Earth Day

April 22nd 2024

Earth Day
 
Today, for once

Become a story teller
And weave tales of Nature
Of belonging, loss and recovery
For stories change people. 

Become an activist.
There was a time when
The Great Wheel turned itself
From ashes to ashes.  
No longer.  We know that.
So, don’t wait for a call up. 

Become a minimalist
Where less is more.
And we only buy what we need
Remember that old man with glasses, a pocket watch 
and wisdom?
Consume less.  And measure the change.  

Become a gardener
With native flowers and vegetables 
In your garden, cuboid balcony or sunny terrace
And watch the bees, beetles, moths and frogs with awe
For, we are losing them faster than tigers and deer
There’s a great hidden extinction we can undo.  Now.  

Become a child of the Earth
Not a rampaging invader
And if GDP says: buy-use-repeat
We have a counter: air-water-soil
For these, there is no Plan B.    

Become the positive energy
So others feel charged up, not let down.
Paint a future that is beyond us in time
But never beyond us in vision.
It is ours to make. 

Today, for once
And for the rest of our life 

The Town that Trekkers Forgot

 Well, I don't really love Rimbick; it is, after all, just another little town on the road to nowhere.

...on the road to nowhere?  No, not really.  It is on the road to somewhere - to Sandakphu, that is.

So, what is Sandakphu?  It's a little settlement at 12,000 feet from where you see four of the world's five highest peaks -  Everest, Kanchenjunga, Makalu and Lhotse (mist, clouds, fog may intervene and, when they do - forget peaks - you cannot see the guy in front).   

A section of our species, who are certified Nuts & Cuckoo but are euphemistically called trekkers with their own funny language and diction, walk all the way up over 2-3 days, hang out for a bit and then walk back.  

This, incidentally, was the route of the first successful expedition to Kanchenjunga in 1955 and when those blokes returned, Tenzing Norgay - the man himself - felicitated them at Sandakphu.  Tenzing incidentally was an uncle of our charming host, about whom I shall say more later. 

So, back to Rimbick.  

Rimbick is now forgotten, a town in misty memory of those who traverse these parts and trek to Sandakphu.  The reason: a road.  

Yup, that's the road.  

Until not so long ago, the old road to Sandakphu wasn't metalled; it was a bumpy, unpaved, back-breaking, bouncy four-wheel drive journey in smoky Land Rovers  which, if they do have shock absorbers, have stored them carefully away for a un-rainy day.  It took hours and, when you returned, you needed a massage and a psychotherapist.

   

So,  tourists stayed out. 

Trekkers either walked along that road or drove to Rimbick from the plains, stayed the night there and began their walk, via another route the next morning reaching Sandakphu the next day.  

Then someone invented selfies.  

Then development (whatever that is) happened: another road, via Kala Pokhri was metalled all the way to Sandakphu, good news for that nauseous sub-sect of Homo sapiens who will cram themselves into a Bolero or a Land Rover  for hours to take a selfie with a I-did-it victory sign and then crowd around munching plastic  (if you are one of them, don't an opinion form. Reform.).

So, here is a Land Rover and two selfie-munching tourists: 

And what did the Land Rover say? Abhik na jao chodkar, ke dil abhi bhara nahi...

Ignore all puns, however tormented you might be.  That's us, by the way - good, honest trekkers. 

We were to reach Sandakphu via Kala Pokhri and return via Rimbick, unlike most folks who do an up-down on the same road.  Normal is boring.

Bad weather at Sandakphu - snow, ice and fog - meant that we skipped that and returned with an extra night to spare.

Which meant two nights in Rimbick.  

Which means that you'd have to endure this photo blog. 

Which means more coffee (or, well, something else a tad stronger).  

That us at Kala Pokhri, since you never believe what I say....That guy on the extreme right (of the photo, not his political leaning), well, he liked our company.  Most people do.  

Photos with captions follow, from our walks in and outside town.....

A cobbler's neat little store and a tailor who has so much business that he isn't quite visible at 7 pm (he's somewhere there, we heard deep breathing).  When did you last see these?

Millie's smile lights up the day, but is matched by the little one who is all mischief (and not vegan, for sure).  

And now for some lovely homes and flowers and homes with flowers, which is a delightful obsession with the people of Rimbick.  

Another room with a view....

Nari looks happy and lost.  Sometimes both go together.

We went for a lovely walk on Day 2 to the village past the town on a path that leads, horror of no-horrors, to the Black Forest, so named because.....well, there are different versions, so it doesn't matter.  

Four amongst us, the intrepid quick walkers and a dog that was alpha male with a 56-inch chest, went up into the forest (and returned to tell their tale of riveting rhodendrons and monstrous monastries, of monks and wonks).  The others (me too) walked at the pace of a snail,albeit a snail that had been fed hormones to get going.  

The path to Black Forest was lovely, misty, soft and magical.....

...and the home where we turned back was charming, with an interesting water harvesting system.....

Orchids to die for

And the valley below was engulfed in mist that would lift to give us a view of cardamom, pine and, well, more mist......

Back to Green Hill and the owner, a delightful middle-aged lady whose hospitality team comprises many who were orphaned or are differently-abled.  Stay there when you go.  

The Lady with the Lamp

And here's a tip: if you are a part time kleptomaniac who pockets room keys or collects keychains, give Green Hill a miss.  

Altitude is a given.  This key chain has attitude.  Mind it.

And, before we knew it, it was time to leave this delightful little town, with its sleepy market where I bought a pocket watch-cum-key chain (for all of 450 rupees, no bargaining).  

The watch continues to run a full twenty days later, so don't snigger or shake your head.  

Well, maybe I do love Rimbick.  

Down the Mall

Darjeeling
March 30th

A noisy, bustling, chaotic hill station on normal days.  This is a three-day weekend that promises pandemonium, traffic jams and mayhem, and the only thing I wonder is why I - a certified misanthrope - am here.  But that is a story, not so long, but for another time....

The street markets by the Mall are lively, crowded and filled with the I-want-a-bargain-and-please-can-you-make-me-buy-what-I-will-never-need kind of shoppers, almost all of them from the City of Joy. No one actually says, Make Me An Offer I Cannot Refuse, but this is about as close.  The prices range from the ridiculous (Darjeeling tea at just 500 a kilo? Or is it something else....) to the even more ridiculous, a sweater for 100?  

The stall owners - almost entirely women - have remarkable dignity and forbearance and a couple of them spend their time knitting and crocheting with extraordinary dexterity.  It seems impolite to stare at someone at work, so I take one lady's permission - her fingers move with the lightness of a pianist, even as she chats with me, with an occasional glance at the balaclava that is taking shape.  Is she the last generation of knitter-pianists?  

It is impossible to not admire the tenacity and enterprise of women in the hills.....

In this melee, there are smells too - of mustard oil, for a start, horse dung, agarbathi, unwashed and worn jackets that smell of firewood and perfumes with potency that'd make homeopaths blush and give me a headache.  Add selfies, instagram reels, animated conversations, two arguments and one monk.  

Colour is everywhere, in the flags and the conversations: Nepali, Bengali, Hindi mix in a jumble of words.  

An old house, under the shade of rhodendrons in bloom, reflects on its past with a sigh.  Homes carry history and stories, but today I see no one there to talk to, so I walk ahead. I would have loved to shoot the breeze (and the mist) with an old timer, but those stories must wait for another day.

Ahead is a dignified lady selling corn, fanning it, watching something on her mobile and minding her grandchild with monosyllabic, terse instructions. If she knew Algebra, she'd do that too.  Her grandchild puts out a hand - will I exchange my mobile for some corn?  I know a negotiator when I see one - this little one is destined for Greatness - so, with grandma's nod, I take a photo of them.  

Walk on.

A happy hour in the Oxford Bookstore,- now all of a sprightly 86 years - with its quaint collection of books on Buddhism, Tibet, Himalayas, tea, agitations, a biography of Warren Buffett and self-help (How to win at bridge)  and a book that I will devour on the return flight.

The Old Order Changeth....

Some months ago, Mum passed away.  It was hardly an unexpected event: she had been ailing in her winter years with a frail physique and a frailer mind that was lonely and introverted and worried with the premonition that is hard to accept, even in advancing years despite her brave wan smile, gentle countenance and unfailing courtesy.  Time is hard on the Old Order as it changeth, yielding place to the New.

A few days ago, I climbed up onto the roof of Manas, the family home, to check the water level in the overhead tank and the blossoms on a large tree – not easily visible from the ground – were radiant in the mid-day sun.  A couple of decades ago, she had planted a sapling of this fruit – rose apple -- belonging to the Syzygium family of jamuns; there are a number of varieties of this species and cultivars that have spread across Asia yet it remains a fruit that is, in most parts, not commonly available. 

Chambakya or rose apple was her favourite for it kindled memories of childhood summers in the humid warmth of Ernakulam, a little town as it then was, and of her beautiful old home of laterite-and-mud, with its open well filled with fresh water and orchard behind – a ‘paramba’ - of jack, mango, jamun, bananas, coconut and greens .  We all relive our memories in sepia, yet, in her middle age, those memories were everything.…..

For many years, I hardly noticed the tree as it inched its way up to meet sunlight above a growing, verdant canopy in her tasteful garden and, if patience is a virtue, she had it in buckets.  And then one year not so long ago, it blossomed, as trees will do with panache, its delicate flowers jostling with buds and tiny fruits, yet there was none to eat, for they dropped easily.  This was hardly noticed, for Mum was old now, with a failing memory of her favourite fruit and a self-imposed risk-averse food regimen, so there was no feeling of loss when that happened, no dismay at patience unrewarded, no antipathy. 

And every year, the tree has blossomed, even as fruits remain evasive.  And every year, I have climbed up to the roof to watch the bees at frenetic work in the warmth of the summer day with their sonorific buzz and delightful dance – wild Rock Bees, a species that is worthy of as much worship as the Gods in our temples of elegant, if inert and divisive, stone.  In residences around our family home, their hives are burnt, smoked, sprayed and cut, with a thousand little victims lying as inert as that edifice of stone-and-wall yet here, in this little patch, with its trees, Ixora, anthurium and tiny wild flowers, there is a refuge; they are welcome to forage, the food court is open.                  

This year, as I watch them at work, I wonder.  Did Mum plant this tree for herself? Such is legacy. 

Squeezing A Stone

It’s been a while since I spoke to this elderly gentleman, a nice, unassuming hard-working chap, with large spectacles and an avuncular air about him.  My ‘How-are-you?’ is a regulation question…..

The reply is an absent-minded, 'Fine'. But he wants to say more.....  

‘As you know,’ he begins, ‘my wife and I live on the ground floor and I have built three flats above ours for my three daughters.  The flats are all on rent.  We do not have a municipal water connection and get 8 water tankers every month.  That’s twenty thousand rupees.’

He pauses and takes his spectacles off, cleaning them meditatively.

‘Yesterday, the water tanker driver supplied his last tanker to us.  They have run out of water.’

He sees the expression on my face.  

‘The tenants are all moving out this weekend.  One young couple will return to their home town.   And my wife and I are looking to rent an apartment.’ He pauses, and then smiles, ‘Let’s change the subject, he says, but I must tell you that I never expected this to happen to me.’

I am silent and hopefully my look shows empathy, understanding, commisseration for it is the least he can expect from me.  Walking back, I think of our city, with its profligate, indifferent ways, where entitlement preceeds responsibility, of hotels with jaw-dropping luxury that tell you that water is precious so could you please reuse the towel but allow us to keep our jacuzzis running, of apartment complexes where a call to conserve is met with a howl of defiant protest and of cynics who believe that Economics will solve the problem, for as Oscar Wilde said, they know the price of everything and the value of nothing.  

It isn’t water that is in short supply…..

And I think of those fifty thousand hectares or so of sugarcane by the Cauvery river that are probably still being irrigated; the crop of each hectare will consume 12-15 million litres of water.  

Multiply that by 50,000.

Stories tell us more than facts do.

And, no, we do not need that sugar.

A Different Kind of Procession

It is noon and the hills and valleys in the Western Ghats are scorching.  We walk  up a small stream - my favourite one -  in the shade of a gorgeous canopy and the air is cool, the water inviting.

These are quiet, subdued streams now in these hills and valleys, far from their raging versions in the rains.  The monsoon last year was scanty and, as summer sets in, coffee planters commence their annual irrigation to help the blossoms along.  The picking of coffee is nearly done, the chatter of workers replaced with the sound of irrigation motors and the swish of jet sprays of sprinklers that reach for the sky: a six-hectare plantation will soak in about a million litres of water.  Yet, there are livelihoods and plants to take care of and the blossoms for next year's crop.....

As dusk and night set in, human footprints fade away along these streams.  And then the denizens of the stream take over, their movements soft, silent and cautious.  

A romp of small clawed otters,  civets - the small Indian civet (with rings on its tail) and the palm civet, a porcupine, leopard cat, a brown fish owl, these are the denizens of the stream ecosystem.

Why am I in the limelight?  Three small clawed otters aren't a crowd, but a romp

And there are the bigger boys too who visit.

The streams and the trees along these streams are for them to hunt, fish, drink, rest, move, wait and hide.  The stream is theirs,  yet they take nothing away and leave nothing behind that can harm its flow, for it is their home.

Each is fabulously adapted to this system and moves with genetic dexterity; in its absence, they wouldn't have lasted the purge of evolution.  When these little streams dry out because they lose their tree cover or have their sand mined or we aren't prudent in our usage of water, or when they are empty of fish and crabs, these denizens of the stream fade away, their lives overturned.  And how does that affect us?  We do not know what we do not know, yet we do know that our world becomes impoverished in every possible dimension, not just the biological chain. 

Only when we truly understand this will we accept that owning land by the stream isn't a right, it is a responsibility.

Of stewardship.

Why I need Learn Malayalam in 30 Days

It’s a wet, rainy, nippy day in our field station in Coorg, so we are indoors, with project conversations, banter and my admittedly ghastly, inept attempts at humour.  But, ever so often, it is time for a cup of tea - this weather doesn’t just suggest the idea, it demands it - so we make the pilgrimage to my favourite tea stall.

In case you didn’t know (which would place you in a rather delicate position), I take my tea seriously - black, orthodox, brewed for flavour, if you are taking notes. But what one gets in the vast badlands of India is an awful, effluent-brown syrup that needs two doses of promethazine, immediate fresh air and ambient light and a Vicks inhaler to prevent feeling dizzy, because the tea is generally a mix of three unnerving ingredients:

a) Something dazzling white that is alleged to be milk (Nandini-Aavin-Milma genre) and, if chemistry becomes a miracle science in future, might even become so 

b) Tea dust that was once a self-respecting leaf and should have stayed that way

c) Sugar, stored in an Asian Paints bucket, tightly sealed to protect the flies inside from harm  

The only people - the only people, I repeat - who make good tea with these usual ingredients that promise perdition come from the southernmost state and that is because they aren’t tea sellers, but artists in disguise (be warned that, on this issue, I take no prisoners).

The artist here is the laconic sort, one of those strong, silent types, and the epitome of focus.  His tea is superb.  No, there is no paint bucket in evidence.

And he is busier than a woodpecker.  

A glass of tea.  Twelve rupees on the counter.  

As I am about to leave, I decide to check if he will be open tomorrow.  

Now, the only thing that is as bad as my memory is my Malayalam.  So, amidst the din, the bustle and the hum of conversations in that little shop, my question to him is not if he’d be open the next day, instead I ask him, “Will you be there tomorrow?”  

He does not flinch but continues making tea and, when it has been poured out, points a finger up.  “Depends on Him,” he says, meeting my eyes for the first time.  And did I just see the hint of a trace of a smile?  

He is back to making tea now.

I walk away from the meeting determined to improve my Malayalam.  I know I need to improve something else, but now I have forgotten what that is……