Mystic Himalayas

The Intractable Yak

At Changu(Tsomgo) Lake, I rode the intractable yak. He was big and bulky. My friends would agree, he was as stubborn as me. When he was pulled to the right, he moved to the left. When he was pulled to the left, he dragged himself and everybody else to the right. At one point of time he almost dropped me into the frozen lake. The other yaks had all reached their destination. But the intractable yak chose to stand his ground, as if he had a point to make. What global cause did he champion, I couldn't quite guess. He merely looked at the Changu lake and shook his horned head. He was rather stylish in his obstinacy. There was something regal about his adornments, his gait, even his hairstyle all gelled up and styled like Elvis perhaps.

But the intractable yak had met his match. If he wouldn't move, neither would I budge from his back. After careful consideration, he came to a decision. He reasoned that he could champion his noble cause after he had dropped me to my destination. So he walked slowly by the lovely Changu Lake and even nodded his head in agreement with whatever I said.

A Prayer

Aditi,
Make the leaves shiver with your breath,
Of cold numbness and frigid solemnity,
Catch the moon undulating in a pool,
Of gentle nuances and half gestures.
Hear the river bubble upon rocks,
And roar in agony at every bend.

I still see you standing there,
Knee deep in water,
Cotton clothes that smell of cotton clothes,
Duly soaked, washed, rinsed, crinkled,
And baked in the sullen, smoky sun.
Still see the fishes around you,
That kiss the watery surface of moss-coated rocks,
And the drowsy, dewy-eyed breeze,
Laden with frangipani, bunches of frangipani,
Carefully woven into necklaces, wreathes and bands,
And recklessly stamped.
Those whorls of hair,
Pleated, permed, frizzed, curled, crumpled, lumped,
Flowing in the wind, for miles and miles,
I felt them last night, while asleep,
Twisted the idle strands of hair,
Around my fingers, and smelt them.
Look they led me here to you.

Aditi, grant me this wish Aditi,
They say your fat fingers,
Can weave a spell around the crescent moon,
Send the clouds into a tizzy,
Bring them crashing into the mountains.
They say your big eyes,
Can see through the night,
And seek out the somnolent sun.
They say you charmed the bees one day,
And turned them into butterflies,
Or was it fireflies?
Aditi, Will you do this for me?
Please listen to me.
The long winding forest path upon the gravelly red soil,
That churns the day into the night.
Lost amidst the similar trees,
May her eyes seek me,
At every corner, at every tree.
Where the silence echoes and the sound is still,
May she hear my voice in the rattling leaves.
The wind gushes in through the windows,
Scrapes the flaky walls of the lonely house,
May she wait for me at the creaky door.

Tide Country

In December, I went on a cruise to the Sunderbans. These are 56 islands of dense mangrove forest. They say it is the largest mangrove forest in the world. Hugli, Sattarmukhi, Bulcherry, Matla and Gusaba are some of the rivers that cradle these islands. Like the eternal mother these rivers give birth to new islands each year and submerge someothers like they had never been.

The river sustains the inhabitants of the islands. Mangroves suck up the salt water, and cover up like a monk's cloak, every available patch of uncovered land. Their roots bind the land together. Under their nurture and care, and the supervision of Bon Bibi(the tribal deity), prosper many species of flora, small animals, even the majestic royal Bengal tiger.

Our boat floated like a debris - we stood out in relief to this place so alive. If our spirits had been mottled by the city's tired breath, here we breathed fresh air, stared up in wonder at the blue sky and looked down every now and then at the glistening river. At night we looked at the sky and wondered if we had ever seen stars before.

Some of these islands are inhabited by humans. One of them is Bhagabatpur. Here we made a brief stop, during high tide. We took in some of their island life to survive in us as memories. They would remind us of life when we are back in the city, encumbered in our quiet, comfortable existence. When the tide began to recede, we went back to out boat and made our way back home.




Tide Country

Mangrove swamps on either side,
Eyelids of your sparkling eyes.
What childish dreams you dream all day.
Earthen houses, earthen pots and pans,
Even your hands are made of clay,
Every day is work and play.

Longish boats on brackish waters,
Are dark silhouettes before the orange sun.
Low tide and high tide,
Moonlight and sunlight,
Are two sides of an uneasy sleeper,
Tossing and turning in bed.

Mud children of the mangrove swamp,
Hide their melting smiles from the sun,
And flap their wings at dusk.
Evenings roar like a beast,
But the night is silent,
Like the ripples of the Ganga.

Hark the sound of the lonely boatman,
Paddle on, paddle on,
Turn every turn of the twisting river.
The mangrove swamp shall follow them,
And open wide her hungry mouth,
To taste the seawater.