pit’
as they were called were part of an experiment to increase production without
laying the earth bare and ravaged. But they fizzled out soon as the costs were
too high. We stopped and jumped over the fence. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The most elemental of all elements, water
was everywhere. In Bengal, when things pass on, water takes over. Forests may
or may not return in the degraded soil but water takes command. The land of
pukurs is a title well accorded to rural Bengal. A few random machinery were
lying strewn around but desolation pervaded. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">We returned and drove slowly to Asansol.
Old landmarks were degraded throughout the way, Syria was truly the closest
metaphor we could think of. Unsure of our return, Prahlad asked for a stop in
an ancient sacred grove, muttered something to the forest gods and quietly
joined us. We were all quiet, even Robert.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Finally, at Asansol and a hearty lunch at
Robert’s place, Joshi, Prahlad and me climbed aboard a brand new train that
exuded modernity. We were out of place temporarily, even in the briefest time
we spent in Asansol. Malls, four lanes, red lights, multiples, international
hotel brands, flyovers – this strip of land ten kilometres by three kilometres
had become a city. Even the station looked thoroughly sanitized. Even the train
looked brand new. Robert remarked as he said his bye, ‘This is the real-world
Prahlad, that was just a memory’. Yes, the old world is just a memory now. The
town rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-87671716942780019262023-12-06T07:27:00.004+05:302023-12-06T07:27:57.768+05:3045. The Hockey Stick can’t control our lives<p>It was unnaturally hot for November but the
rains had been bad this year. The Baigas were worried as monsoon soon faded. We
were worried too. The Sal Forest was showing strange signs of drying up, leaves
were dropping off faster than usual. The soon to be harvested rice was standing
on hard ground, already cracked in places. Many villages had harvested earlier
than usual and the worry in the nearby grain markets was of the falling incomes
this year.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The Baigas and Gonds had taken to planting
rice aggressively. They traditionally grew rice but in limited quantities.
Coarse millet was the preferred crop but the demands from local traders
promising a minimum support price for the crop had turned the table on
traditional practices. A number of small-time subsistence farmers were
experimenting with rice for a few years and were unable to judge the vagaries
of this ever-changing weather. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There was another reason why this rice from
the Maikal uplands were so much in demand. One of the many research projects,
run fanatically by dedicated scientists had concluded that the Baiga rice as it
was known as, was fetching high rates in the international market. It appears
that the rice had magnesium, potassium, and a host of other minerals, making it
the latest super food to adorn the shelves of supermarkets. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This year seems to be a challenge. The
ground water has all but vanished and wells are too sparse to cover all the
valleys. I mentioned this to Saanvi and she nodded in agreement. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, all in vain. Rice grown to feed this
guzzling economy cannot be afforded by the farmer himself. Considerably on the
back foot, Baigas who were traditionally hunter gatherers had taken to farming
in the recent years. The productivity from these fertile lands was unexpectedly
less and another team of researchers found out that most Baiga farmers did not
know to raise rice. They were inefficient farmers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In a bad year, he was forced to sell all
his produce and was left with no backup for the rest of the year. This year, it
looks dire. An area as large as Goa is withering under harsh winters and
yesterday’s clouds notwithstanding, things look positively gloomy now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I nodded, Serving the global beast that is
the GDP, what say. Yes, I agree, it is another version of feeding the beast.
The beast who shall not rest. He grows bigger and bigger each year and tears
ever increasing scars on the land. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">They have suffered since the beginning.
First, it was the British who took over much of the highlands for their timber
needs, then it the denial of rights of access, then the traders moved in,
setting shop n remote villages. Their knowledge of the forests disregarded,
their medicinal plants not accessible any longer, they are left to these small
parcels where they eke out an existence. Most people see the Baigas and Gonds
living in the fertile valleys growing rice. But virtually every Baiga I know
farms in the highlands and there, it is nothing but millets. This year, millets
also failed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The Baiga says that it is nature’s reaction
to all this scrapping, cutting, restitching and exploiting her. 300 years of
continuous digging has left the earth existentially unstable. He says that we
have committed our greatest crime, worse than any genocide perpetuated on a
global scale. This stripping away of nature has been the hallmark of almost all
countries and now, it is payback time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was listening quietly as two Baigas
walked past our car in a busy Raipur market, their elegant pouches now
hopelessly out of fashion, their hair completely wild and unkempt and their
half jackets definitely frayed at the edges. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She got down, spoke to them for a few
minutes and pointed out a building across the road. We will pick them on our
way back, lets hurry, she muttered jumping in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Our purchase over and the two Baigas safely
seated, I got down in the Raipur railway station. Watching Saanvi fade in the
distance, with barely a bye, I could see her looking at the forests in the
distance, beyond the dim-witted red ball that the sun had turned into this city
scape. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And the Hockey stick, you know. The Hockey
stick. Yes, the hockey stick. We should all be taught about it in school. This
hockey stick will be the end of us. <o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-67639331238067674322023-12-05T08:31:00.002+05:302023-12-05T08:31:10.024+05:3044. Age of Concrete<p><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Never in known history has a single
innovation of man come to dominate lives in this way. Never before have we
witnessed an erosion of our contemporary place making. Childhood spots now a
mall, playgrounds now residential societies, roads barely navigable as
establishments mutate on either side, we truly are living in the age of
concrete.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Saanvi and me were travelling to a nearby
town, still deep in the hinterlands of Central India. But I could get the drift
of her observation. She was right. Even in this remote corner, standalone shops
were coming with alarming frequency, with most shops sitting awkwardly on
erstwhile rice fields. As we crossed the last of the Sal trees and were truly
on our way back to civilization, I recalled an earlier era. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">Long back, I had taken this same journey
via Amarkantak through to Bilaspur and Raipur on my way to Calcutta. I could
write a small thesis on the changes observed on this road, so immense were
they. Building upon buildings, woefully constructed, never likely to be insured
by a sane insurer, changes that would take years to manifest now occurs in
weeks, if not days. And I have lost my road many a time due to this rapid
change in our landscape. Delhi being my favourite bhool-bhulaiaya now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">I remember nothing of the Delhi of my
childhood. Flyovers creating borders amongst neighborhoods, buildings that come
up in a jiffy, South Extension no longer looks the same and the outskirts seem
to be bulging with cancer. If not for the Lal Quila, I would be lost here. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">She snaps back and reels out some exotic
data. While we rub off transport or energy as the main source of greenhouse gas
emissions, industries that feed into construction such as iron, cement,
electricals perhaps are equally if not more poisonous for our lives.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">She adds, But it is not just the
unrelenting speed and audacity of this building wave, all old markers of life,
of our cultures and even civilization seem to be smothered under this gravity
defying growth. We have no memories left and everything looks the same.
Unsightly buildings falling against each other, often poorly constructed yet
wonderfully homogenous wherever we turn our eyes. Hubli or Nagpur, Guwahati, or
Salem, it is the remarkably similar buildings that keep us occupied in travel
now. And have you noticed, “Rarely if any of these shops vary in the wares they
stock. Usually, dealers in iron products, construction equipment, car
showrooms, paint shops, repair stations, petrol pumps, TMT Sariya, Hero Cement,
Naresh wood works, Murugunatham finance rule the roost. Where do we buy pencils
or rulers now? Where do we repair our iron boxes now? Where is the
neighbourhood repair shop? They seem to have vanished. Ask for a refill for
your ball pen and you are likely to be shamed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">The industrialized world seems content in
its belief that we need nothing but these building blocks of the construction
and transport industries to run our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">I agreed with her. It was hard not to agree
with her. She said the right thing even if people did not like it. But ask
these questions to a corporate worker in the cities and the answers will be
different. Most will opine that we need these for our future. This is how we
grow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Open Sans;">I wondered if the age of concrete,
synonymous with our times punches above its weight to accelerate the age of
extinction. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-76275716604961939182023-12-04T09:04:00.006+05:302023-12-04T09:04:58.483+05:3043. Notes to self, November 10, 1984 - The year the world started getting overtly developed<p><i>The world around me has changed. The last
ten days scared me. 10 days of mayhem. Not so much here but everywhere else.
The new TV, first one in Girmint was on every day. And it was only news on
riots. What happened. Who planned this. I am writing my assignment but what
will it get me when my friends are scared. We are safe here, Raji and Sabi are
safe with us. But I am scared to think of the others. But I have to write the
exam. The pen shakes as I write. But I must complete it by today. Tomorrow is
submission</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Introduction</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>As the executive engineer
(mining and electrical), I am responsible for the well being of the colliery.
Our work is unique. It is different from normal mining jobs as we work daily
with the villagers of Upar Dhawra, Challis dhawra, Parhiarpur and Bhanora to
ensure adequate water supply and regular electricity. We did not study about
community work in my diploma course. We studied about seams and production
targets. But now, after 10 years of work, I feel that the most important aspect
of any industrial work is to be caring. After all, we work on lands that
belonged to the Santhals and Baoris. We are not even guests here. One day, we
will all go back. They will stay on. I have learnt that as long as the staff
and villagers are happy, coal mining can have positive impacts. I hope to
increase my knowledge and help people. And I hope that the following assessment
will bring to light the reasons why villagers often burn our transformers or
gherao the officers. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Robert, wearing a resplendent pair of Kurta
Pyjamas was reading from the notes as total darkness spread. I wondered to
myself, ‘This <b>note </b>was written right here, 40 years back. A different world
then yet the concerns were strikingly similar”. Prahlad’s father will love to read
his own notes from a different era.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Robert continued reading, repeating the </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">words
verbatim. </span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Analysis of the impact of the Coal Industry</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I tell you the story of Coal, its unique workforce, the people who make coal
run and continue to do so even today. Cool is a very precious metal. it is also
the main source of power and perhaps for the whole world. Not only as an energy
generator but also used extensively in factories, industries and in boilers
that depend upon coal fired energy. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I feel proud to be a member of the coal
industry, right from my birth. My father joined the then private coal company
at a place called Begonia on the banks of the river Damodar. It was one of the biggest
private coal company during those days and run by British managers. It was they
who brought my father from Punjab and appointed him in the newly opened mine
underground mine. Once he entered the industry, he couldn't leave and stayed
there till his retirement. I was born there in those mines in the 50s and from
day one, I became a member of the coal mining industry.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>After finishing my diploma in Mechanical Engineering,
I joined another private company close by. But things have already changed, and
sometimes I feel really sad when I see the condition of the pits. In my
father’s time, mining was a community affair and everyone took care of
everyone. But now, I see desperate faces and impatient officers. The impact is
felt on the production levels. Everyone seems to bully workers to extract more
coal without caring for health risks or even worse increasing subsidence on top,
often where the workers lived.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Nowadays, the boiler foreman or engine
operator are routinely shouted upon and even tortured before the shift. Seniors
say that if we don’t abuse these ignorant workers, they will not give their
best. They don’t care to see that on a day when these operators and workers are
treated well, production jumps. But they insist on abusing the poor and the
weakest of the weak. As production falls in many places causing a good loss the
company, blame is shifted from to there. I see things going bad if the
management practices do not change. I have changed mine. Caring for the
workforce should be our motto.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>The best thing I experienced before the
companies were taken over by the Government of India in 1971 was the
comradeship amongst us mine workers. Consider anyone working under anybody and
you could see orders were followed efficiently. The ambience was strict, the
British effectiveness was inside us but the management ensured that people were
taken care of. I don’t suggest that British management was better. What I
imply, is that there was an undercurrent of respect for the worker and no
tolerance for one upmanship. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Even more attractive in those early days of my
career was that we used to get a special cash prize for outstanding work. Some
crews constantly doing well would get prizes at the end of every week, often
from the senior most office, the General Manager. Other crews were
automatically motivated. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I repeat again that though we had far more powers
then, our energy was spent on ensuring better lives and good production. If
workers took overtime for a specific but urgent job, we had the power to serve
themes snacks and drinks. We would often organise small parties in the
underground pit, men covered in dust and soot but enjoying fresh rasgullas from
Lala Sweets. One result was that even an ordinary worker would work hard. I
know of stories where increased output meant increased facilities such as using
the company's chauffeur driven car for a picnic, weekend parties and frequent
screenings of the latest films. These perks and encouragements ended after the
government takeover. I feel that the era after independence till
nationalization was really a good time for sincere people to perform better. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>But there were a lot of disadvantages too. If
you did not obey the boss, the company could fire anyone without notice.
Officers and workers lived in constant pressure to perform. The company was a
new version of the zamindars who could displace anyone anytime, even throw
people from company provided accommodation. All facilities could be stopped and
lives thrown into poverty in a moment.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Living arrangements for the work force was not
adequate during those days. While some officers had big houses, most workers lived
in the most difficult condition, as if they were goats. Any protest was met
with worse rules including cancellation of entertainment facilities, reduced
water or electricity supply, let accommodations degrade and public punishments
for anyone who had the guts to raise voice. Now, we see a positive change as
infrastructure is being developed for workers to live better. I hope to contribute
in this aspect in the coming years. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>So, in a way, the earlier era of private
companies was the golden days and strangely also nightmare days. We were happy
to work and scared at the same time. It was a shock for us. They say things
change slowly in nature, but the changes we saw from 1971 in our very own coal
industry is enough to make us forget the earlier era. I feel that now, as the
government runs the system, they should ensure adequate support to local
stakeholders – the villagers, infrastructure development and bringing unique
ways to ensure that mining becomes safe for us and the local environment.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I am a part of this entire story, first as a child
growing up in the mines and now, as an engineer working in the very industry where
my father and his entire family spent their lives building new mines along the
way. I will not say that I was born with a golden spoon but with poverty
knocking at our doors each day, the mines provided me, my elder brother and my
sisters with education. I am happy with my English, even though relatives in
Delhi laugh at my accent. I am the mine myself, and thanks to the mines, I have
a purpose in life. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>We spend a beautiful childhood under our father’s
eyes. But he was rarely to be seen, busy as he was with his men and with
liquor. In reality, our childhood was showered with unparalleled love and
affection by all, family, neighbors and local villages. We grew up in the wild
and learnt the names of flowers. I took to pond fishing, learning from my Baori
friends on making the best hook and throwing the widest cast. Relatives from
Punjab would never ceased to be amazed at my love for postu and rice, aloo paratha
was an alien concept. And my deeply ingrained Bengali would scare them. Cranky
old buas would cry in chaste Punjabi, Saada munda bangla ban gaya, enhu changi
kudi dila do.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>But my silent mother taught us about both the
cultures. She pressed upon the lifelong upholding of good manners and motivated
us to great officers of a great father. She also pampered us a lot.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>The most adventurous part of this life was
that being a son of a loved person, all us brothers and sisters were adored by
the villagers. Walking to our school a kilometre away, someone would always drop
us with charming forcefulness. Embarrassingly, many a times, we would be lifted
on someone’s shoulder and carried away. We were really fat then and I don’t
think the person who carried us once would make the same mistake ever. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Our adventures were sometimes scary too. Our
games of hide and seek was not about finding a spot in the garden. My brother
would hide himself in one of the many incline mines, where people were usually
stopped from entering. It feels strange that nobody stopped us for I won’t
allow baby Prahlad to enter them. Though we had privilege, children of other
officers did not enjoy as much as we did. I think that it was slightly more
deep than privilege rights. I think there was love for my mother and father, in
this remote corner of the world that he called home.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I was over very good player of volleyball and
played football as a goalkeeper. I was also very interested in gardening and
used to look after the flower in our big garden watering and cleaning the earth
even though they were already 2 gardeners pointedly allotted to the residents.
When I was in class 9th I got in mission in the nearest city as in soon we
pronounce subsequently studied as well at the eastern railway school and around
that same time my father was also transferred to her different quality under
the same private owner of those days.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>An important thing that I forgot to mention
during 60s is that the coal mines were also very famous for decades. That time
the salary payment was made in weekly mode for every Saturday and the day
starts from evening of Saturday and Sunday. There the gates who would start
their work on the evening of Saturday generally targeted the recent suppliers
first and then the others after getting. After getting salaries a lot of people
used to pay one weeks ration bills to the shop owners. The robbers or the so
called to get used to open attack using bombs and surround this site and start
looting the shop owner as well as and he was like us. Surprisingly by just
between 7:00 PM to 8:00 PM they would regularly throw bombs splinters filled of
splinters and small glass sentence engineering injuring the inhabitants I
locals. The this was the same situation many days of a week. The police as
usual came after all that happens and just would right the complaint but really
take any action. So every Saturday and Sunday the cool qualities state secure
within their land so that the reward if it sees. The two reached two such the
kts happened during my personal presence. My boss was posted in a second
quality my<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I was posted in this strangely called AJ
second quality, my elder brother was also an engineer at quote adequality a
slight distance away came to my house as he was to go to Jamshedpur later at
3:30 AM in the night. 10 kilometers away from there we were too soon leave to
drop him to the railway station. It was a month of weak and very hard. So you
rather decided to sleep in open space outside of the bungalow. Just beyond the
boundary of our house there were two staff quarters right in front of us, the
first being owned by our doctor Banerjee. At about 2:00 AM suddenly we heard a
huge sound and someone screaming and trying to break open the doors of Mr. Banerjee’s
house. Immediately reboot got up from our bed to see what was the matter but
two are a disabilities, I saw one to two people standing near our bungalow
boundary wall and telling seeing us the immediately reacted. They threatened me
not to get out of the bed and sleep and cover myself with a bed sheet. Most
surprisingly I was astonished, he threatened me taking my taking my nickname
which is cusa hub. He have not come to your house so please just lay down or we
will threw a bomb towards your site. I could not recognize your voice as they
had covered their face with black cloth<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>the coolest extraction face used to be about 3
kilometers each side from the pit bottom. The pit bottom was the place where
the lift in the cages which sect or only way out if I know agency occurred.
There we had to use a number of holding machinery that helped in extracting the
coal however. However maintenance of these machinery was very problematic and
they often broke down. Bringing coal from deep inside the face is it's in
itself a very difficult and risky affair working with machinery and often broke
down was also aggrieve threat to our lives. The people working in the
underground mines we're really scared and used to do the job very courageously
pushed off lastly I would like to say that we expected to get a better life
better accommodation our nationalization of the coal mines went wrong and the
government practically did nothing.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US"><i>November 14, 1984 - Final Assignment –
Certificate course on Mining Management<o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>When the history of coal mining is written
for India, nameless individuals who made the mines come to life will be rarely
be discussed. Displaced communities will be accorded a cursory mention. Workers
like us will return to the anonymity of the towns and cities. And nameless new
workers will over our place. Yet, the mines are not merely an agent of
extraction and destruction. They are a chronicle of our times, our only thread
to this dusty world we called home.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Pretty impressive Prahlad, Robert cooed. He
shrugged and I smiled. It does not look his father’s words, I asked him. Well,
there was only one convent educated member in the family in 1984, Prahlad’s
youngest Bua who would shower us books as kids. Prahlad laughed, Yes, it seems
to be her words, but not the feelings that Dad wrote in these notes to himself.
We can track his style when he writes about his childhood. This one, Bua
surely. We were not keen to sleep in the cold floor. And the rains had
returned. Robert read again. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>The coal mining industry is popularly
believed to be started by Carr Tagore and Company, by Thakur Rabindranath’s
father but its origins are far older than people imagine. Indians knew mining
much before the British sought to civilize us and introduce new technologies.
The only difference was that we mined for local use while they focused on
industrial development.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Also, the mode of learning developed. While
the mining in the Chota Nagpur hills were part of the local oral history, sons
earnt from their fathers and so on it went. It was a cottage industry and
taught new skills and helped us sustain comfortably. The European model was
more technocratic and it was not till the 1770s that mining schools came up in
Prague and Vienna, blessed with coal like us. The British were still
experimenting with coal while we were using it to build implements. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>They learnt fast, just as they learnt to
cut forests even faster. Between this race to extract more coal and more
forest, both seemingly inexhaustible resources suddenly became scarce. The
bounty of the Land of Gold was no more. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>And in prospecting for coal, a vast horde
of private adventurers entered deep into the heart of India and when they found
the real heart in the forests and the engines in the form of coal, they could
not believe their own fortunes. Here was an entire country sized forest, laden
not with rich berries and medicinal honey, but with endless seams of coal,
bauxite, copper and iron. They were ripe and ready to be picked, digged or
harvested, the British did not discriminate between the three.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>And they pushed their agenda through law.
Under the garb of a bewildering new language that a few knew and laws which
coopted mining under the definition of a forest produce, India changed. We
joined the global economy at a pace, never seen before, never after. We became
the giant laboratory to test the theories of free market and infinite growth. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Returning to our heritage, India had a long
history of harnessing iron from the soil. A world as described previously,
existed solely on producing useful instruments from the iron which itself was
melted using a number of resources, including coal. The change happened when
local smelters could no longer compete with industrial grade iron from
factories far away. They simply faded away. So did Indian entrepreneurs and
zamindars. It may be difficult to visualize but there were several Indian
pioneers who had taken to mining in a big way. They took to rapid extraction of
available coal and sell them cheaply to whoever sought to buy. This world of
operators, traders and extractors came to be upon the mercy of the British. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>The British took over, not from them but
from the zamindars who controlled most of these lands. Many were thrilled to be
gifted an additional source of income. Tenants were simply evicted. If ever,
they write that the British took over India by their military strength, they
are grossly mistaken. They took over India because they appealed to the greed
of the many small and big time keepers of lands. These keepers or owners as
they preferred to call themselves were the defacto kings of the land and the British
just made them friends.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Coal Mining soon started in the very region
we live in. First Grant Heatly discovered mines in Raniganj and then Farquhar
& Motte did the same in Jharia (page 86). Girmint may well be amongst the
first ten mines of India as leased by Alexander & company in 1820. The
famous Carr Tagore and company came into the picture after acquiring Raniganj
only around 1843, by then things were up and running at any of the collieries
across Jharia and Raniganj. People like us, brought from outside, alien and
uncomfortable were brought to sustain the increasing demand for coal. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>As the brief history of coal mining in our
region suggests, things soon passed into British control though the close
relationship between the coal company and the government had never made any
distinction between the two. There was a race for the coal. And in this race,
nothing stood in the way. Market booms came, several busts came, demand fell
and rose, production fell and new mines explored to keep up with the demand,
but nothing did deter the march of coal.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Coal was everywhere and used for
everything. It made our lives easy. It gave us something that every Indian
cherished in those years, electricity. Coal even gave them radio to listen to
and often a phone to call someone far away. Coal built everything, from roads,
to factories to big townships. The energy from coal seemed to light up the
whole world or atleast parts of it. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>The demands rose and rose leading to gluts
in the market. Only the biggest players remained and they appropriated a slice
of Eastern pie. The mines were no longer considered private. Entire landscapes
were converted to mining sites and the nearby world still following ancient
traditions had now become frontiers of the coal industry.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Some Santhals and Baoris still claim that
they don’t know what hit them. One day, picking amla from the forest and next
day, picking coal from the soil, they just retreated into the background. Still
there, they keep a close watch. Watch as their lands get murderously hurt, dug
and filled a million times and turns barren by the day. Some say that after all
the coal is over, perhaps they will return the land to us. The pan wallahs says
it may take another 60 years. They say that they can wait. But, they say that
the land may be beyond rescue now. This land is already dead.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Mining just boomed in the lands between
Raniganj and Dhanbad on one side and Dumka and Giridh on the other. As
independence came, the mines slowly moved out of the control of the private
players. They became nationalized in 1971, the year I joined the coal industry.
<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>The world had changed by then. Dacaities
and loot is as much a part of coal as its capacity to burn at low rates.
British era equipment and landmarks were falling into disuse. The most popular
club west of Calcutta fell into utter disgrace Its floors were pulled out, its
doors stolen, windows cut from the frames and not an inch was left. Where we
would part earlier, cows saunter now. Even the boundary wall was knocked off.
What remains now is an edifice of memories, sad and happy.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>To relate a personal story, when a few of
us were returning from a marriage in Birbhum, we came upon a road block
followed by a long trail of cars of both sides. While it appeared to be an
accident, it was in effect, a dacaity in progress. Such was the prevalence of
dacaities in those days that nobody flinched. We knew a few of these boys
probably. They had taken to it because of the sheer poverty in the villages.
With loss of productive rice fields and ruin of forests, entire populations had
turned destitude. We quietly gave away all they asked for. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>They were on the verge of an apology as
they asked for necklace from my wife and meekly moved on to the next car. In
only a few minutes, the road block was clear and we were on our way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>As I took a transfer back to Girmint in 1978,
my father who had continued living in his house near Girmint shifted with us
and brought an entire legion of followers who would listen to his stories of
the mine as if it were the annual recital of the Ramayana.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>As I mentioned, working in the mines is as
much a people management skill as learning the use of technology. I was born
here and knew everyone personally. I never did find out if I was an officer, a
foreman or a worker. It was a bonhomie, this community living. All the staff,
workers in the underground and colleagues were highly cooperative. I took care
of them and in exchange, they were willing to move mountains for me. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>But the good times slowly came to an end.
As I write this, aggression has increased as villagers are left deprived of
amenties. Frequent electrical problems, shortage of water and frequent
disregard to upkeep of public facilities led to a growing aggression toward us
officials.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>We were stuck in the middle of several
gharoes and sloganeering but over the years, we managed to resolve many a
confrontation before it could flare. Often, working with villagrs to resolve
issues, our team too timely action to prevent many a confrontation. It was
still, a tough life and as I step into a bigger role, I still cherish those
early days of mining deep inside pits, scared yet willing to explore, worried
that this growing hunger for coal may punish nature and people both. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>But coal kept growing. Moving away from the
old dirty minefields like ours, they hunted for newer pastures. And they found
plenty in this ancient border between Santhal Parganas and the Jungle Mahals.
They found that on a cost to basis, open cast mines are much cheaper to mine
than deep, dangerous undergound pits. As I write this, I stand at the cusp of
the next big growth of coal production. Records will soon be broken but the
continued apathy of stakeholders continues to this day.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Word Count – 1764 words<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>And a smiley drawn on it. Did they have
smileys in 1984, Robert asked. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>I let out a low whistle in an otherwise
strangely quiet room. Wow, that was truly amazing. Seemed like a fantasy but still
continues to spread. The impact of coal have increased several hundred times.
We are living in an age of construction, an age of destruction, an age of
absurdity, and age of apathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Robert started crooning. His deep hum
filling up the rooms silently. And then he produced a small sound box out of
nowhere. Prahlad laughed, ‘This was the very room where my father had placed
his proud possession, a giant music system with outsized sound boxes and an
ancient tape recorder’. I added, the disc player was here as well, remember.
Yes, he replied, laughing aloud, We would stare at the giant disc cover and
imagine ourselves to rock the world. Even Rock music changed beyond
comprehension in these few years. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Joshi who was sitting in a corner,
connected his Bluetooth to the box and played some songs. He was an odd one,
this Joshi. Close friends with the boisterous Robert, he would laugh out loud,
but only occasionally. Mostly, he will be silently observing people all around.
He shuffled and Sadda Haq blared for minutes into the night sky.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>You know, Saada Haq was a good chance to
take what’s ours, but that moment passed. We turned towards him. Was he
entering into one of his moods, rarely visible to others but being old friends,
we feared him for his moods. Rishi and Joshi had been good friends in school
and we used to jokingly call them the ‘Moody broodies’, they seemed to
telepathically converge on a common power source to turn deeply melancholic. In
unison, we replied, And!!!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Main galat hu toh kaun sahi (If I am wrong,
then who is right) - shouted Jordan from the billboards 10 years back. He was
no ordinary agent of anarchy. He was crying out against those who rule our
world, the enforcers who scared us. His intensity was what we needed, desperate
for fresh fire to light up our dark skies. Jordan was us, not as good looking
as him. But our alienation, we were in it together.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Young children, barely out of school
headbanged for the first time in known history to a popular Hindi movie song.
Irshad Kaamil peaked then and just then. His lyrics can burn an assembly
session but no one cares to listen. Now less than ever.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>For many, Sadda haq gave the courage Haider
called upon us to display 3 years later when it came upon the movie universe
and jeered at the establishment in plain view. Even more significantly, it gave
the urbane young a chance to express their own anger at the world, building on
Anna Hazare’s movement that galvanized an entire country, albeit briefly. But
the song’s release was too close to Hazare’s decision to end his fast and
several followers were disenchanted. As the momentum slipped and parleys began,
Hazare withdrew and came another strong man, Kejriwal. He shifted our hopes and
made us believe in the movement again and believe him again as he broke away in
the time bound Indian tradition of discarding the Gandhian for unbridled power.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>As the movement faltered, rising and
falling with each falling day, yet moving towards its ultimate extinguishment,
our anger had not subsided. It had grown instead. We were egged on by our
beliefs, by our fears and by our helplessness, we wanted to rebel but we were
not the Arab Spring. And the Arab world was bursting with creative
demonstrations. From Tunisia to Egypt and Oman to Morocco, half the world was
on fire and if Anna Hazare hadn’t come along, we would have sat through the
entire spring without hoping to seek a new dawn. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Too diverse, too many voices and too scared
to lose our lives, we were seething with anger. As Hazare’s movement rekindled
our angst, the Delhi Rape Case of 2011 as it should be called broke us out of
our reverie. Millions took the lead, Kejriwal demanded the resignation of
Sheila Dixit, the Chief Minister of Delhi as did a few others but the manner in
which he endeared himself to the common people was Gandhian in scope. Mildly
dysfunctional and totally awkward, he still carried the moral perseverance to
wear his apparently dirty muffler in an international summit. And while he made
it a point to wear slippers where a shoe would have done just fine, he merely
showed off his credentials as an expert storyteller. We all believed in him.
And the revolution passed harmlessly.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>But Sadda Haq was more than channeling our
angst into movements. It was to be a cathartic moment for a wide array of the
young, old and the ones in between to reevaluate our lives, albeit for a few
brief seconds. If you saw the chance once, chances are it challenged your
ethical choices and made you question them.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>It also brought the environment into a
clear, crisply worded, unambiguous rendition of the destruction humankinds are
wreaking on the planet. While it sounded nice and was lyrical enough, the great
Indian middle class had little to answer to the philosophical observations from
the lines , ‘O Eco-friendly, nature ke rakshak. Main bhi hoon nature’ and ‘Pata
hai bahut saal pehle yahan ek jungle hota tha. Ghana bhayanak jungle. Phir
yahan ek shaher ban gaya, saaf suthre makan, seedhe raaste, sab kuch saleeke se
hone laga. Par jis din jungle kata, us din parindo ka ek jhund yahan se hamesha
ke liye ud gaya’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>We were protesting yes. But we had been
coopted. We could protest but we cannot protest about all that is wrong with
our relationship with nature, after all Jordan mentions that it is a bhayanak
jungle. We live in these cities after all. We need the mines after all. Saddaq
Haq was truly the rarest and the last of the great exhortations to change our
lifestyles and we conveniently let it pass. In the interlude, we have grown
prosperous but nature has taken a beating.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>His lyrics were outstanding but something
about Jordan was unsettling. Blank eyes, a loss of imagination, a feeling of
dejection and non-committal anger without a sense of direction, Jordan was the
classic rebel without a cause. One difference was that he enthused not just 16
year old kids, but adults well into their middle ages. Weighed under a
debilitating new corporate culture, with access to ample money but wishing for
the good things of our slow childhoods, it was a reminder of the hollow shells
that we had become. He was just us, just more good looking and with a longer
side burn.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>His rebelliousness had ambiguous origins,
shallow as many claimed that he was. Yet, not for a moment did he claim that he
was a saint. He only followed the path of Buddha. He saw pain, felt it, saw
society’s disinterest and decided to internalize the pain. He was just angry
and while grown ups may not like to hear it aloud, being angry at the world is
not odd. Everything may be alright with you but you may still anger and pain.
You may still want to shout out and demand for justice for adivasis in a remote
corner of the world. You were alive and you have a right to be upset.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>The song almost kindled hopes for a revival
of the Free Tibet movement. Never before and never after did a few seconds of
footage bring a passive resistance to the centerstage. The song did that and as
if to go for the jugular, provoked a nation’s nerve by asking questions of
injustice. Injustice towards Kashmiris and towards Punjab, towards the trees
and the birds, It asked us questions but many of us did not pay heed.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>10 years have passed. Ranked 28 as the top
100 Bollywood album of all times, the song has a dedicated fan following, the
issues it raised remain uncannily alive, yet its moment passed in those
definitive years of the early 2010s. We remember it now for its rather
surprising grasp of the world of rock music yet Jordan, if he were real would
still be searching for the birds that flew away from the city, never to return
again. Jordan told us, involuntarily perhaps, that in our greed, we are on a
march towards a collective suicide. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Robert cut him off…. Joshi, Joshi, Chill
down. We are not on the end of our times, just in Girmint where time does not
seem to exist. Yes, drawled Joshi and looked at his watch, Time to sleep. And
we soon slept, in the very house where so many games were played and dreams made,
milestones reached and trees climbed. There we were, strangely clumped
together, as if we were pups stretched over their mother. We did not look out
of place; we were the place ourselves.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-52293230722057393182023-12-02T07:25:00.001+05:302023-12-02T07:25:09.231+05:3042. Fire and Ice<p><span style="font-family: Lato;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>S</b></span>aanvi walked into the guest house in the
morning in a huff. She had apparently not got over last night’s trauma and was
terrible to talk to. We had our breakfast in silence and went over our small
day packs. Shyamendra was already smoking his pipe in the courtyard and waiting
for us patiently. As we packed our lunch boxes, Shyamendra softly pleaded,
‘Don’t carry too much’.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">We knew why for we were to test an old
legend of the hills. Of Baigas and their walking prowess. Yet, if anything,
this was certainly no legend for the Baigas, and we frequently saw smartly
dressed men walking past through the day. For them, it was an extension of
their lives and even as roads and transport entered their lives, many a times,
we would find Baigas walking long distances nonchalantly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Shyamendra was still not convinced. As we
walked down the raised hill onto the dusty road, still silent in the early
morning mist, he asked us again. “Why don’t you take the car, it is much
easier’. But Saanvi was determined. She planned to test this legend and check
for herself if the Baigas could walk as much 72 kilometres or much more in a
day. My friends in the village had heard about our strange plan and laughed
their hearts out when I told them of our plan. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">They were not being sarcastic or funny.
They were confused for our reasons to do so when there was a car standing at
the guest house. Yet, if anything could shake Saanvi’s resolve, I had not come
across that thing. Saanvi was already on her way and I quickly fell behind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">It was a narrow road that led off from the
village. Flanked by the ripening rice field on our right, overgrown grasslands
stretched for some distance on the right. Shyamendra causally pointed out to
the grazing cows, ‘these are where our cows graze, especially as the forests
dry up. We keep it closed for the rest of the time and allow the grass to grow,
while ensuring that villagers had ample grass through the year’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I half-heartedly believed him, for on the left
was rising a monstrous unfunctional building, several stories high where the
regions adivasi children will be taught in the coming years. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">‘Shyamendra, there “used” to be grass for
the cows, it will soon be a playground of the future’. He sighed and kept
walking, easily matching pace with Saanvi who strode on furiously.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The road that led out of the forest soon
entered a steep slope, covered in dense layers of the majestic Sal. Almost
instantly, we lost the village and could see nothing but trees all around. This
is one of the charms of a forest. You can quickly enter it and lose track of
the world outside and from that very moment onwards, a strange quiet surround
you. Nothing much can be heard, virtually nothing can be seen, and one feels
that the world has been left behind and this world is nothing, but a limitless expanse
of green. Yet, we know now that it is not true. This dense carpet is but an
illusion for development creeps in unknown ways, an innocuous looking forest
check post where a termite hill once stood, bus stops in the middle of the
forest for shelter against rain but preferred by cows most of the year and
electric lines that leave a thin long scar in the tree line. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Today, we hoped to skip these sights and
continue our jaunt through ancient paths known only to the Baigas and Gonds of
the region.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">As we walked through the forest, Shyamendra
instinctively took the lead. I have seen this over and over again. People in
rural India taking care that the guest is taken care of, in this case by
charting the risky road ahead. They feel almost apologetic for a visitor’s
strained wellbeing and make all effort to keep us comfortable. Shyamendra did
nothing out of the ordinary, but I loved it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">We came out of the clearing and kept
walking. It was still early and the first and only bus of the day had not yet
left the village. We took advantage of the silence to hop between the forest
path and the road running parallel to it for a while and came upon the first
plateau.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The Maikal Hills are ancient reminders of
the geological forces that shape our lives. And the bald plateaus of these
hills were a representative feature of these forces. Virtually flat and
endless, the plateau could barely hold a tree down and what we saw were a few
stragglers, variously distorted and stunted. These were the adamant ones, the
other trees just passed over the plateau and dropped their roots in the next
available slope. But while the trees skipped the plateau, grass took over.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Endless expanses of wildly swaying grass,
golden to the eye and silky to the touch, the grass was swaying mildly in the
morning sun. It was a beautiful sight and our ramble seemed just the only
normal thing to do in these hills. We kept walking and soon entered a side
trail that was clearly invisible to my eye. Even Saanvi stopped for a moment.
Shyamendra shrugged and kept walking. Saanvi followed and I kept up. We were on
a treat. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The path was dense with the post monsoon
fervour still alive. Wild herbs touched our legs, tickling us sometimes,
scratching us more often than not. The trees had again taken control and even
if the world came to an end now, we wouldn’t hear about it. It was simply
everywhere. Tall Sal rising to the clouds, unbelievably straight in a way that
few trees can truly be, they rose and rose. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">This was not giant redwood country, but it
was the majestic Sal’s land and I was grateful to be on the path.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The walk went on. Shyamendra in the front,
Saanvi just behind and I falling back as the hours flew past. Saanvi seemed to
keep a distance from us. For a moment, I felt that it was due to yesterday’s
outburst, but only later did I realise that she was not talking to Shyamendra
also. This is the Saanvi I know, her motto being, ‘When in the forest, become
it’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">She was just having a great time and she
was glowing. Dressed in spartan grey, she looked like a serene Gandhian,
talking the old man’s message to the hills and doing it in the way the old man
preferred, by walking. She kept on walking, step over step as the hours went
by, barely stopping for chit chat or even water refills. If I could read her
mind now, I guess it would have been bereft of thought, she was walking on Zen
strength.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">I, on the other hand was not doing so bad.
We were reasonably fit, but these forest walks are the not the stuff of modern
day hiking in the high mountains that seems to be the craze now. High mountains
seem to attract a wild unreasonable crowd now, always eager to move on and
devoted to their fashionable gear. These crowds scare me for now, they seem to
have discovered winter trekking. Winter trekking is an absolutely great idea
when one wants to see the snow but hiking to heights above 4000 metres in an increasingly
unpredictable climate means that every walk is fraught with danger. Inexperienced
hikers die by the scores these days and many of them do, even before the
winters hit. In 2021 alone, we had more than 30 deaths in the western Himalayas
when a sudden storm, supercharged by fluctuating winds killed several trekkers,
many of them as they descended from the slopes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">A walk in the central India forests is as
much a test of will as it is about strength. It is often undramatic, punctuated
by sedate views and requires people to cover distances as quickly as possible.
It bores the walker, if he chooses to be bored and then spits him out into one
of the roads that lead out of these low hills. It is a test of your mental
strength, slightly different from hiking in the high mountains. There, you walk
a limited distance and in the company of professional tour managers who know your
limits. They set up camp as your reach bedraggled and offer hot soup and Gulab
jamun. They provide you with tents and evening games and offer that rarest of
comforts in the mountains, having someone else to do their tent. This is now
common in the high hills.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Here, walkers coming for a jaunt are rare
if not non-existing. Nobody jaunts here, no one does it because, as is so
popular across the world, <i>because</i> <i>it is there</i>. Here, it is all
about resources and its wise use. You walk here because you have to go from
place A to B and because there are not enough bus service to attend to the
needs of the locals. Here you walk, because you have to, also because you might
have to collect a few herbs from a remote valley and no bus will pick you
there. Here you walk, when you go for your hunts as you need to return in a few
days with enough catch to sustain a hungry child. Here you walk, because that
is the norm. Without backpacks, tents or safety gear, you walk straight,
knowing that you cannot afford to sleep in a forest floor without a blanket.
Here you walk light because on your journey back, you might be carrying upto 30
kgs of firewood or an equally tiring load of grass for your cows. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">A walk here is a simple test of your state
of mind. Walk or surrender, your mates will wait for you. And if you decide to
skip the remaining trials, one of them will take you to safety first, often to
the nearest hamlet where a hot cup of wood fired black tea keeps waiting. If we
were to give up now or in all likelihood, if I were to give up, Saanvi and
Shyamendra would just deposit me in the nearest hamlet and offer me rest. Then,
they will keep walking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">We stopped near a clear stream, bubbling as
it glided past. Glistening stones, the colour of rust, bauxite as Shyamendra
pointed out rolled with the stream sometimes but often, they keep to the sides,
content in licking the waters from time to time. It was 10 am and we had walked
for four hours straight, without a break. As I plonked down, Saanvi was
grinning from the distance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Her mood better now, she asked Shyamendra about
the distance. Mildly calculating, he shrugged, ’20-22 perhaps’. That means 5 km
an hour. Unsure if its relevance, I looked to Saanvi for askance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Frowning, she said, if we walk till six, we
would have covered atleast 60 km in 12 hours and if we press on, we will be in
Amarkantak by late night. Sounds optimistic, but Shyamendra was not convinced.
We might have to stay at Jagatpur, before the climb to Amarkantak begins. He
shrugged again and opened his stash of goodies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Shyamendra was a Gond and had some land in
his remote village. Reasonably well built, he could have easily been mistaken
for one of the many Rajput boys raising a motorcycling hell in nearby Dindori.
But he was an adivasi, inside and out and the one irrefutable yet unfortunate
way to confirm his identity was his descent into total temerity whenever he
came across a forest guard. A long time back, he had joked that the best way to
identify an adivasi in the Maikal is to observe his degree of slouchness when he
comes across a forest official. He will bend so as much physical limits could
allow; a regular person would offer the guard a cup of tea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">He was not young, about 40 in a few months.
But he looked young as a dashing boy. Moustaches, a half jacket, trademark of
the Baigas and other adivasis in the region and a thin sinewy aura around him,
he was as adept in the craft of the forest as his Baiga friends. His reasons
were different though. His family and some of other villagers had an ancient
tradition of keeping their cows deep inside a forest, close to grasslands and
ample water course. While he would walk upto the cows each morning, days upon days
of spending one’s life inside a dense forest, makes one adept in feeling the
forest. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">While, he was unable to offer a hundred
treatments for a bad stomach as the Baigas can so effortlessly conjure out of nowhere,
he sure knew the right weeds for his cows. Prone to slips and falls, these
awkward cows needed constant care and Shyamendra was born to it. He could have
been anyone, our Shyamendra.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Still considering us as fools, he toyed
with the few fruits, raw jaggery and thin loafs of bread and shrugged for the
umpteenth time, ‘We can take an auto from Buniagaon nearby and go to our
village. You can walk as much as you want in our forests’. But he said it
half-heartedly for he had known Saanvi for even longer than me. And Saanvi’s
story is the stuff of legends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">We leave in fifteen minutes, he offered us
some rest and quietly munched on his supplies. Carrying an innovatively
re-crafted dhoti into a side hanging bag, he resembled a rather handsome
explorer of the ancient times. Carrying virtually nothing, he just had some
snacks and a pipe for his constant urge to smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">We ate silently, Saanvi and me still not
comfortable. Perhaps, a whiff of the toxic air from the mines below had altered
our friendship. Anyways, I think she feels that I am moving towards the
corporate or the government stewardship of forest lands. My feelings are quite
the opposite and I need to quickly find time to tell her that I was arguing to
bring the corporate’s context into the perspective. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">It had been a joke almost and I told her
that. She nodded and went on chomping on her food noisily. And then, for the
first time in hours, smiled. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Shyamendra stood up, we dusted our clothes
and there we were, on our way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The walk was through dense forests. It had
been more than 2 hours and we had barely seen any person on the trail. The
stretch between the two villages of barachakganj and Jumaria is more than 50 km
by road and we had managed to cover barely half of that. It was a long walk
ahead and we knew that we had to make good time under the shade of majestic
trees. The afternoon may not be as lucky as the morning has been.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">A tiny hamlet with a few houses, three at
the most and floating in a haze of wood fires came upon view. A slight ancient
bamboo held fence, staved of view of the inner courtyard and decoratively
covered rooftops. We stopped for chit chat. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-15386013175812749682023-12-01T07:17:00.001+05:302023-12-01T07:17:04.205+05:3041. Déjà vu<p>Back at the house, we took stock. It was
dark. It was dark everywhere for the rain was coming in torrents now. But it
was especially dark in this huge unlived bungalow, with its high roof and
oversized rooms now a perfect echo chamber.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We need to bring the car in, muttered
Robert, his very first agreeable statement of the day. The car was parked
outside the boundaries of the old house, just beyond the petite iron gates that
had been the frontier of our child play in the early days. The gate was long
gone and the elegant driveway slanting upwards was merely a series of broken
soil. Good idea Robert, Lets go and before poor Robert could mutter a word,
Prahlad strode outside. Robert followed meekly. It was clearly not his day
today. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As the car strained to get a grip, my
worries grew. Here we were, in the very house that had sustained entire
families for decades, perhaps even centuries. Prahlad had been born here, his
grandfather died here and his father mastered the art of workmanship in this
very structure. But we were without food and a bed, the windows were missing
and the door frames neatly carved out. It was a hollow reminder of nature’s
ultimate disregard for human ingenuity. This house was already dead and there
was a high probability of it collapsing tonight, right upon us as we slept. I
paced around the surprising clean floors and inspected the rooms.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The rooms were clean, surprising because no
one lived here and the elements could enter at their own leisure. The old
kitchen surprisingly had the ancient pestle, an ancient tradition of the Bengal
of those days when pestles were dug into the ground, creating a hollow
depression on which various spices would be grounded by Promila ma, our
venerable lady of the house who had lived longer than most, taken decades long
care of the old man and as the resident mid-wife brought both Prahlad and his
father into the world. I smiled, remembering her look when I would peep into
the kitchen and the torrent of abuse which would make us children laugh
uncontrollably. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>“Aye Dibsha-kota, ja”</b>, she would shout, “<b>ki korchis aikhaane</b>”.
She seemed to be still busy, pounding chilies as tears rolled out of her eyes
into the depths of her one big tooth, that had decided to break free from the
confinement of her wildly wrinkled face and graced her with an uncertain age.
She could have been 60 or 90, we never could find out.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The car groaned and Prahlad jumped out,
followed by an old man who seemed strangely friendly. Arre, don’t you remember
Chaudhary Uncle. Yes, I actually did. His family used to occupy two quarters
just beyond the giant peepul tree while he had been a close confidant of
Prahlad’s father. Uncle, kaise hai. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The man had grown old but not senile. As
kids, he used to ply us with sweet toffees and today, he walked as our saviour.
<i>Y<b>eh lo, kuch kambhal, thoda paani and moum-bati. Abhi yehi aaram karo. Kal
subah jaana. Aur 8 baje, tum saare bacche ghar aana, garma garam roti sabji
banegi.</b></i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Wah</span></i><span lang="EN-US">, they
teach us the concept of social capital at colleges. Here, was a live
demonstration, Prahlad encashing a three-decade old social capital earned by
his ancestors. Seems like we were not going to die here. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There was no need for contemporary
whatabouterry. Getting straight to thanking him, we accepted his gifts with
profuse relief. He smiled and sat down for a chat. Robert looked unusually
perky. Sweeping the old drawing room where we would wrestle unknown demons, he
quickly shifted the blankets from the car and set the candles at different
vantage points. He had scored some pillows too and some pairs of kurta pyjamas
from Chaudhary uncle. He looked happy now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Tumhare papa kaise hai</span></i><span lang="EN-US">. I replied that he is doing well when he suddenly barked at Robert.
<i>Yeh lo chatri, go and get the tea from home</i>. Robert complied excitedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘What happened here Uncle’, Prahlad asked
first for we were truly beyond curious at this stage. <i>Kya hua idhar.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Beta, pralay aaya, pralay</b></span></span></i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>.</b></span> After your grandfather passed away and, in a few years, your
father took a transfer and finally left, things started going south. Coal
production had already collapsed in those days, but the company still did some
basic maintenance, providing us with jobs to sustain our families. The
company offered to transfer the entire work force, but many chose to stay back.
I worked till 2010 when my son Raja took up my position and continues to work
or the coal companies now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Raja, I whistled, the fieriest fast bowler
in the whole of the Raniganj coalfields, with an action that combined the best
of Kapil Dev and Wasim Akram. <i>Our Raja bhaiya</i>, I mused. How is he, I
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Woh theek hai, raat ko aayega, tum log
subah milna usse</span></i><span lang="EN-US">. Anyways, I chose to stay back as
did a few other families. No one expected this, he swept his arms around.
Yes, no one in his right mind would expect hundreds of sinkholes popping up all
of a sudden. Even Prahlad’s grandfather, if he were alive would not have
believed what he saw. <i>Pralay</i>, it was, I concurred.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">After you left, he said looking directly at
Prahlad, a few families shifted over the years. Most stayed for some time and
then just ran away to Asansol. Prahlad nodded in agreement. He later mentioned
that his father often said that after the late 1990s, there was a growing trend
of officials setting up homes in the city, ostensibly to educate their children
better but in reality, no one wanted the headache of being hung upside down by
increasing agitated villagers, crying over water, electricity, jobs and even
their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Soon, there would be long gaps before
anyone would occupy the house. Not just this, he sighed but all the old
settlements. It was the General Manager’s house that was first taken over. The
villagers simply shifted in one day and set up homes. And in a matter of
months, many more houses were occupied by the desperate villagers, anxious to
flee their sinking lands. This was the last house to be occupied. We resisted
of course and delayed the takeovers, but the lawlessness of those days scared
us. Anyways, they took over the house and then something happened.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We were spellbound. Outside, the rains had
taken a break and the orange hue of the evening sky was shining through the
clouds. Robert was nowhere to be seen. <i>Chalo</i>, he said<i>, ghar pe chai
pite hain</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We shook ourselves, changed into spare
clothing in our still dry backpacks that Joshi, me and Prahlad were carrying
and stepped out into the dripping wet land that had been our home, at least
Prahlad’s home long back. Strangely, we felt good though. It brought back a
memory of the past when after a rain, we would go wild in this glistening clean
world, a temporary respite before the coal dust would smother our world grey
again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It felt like old days and Prahlad was
beaming, nonchalantly nodding that his decision had been the right one. We
walked with Chaudhary Uncle to his quarters that had seemed enormous back in
the day, backed up by impossibly high roofs as they were but now a pale shadow
of our expansive memories. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Someone should investigate childhood imaginations;
they are often over-inflated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Now, as a strangely homely Robert served
tea, we settled in the old khatiya and listened to uncle talk. Aunty whom we
could not recognize came up and shuffled Prahlad’s hair. She had become old, in
the way people in the mines do. They all turn into Promila ma with wrinkles in
the old body and a hunch that seems to be a gift from the elements here.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The squatters were never comfortable here.
Of the two families who shared the house, both had known Prahlad’s grandfather
for decades. Unlike the Peterson villa, the families took great care, tending
the gardens and the driveway, keeping the house clean with frequent
whitewashing. Even the coal authorities could not bring themselves to cut the
water and electricity to the house. It lived on, this house. I feel that it was
a homage to your Dadaji, this tender care of the last remaining memory of our
community’s only legend.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We listened quietly, spell bound and sad.
Time passed and as the coal company let go of the other houses, they started
crumbling. Gardens returned to the wild, trees took over, but without fail the
first sign of the churning land was the gnarled boundary walls. In a matter of
months, these long walls, created to separate the coal miners from the
villagers first twisted, then turned and finally came crashing down. I looked
at the boundary around Prahlad’s house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Not this. This wall is older than me and I
am 70. This wall fought on. Everyone saw the walls falling, some officials
dressed inappropriately in suits and ties came one day, made an inspection and
very soon, public notices were put up by the company. It was no longer the
responsibility of the all-pervasive authority who had mined here since 1800 to
ensure the safety of the people. They were left on their own.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He got up abruptly and held Prahlad by his
hand. Perhaps, he still had flashes of some old memory where he been sent after
Prahlad, seen rummaging through coal in an abandoned mine. He had held Prahlad
by his ears then, today he held on to Prahlad for support.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Chalo</span></i><span lang="EN-US">, he
said and kept talking as we walked around. Sometime before the tsunami hit us,
we also experienced a tsunami here. Raja had just started going to college in a
new motorbike and I was no longer working in the pits. We had less but it was
okay, we were at home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The foreboding grew and suddenly, he took
us beyond the broken walls where a railway track carried thousands of tons of
coal each day. I recoiled, for it resembled nothing of our childhoods. The
track was not there. It had been ripped apart from its foundations. Only the
old teak sleepers existed at places, and even they had been ripped away. I
sighed to Prahlad, ‘Another memory blown ahhh’. He nodded for the rail track,
though in the red zone and completely forbidden to us, was the site of
countless experiments where stolen coins would be placed and pressed down by-passing
trains. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There was a giant hole beyond the track.
Impossible, Prahlad muttered. The land beyond the track was on a elevation and
in our hardy boys fueled imagination, it was the closest we had come to a
mountain then. There was a hole in its place now. Uncle muttered, this
happened.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The never-ending hole was not really a
hole. It appeared to be a disused mine, an open cast or a OCP as they were
popularly known as. Uncle let us absorb the view and with the five of us
looking straight ahead, offered an answer. ‘When revenues fell, and it was
decided to prospect with new technologies. A few Russians came, the old
bungalows in the far end of our limited universe that housed the senior officers
were reacquired from the crying villagers and surface mining began’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Surface mining was highly popular now, I
knew that. But here, this is one of the oldest mines in the entire world.
Untold billions of tons of coal had already been extracted and the land was
dangerously destabilized. I laughed at their ingenuity. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Uncle, as though he read my thoughts, said
in agreement. Yes, they did not listen to anyone. The first set of black ties
had washed off responsibility to keep the people safe and the second wave of
black ties decided to aggravate the situation further.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was getting a handle on the situation.
Uncle added, the investment was massive. So many trucks, big ones and small
ones, machinery the scale of which we had never imagined, speed of mining that
we never thought possible and a sudden revival of our fortunes, an
improbability just a few weeks ago charged the atmosphere. It was back to the
1800s when the British had arrived and mined everything that was mine-able. It
was this century’s gold rush. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Why had we not heard of it, Prahlad
muttered. Because the authorities knew of the dangers below and it was done surreptitiously,
Uncle added.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Anyways, to cut the story short. As the big
machines roared and the remaining sacred groves of the Baoris were
exterminated, the land beneath protested. Already stressed from years of
senseless pillage, Girmint could not take it any longer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It had already rained a lot that year. The
tsunami was to change our worlds in a few days, and we were cautiously happy at
having received new uniforms, lamps, shoes and regular salaries. Even the crop
had been a success that year. We started harboring hopes that the land may
have healed. And suddenly, one night, there was a thunderous clamor. First, we
hear sirens, and then shouts and by the time, we could come out to see for it
was three in the morning, there were strange beams of flickering lights in the
sky.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The open cast pit had caved onto itself.
The lights in the sky had been of the trucks turned turtle, in the final
moments, that was the last SOS that this German machinery could muster before
the earth gobbled all up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Huddled, we waited for the first light and
rushed as soon as we can. It was serene, the pit or whatever it was. Serene and
clean with no evidence of man’s ambition visible. The pit had collapsed into
itself, killing a few but irreversibly scaring the Russians. They bolted and
the project closed. We were back to the old routine again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Yet as the hapless inhabitants of the land
returned to reclaim the bungalows, it appeared that Kali ma was still upset.
Every day, a new hole appeared out of nowhere, opening suddenly, crumbling onto
itself and swallowing rice fields everywhere. What you see today is not the
end, even yesterday, a hole swallowed a school in Parhiarpur without as much as
an urgent warning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was dark now and we slowly returned to
our house. Why is this safe. Ohh, there was no coal beneath the house. Nobody
cared to mine here. It is the only safe spot in the region now, your house and
ours. Thanks to your father who resisted aimless exploitation of the seams. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We had an early dinner and shared numbers
with Raja bhaiya, now plump and silent, the cricketer in him no longer visible.
As we turned toward the house, I wondered at Prahlad’s strange homecoming. It
felt like his final homecoming.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As Robert checked for snakes and left the
two of us to our silent thoughts, Joshi shuffled around. He had been quite
after the storm, absorbing the story and its meaning. He was an economist after
all and this was not a part of any discourse in the story of India’s rise.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Joshi called for us. He was standing
outside the storeroom with his phone throwing weak light all over. We went in
together, wary of snakes and came upon an assortment of Knick knacks. Old
boxes, broken chairs and some items that looked vaguely familiar. Prahlad came
to our rescue. Look, the old wooden lampshade, the mortar, comic books, what’s
this, he asked. He turned towards us, holding a clutch of papers in his hands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>It was a note from 1984. </b><o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-42603228769534856862023-11-30T09:15:00.001+05:302023-11-30T09:15:26.279+05:3040. Different specimens abound<p>I forgot to mention. Other than the city
brat and the timid colliery wallahs, there is another type of the miner’s
child. Growing up in dedicated townships at a headquarter level, more attuned
to community gatherings and being a part of a much larger peer group, these
urbane colliery wallahs could give most of the city brats a kick in the shin.
The reasons for this were many but one that stood out was the access to
knowledge and entertainment sources in these townships. Cinema halls, hospitals
and several learning centres providing an alterative to the two cliched pair of
city brats and colliery wallahs. Students of all hierarchical levels performed
better when compared to a colliery kid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Thoughts floating by, I finally had time to
myself and think thoughtful or hopefully thoughtless thoughts as I pleased. By
this classification, even city brats could not be limited to a boundary. They
were from all strata of the society and their diversity was far more perplexing
than ours. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">True, but I must hurry. The first hint of
wind was staking its claim over the denuded land. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As I rushed, the winds picked up a terrible
howl. I could see it in the distance, just beyond the fields and watched it
turn the world black as it raced towards me. Childhood knocked, Kal-Baishaki it
is, some deep recess of my brain offered as an answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I stopped momentarily, taking shelter under
a skeleton of a truck. I always had a fascination with the kal Baishaki.
Normally, in the months of April and May while the world was on a summer break,
children across Bengal, Bihar, Jharkhand and Orissa would be inexplicably let
out to play in the steaming summer sun. While frequent heatstroke did not deter
the kids from venturing out, it was the evening ritual of these howling winds
that got us all excited. Di our never realise the dangers we were in….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The winds would start slow and always at a
distance. And quixotically, they would soon rob the sky of its blue and turn
the world black. We had to be careful in the moments before the winds hit us.
For in the mines, winds not only roused dust but sundry sharp contraptions that
magically gained the kinetic energy to fly. It was these moments I loved.
Standing on the high hump near Prahlad’s house, we had an uninterrupted view of
the whole world and we would play soldiers with the wind. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Once however, a sharp piece of rust came
flying at Prahlad. As it stung his torso, he wailed in pain. Howling over the
wind, we ran back into the house where a mammoth scolding awaited us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was old now. Let me stay hidden under the
truck. The winds were picking up in speed. For a moment, I recalled my
geography class in school, was kal Baisakhi not<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a summer affair. And was it not short lived. I remember it coming in a
huff, drowning the world and opening secret streams and just as suddenly, the
sun would peep out and drench us in 120% humidity. This one was different.
Maybe, not a kalbaishaki at all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Whatever my befuddled mind could think of,
it was certain that the winds were not going anywhere anytime soon. Yet, the
longer the wind stayed, my asthma’s reincarnation after a hiatus of 20 years
was looking certain. For not only was the wind pushing hard, there was hardly a
glimmer of rain. Kalbaishaki are designed to be a collaboration of the rain and
wind. This one was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saharan in scale.
Just giant swirls of dust, followed by mini tornadoes that appeared from the
heart of the sky, sucked in a few machinery from the ground and transported
them, god knows where. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The dust was another matter. I could
shelter from the winds but the whole landscape had turned cataclysmic. After a
really long time, I was having trouble breathing. My day pack and my forever
partner, the pocket sized inhaler was in the car. I wondered if the car is
still there or is it gone forever. Slowly, my breathing became laboured.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Never before have I loved Mr. Robert as I
did now, for slowly and then thankfully, I saw him crawl towards me. Prahlad
and Joshi followed. I frantically waved and stepped out, only to be covered in
black ash, this was our own Pompei moment happening here. We managed to triage
and now there were four of us under the truck. Safe for now, Prahlad grinned.
His demeanour had returned and the wind could not shout him down.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Remember, he shouted in that crazy state of
affairs. Once, we fired rockets into the oncoming wind. The rockets flew
crazily and would be sucked up by the incoming rush but that day, the rocket
changed direction and came back at us. How we ran and how the rocket hit our
lonely cow shewing the grass, come rain or wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I nodded back. My breathing was
increasingly laboured and I was not really in the mood for a chit chat. The
winds howled on. It was surreal, this wind. It had been unrelenting for the
past hour and did not seem to slow down. The entire universe had turned grey,
giant plastic covers floating here, an odd asbestos roof there. Even our truck,
stuck deep into the ground had groaned occasionally. I managed to smile when
Robert cried, “Why did we even come with you. We are going to die here”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Prahlad had taken command of the situation
by now. He was charting his next plan as the wind slightly mellowed and the
first hint of rain came. Lets keep walking, he said. I agreed with his
assessment and anyways, human brains seem to shutdown in strange ways when
faced with danger. We have a prelidiction to make cascading mistakes. If this
was one of those moments, so be it, I thought. I could see nothing much but my
inhaler. I had to get to it and it was only a few hundred metres ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Prahlad stepped out just as the winds
howled one final time. Looking majestic, his wild eyes called out to us. Joshi
followed and Robert stayed a few inches behind me as I stepped out too. It was
overwhelming, this wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Howling like the deodars in the high
Himalayas occasionally did, there was a faraway screech that dominated our
senses. Things were still flying around, I swear I saw a chicken fly aimlessly.
I know from experience that they fly short distances, but this one seemed to be
on a free flight, as if sourcing the wind’s power to catapult himself far away,
anywhere but this crazy land. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We trudged on and as if the gods finally
listened to me, the rains came. Someone with a switch merely turned the wind
off and opened the taps. It started pouring, relentlessly now, turning the
already blackened sky into a blackness that can’t be explained. But imagine for
a moment, it looked like a deep railway tunnel, deep below high mountains of
the Konkan and suddenly, the electricity goes off. That is the darkness we were
dealing with now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We were wet now and it was comical to see
our faces return to normal. Robert cleaned himself first by subjecting himself
to some biblical pain. Turning his head towards the sky, he shouted out to the
gods for mercy. In return, he was gifted a couple of million raindrops, sharp as
needles. He looked like a young calf now, shining in the rain.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Prahlad could walk in blinds here, even
after 20 years. He somehow guided us to the old house surrounded by rapidly
filling sinkholes that seemed to shimmer in the rain. The road had vanished and
the sinkholes seemed to grow by the minute. After what seemed like forever, we
reached the car, grabbed our bags and rushed to the deserted house in the dark.
We were staying here tonight. Prahlad, Joshi, Robert and me. Hope Rishi was
having a better time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6431712759185046043.post-16115484325875904672023-11-29T08:49:00.005+05:302023-11-29T08:49:45.799+05:3039. Refugees, all of us<p><span style="font-family: Lato;">Prahlad spoke to no one in particular under
the rapidly greying afternoon sky. We used to come here all the time and bathe
under the gushing waterfall. Joshi looked at what appeared to be a concrete
tunnel ending in a small tank. Water from the tunnel gushed into the tank and
the overflow created a cascade of some sorts. Villagers, apparently, were
simultaneously bathing themselves and their sundry scooters, cycles, and
occasional taxis under this torrent.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">‘<i>The water was cool all the time and it
felt like our own waterfall back then</i>’. But now, there were a few people
hauling water in frayed plastic cans and Joshi could not help imagining that
this contamination laden discharge from deep mines was for household
consumption. Perfect, he thought to himself, ‘<i>Surely, George Orwell would
have approved of this dystopia, perhaps written a book too</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Prahlad paused for a moment and walked on.
Everywhere, there were signs of degradation and disuse. The mine, one of the
oldest in the entire eastern mining belt was one of its jewels. He softly
spoke, the best coal was mined here, ready to burst into a flame and providing
much of the initial supply as industries sprouted in the region. The British
really, had discovered the first mines and settled here in large numbers.
Transforming this slice of rural Bengal, they changed the geography upside
down. What was inside the earth was brought out in the scale of millions of
tons. And what was outside or above the ground was left to decay. Rice fields
had been transformed into coal washing units and sacred trees were converted to
ammunition dumps. The British did not stop at mere cosmetic changes to the
land.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">In what was an enduring image of those
days, they created the most raucous club, seen anywhere between Calcutta and
Jamshedpur. Host to a million parties and card games, it was a generous replica
of the old London life that they missed all the time. But it’s very incongruous
location would have been dubbed racist in the present day. The club was
directly opposite to a village populated by Baoris and Santhals, the
unfortunate original inhabitants of the land. It offered an unhindered view of
the daily life of a perplexed populace who in a matter of few years, were
clutched from their hoary forest dependent lifestyles in a remote village of
the Chota Nagpur highlands and transformed into efficient mine workers toiling
for the British Sahab.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The club conveniently investigated the
community pond in front. Was it a particularly cruel decision by a sadistic
official or an accidental choice, we will never know but the club’s gazebo, a
favourite of the whisky drinking sahab offered unrestricted views of village
woman taking bath in full view. A common practice in these water rich lands,
the multitudes of ponds offer easy access to public hygiene and is preferred by
most women, enjoying their daily communal bath while planning their foray into
the fruit laden forest. The sahabs partook of this view, permanently shifting
the status quo of age-old cultural practices into yet another pastime of the
powerful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Yet the club was only the least of
inconveniences of the bewildered Santhal. Expansive, high roofed, thick-walled,
delicately designed yet sturdy to outrace the debilitating tropical climate,
these bungalows with their impossibly huge gardens had come to silently gobble
ancient adivasi land. Slowly, but irretrievably their lands were lost, their
rice, pastures and even ponds were taken by the white man and all they got in
return, was the privilege of being of service to his master. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">A new artificial kingdom had been born in
Girmint, unlike that of the rajas around. This one commanded absolute respect
and total obedience. While the raja would tax his subjects in the early days
and take some of his grain, the new kings took away their forests and homes.
Left marooned, many of them sought work in the growing mine while others
shuffled across to distant refugees. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The population
metamorphosized completely. It was either a mine scape, already sagging under
the weight of previously unfathomable capacity of man to extract coal from the
depths of the earth. Or a refined sophisticated county town, carved with ornate
public declarations, clean straight roads that merged on a cemented roundabout
that helmed a strong bodied miner declaring to everyone in sight, ‘Mining for
the Nation’. <span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The British preferred the comfort of their
buildings and would only walk out to go to his mine where he worked with
maniacal efficiency, a ruthless push for further growth and maximum extraction.
He appeared to be in war with the land, obsessing over it day and night. He
demanded respect from all, the villagers, locals and officials at the mine. He
laid the seeds of what we see across the eastern coalfields. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">And as he left, he left behind a legacy
that sought to seek acquiesce from his erstwhile ruler. Everything was kept as
was, including the total alienation of the indigenous person. Lands were being
lost, the vulnerable populations being absorbed into ever hungry mining beast
and their aspirations were now limited to finding a job at the mine or as a
helper in one of the many majestic houses, safely placed away from the mines.
Memories of his earlier self were limited to cultural practices, an occasional
puja or passing of oral histories from their only connect to the world as the
first Santhal had known.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The mine became a rallying point for
development. New records were set every day. The weighing centre would record
increasing hauls from the deep underground pits. Everyone was happy. They would
work hard and party hard as my grandfather kept up with doing in the later
years. The mine’s success was an early endorsement of the nation shining
campaigns that egg us on to do our best these days. Everyone was pleased and
they ordered a dedicated railway track to haul the coal directly from the mine
and take them to distant engines of growth, factories mushrooming in thousands
across the entire land. They even sanctioned a swimming pool for the club. The
officers could keep more than four servants to man the house and occasional
allowance to travel back to their homeland in the north Atlantic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">It was the golden age of the imperial
growth and surprised the rulers even more. Targets were made and constantly
achieved, there was money being made by virtually everyone in the system,
everyone but the hapless labour. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">As the rulers realised that the current
stock of labour is not strong enough, they began looking for replacements.
Spreading outwards, numerous workers, their families and occasional totally
unrelated professionals would turn up. Picking up whatever came their way, they
lunged for the secure jobs at the mines. Vastly resilient and in large numbers,
the migrants took over whatever was left of an ancient way of life. Workers
colonies spread, with them came further appropriation of land and the hapless
adivasi could rarely secure a mining job now. Many migrated further forest-side
and the remaining lived on coaxing life of an unresponsive soil.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The mine rose to its zenith when demand
came to export the coal in order to test a new invention that would transport a
large number of people across the length and breadth of the country in a
previously unheard of timeline. The railways had been born and significantly
come to be accepted as the engine of ultimate growth. Production further
jumped. People were beyond joyful now. As close to a paradise as one could have
imagined, the mine magically made money out of everything it touched.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">It ended soon enough. Years of cutting
through ancient seams of coal, in an increasingly radial design had led to a
situation that one needed wooden beams and embarrassingly, large quantities of
another mined resource, sand. It was a real life manifestation of the saying,
‘A foundation built on matchsticks’. And a hundred and fifty years of sustained
digging of the earth’s bowel had left innumerable scars on the earth’s insides.
If it were a living being, we would have been shot for this. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The mine had reached places that looked
alien in nature. Deep caverns, velvety spores strangely related to the common
moss found in the forests and the sudden falling of the air’s quality without
reason kept the officials at tenterhooks. The club was no longer a place for
partying. It had turned into a fortress where scenarios were being prepared all
the time, scenarios that involved a lot of search and rescue of missing
personnel. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">It happened one monsoon day. Numerous
streams had been dumping their excess loads into the deep pond where Prahlad
had seen the dead body of a friend. The pond was but a closed mine, closed for
a long time, apparently over its tendency to fill with water. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The pond soon overflowed, resulting in a
cascade of waves that came to our houses. The pond also exerted its pressure
downwards where miners were busy collecting more and more coal in the least
possible time. While warnings were shared, no one paid heed, neither the
officials nor the workers. Later some survivors would recount, “It felt that we
were feeding the nation those days. Our fire lit up the world and we felt
morally accountable for slowing the nation’s growth. We always worked, day
after day, though the rains and in winter. We worked even when we were told not
to.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">After days of record-breaking rains, the
land, particularly susceptible to turn into an ocean after a day’s rain, hung
up its shoes. A crack formed and an unaccountable tonnage of water roared past
the hapless crew. It was the rains which saved the mine from imminent closure.
Attendance had been particularly low that evening and there was an ambience of
rain induced fatigue amongst most workers. While the rest excused themselves, a
team of six people went down to investigate reports of a possible mine breach
in one of the upper seams. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">While the seam was closed, the old British
era trolley system was still operational. The officials could quickly reach the
suspected site of breach and as they neared, things seemed to be in order.
There was hardly any sound of water dripping and the cavern was nearly dry.
Yet, something felt wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">Someone shushed everyone and put his hands
around his ears. First nothing. And then a slow hum. As if, someone was rubbing
a piece of rubber against steel. Almost indiscernible, it was there. This hum.
To some it felt as if someone was grinding wood into metal. The team members
panicked and rushed back to the pit head. As they frantically pressed all the
buttons in this straggler of an elevator, held together by bits of wire, they
could hear a distant sound. Though the pit was above them, the zig zag cutting
of mines was designed to give a few extra minutes to fleeing miners in the case
of a flooding.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The dull thump fell silent for a while and
then a sudden wail lit up the mine. Machines clanking against each other,
conveyors being tore apart, large globs of virgin coal rolling towards you,
mines can be an especially dangerous place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The old machine, against its own will but
perhaps because he felt benevolent towards the team members, began its slow
upward climb. As they let out half a breath, the elevator strained as it did
always. It was too soon though.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The swirling waters reached the pit heads
and rose fast. Very soon, a groaning lift (can’t imagine calling it an elevator
now) began floating as the waters reached their knees. In reports written long
afterwards, the editors copied a statement verbatim, “It was silent. Too silent
but it seemed to have a face of its own. As it rose and our lift also crawled
upwards, we felt light. I felt that I was floating. But as it rose above our
knees, we began panicking. The lift had slowed down, partly due to the water’s
weight and partly of its own capabilities and we were shivering in cold rising
water. I thought that I will die.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The wasters rose till the waist level when
the lift abruptly pulled our bewildered lot to the surface. They survived, the
pond was drained and sealed off permanently. The colliery surprisingly obtained
a clearance certificate and mining returned to the mines. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">There was a change though. The last of the
British had left and difficult circumstances were becoming common each day.
Above all, just like any other resources, this particular batch of coal had
reached its peak output. It would get more and more costly for the authorities
to mine. And soon, a day will come when the cost of mining will outweigh the
profits earned. The mine is neglected and left alone, as it dangles its
certificates of excellence. Its time as a human experiment was over. It could
now soon return to total oblivion. Prahlad’s father took over in its last gasps
and spent most of his life laying the mine to a slow sleep while sustaining
dependent populations, now left partially unemployable. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Lato;">What we are seeing now, Prahlad added is
the final moments of a glorious if brief chapter of the story of our earth. Its
time was there and now it is gone. Abruptly, he turned and said, Lets go back.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>kshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04550036999587708968noreply@blogger.com0