Of Kumaon and Beyond

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A narrow strip of pebbled road rumbling with the uneven churn of wheels; little houses, some mud, some brick, others English, lazing by the sunlit patches of green where scattered lengths of mustard raise their yellow heads from many an obscure corner; long strips of earth sprouting a young stock of rice germinations while mighty hill rocks outline the fields with their jagged selves as if standing guard to the tender seedlings; buffaloes lying heavy on great heaps of pirul, their big eyes half shut with lethargy and their brazen, smooth skin reflecting back the drunken, intoxicated heat of the fragile hill sun.

I hear the innocent shrieks of those little things, their tattered rugs barely covering their swift, agile, monkey like selves, yet their rustic sinews glowing fair from beneath their discolored clothes. Oh! How this young’un wipes his runny nose with the back of his small hand while emanating an embarrassed giggle, his shy eyes searching for an immediate haven in the nearby bush so he could run and bury his discomfort there. This accompanied by a gracious laughter from the attending elves blends the simplicity of the hill folk quite effortlessly with the pure, unadulterated, natural surroundings.

That these young boys will grow up to be hardy hill and marry girls half their age is quite a vision best left unimagined at this moment.

Winds have strongly swayed by and it seems darker now, for evenings in this part of the world arrive no sooner than one has realized it was ever day!

I stand under a navy sky studded with numerous stars twinkling so close to my nose that they almost blanket my cold face warm.

Now that twilight has already arrived, the little lantern lit houses dot the surrounding hills like candles in a dark room. The Gautami Gange at the base of Mount Kailash does not cease to rest but carries its eternal, gentle gurgle far and beyond. The old wooden bridge above the river continues to creak from side to side as women carrying logs and fodder on their heads tread it to get to the other side where civilization sprawls. Two old gentlemen with autumn in their hair but the glint of spring in their eyes share a loud guffaw over puffs of locally made bidi, while hurrying their scattered herd of goats home.

Each soul is headed towards his humble abode, now that the warm sun has drowned in the chill of the moonless night.

The rugged hills no more resound with the unrestricted giggles of children or the timeless chatter of chopper women. Perhaps the rocks now await the arrival of a more powerful member of the woods- the leopard- whose soft paws will trot these very leaves, but whose hungry prowl will be careful enough to not disturb a single dry leaf’s rustle.

The cat’s nose would search for the familiar smell of a goat, a dog, or even human flesh- if it is a man eater- and his eyes shall glint in the dark like fireflies but without the gullibility of the latter.

An uncanny silence prevails over the hills.

Oh! A young mother lulls her young babe to sleep, while the old aama strains her eyes and hunches her back to prod her livestock into the goth, for the alarm bells have already been rung by a local bird. Yes, a leopard is definitely on the prowl, and is probably arching his back at a definite angle so he can spot a wandering lamb and launch a most swift attack on it.

Stars continue to glisten against the lowly hung sky. The tall deodars and pines cast their dark, sturdy yet harmless shadows upon the sleepy hills. Mount Kailash relishes the rich flavor of rustic, natural, earthy aromas- the smoky air being rendered so with the crackling chulha fires, and the essence of wood roses and pine cones hanging no less heavy in the air.

A distant, lonely siyar draws a long, disheveled cry; perhaps announcing the arrival of the big cat- while a pack of alarmed langoors jumps across trees amidst loud chattering.

So draws to a close another day in yet another sleepy, far flung hamlet of Kumaon, where the slowness of life is complimented by a lazy sun, a laidback cowherd, a sluggish, meandering river, and an old familiarity with the smell of the naïve, gullible pahadis whose clothes are older than their thatched mud houses.

Kumaon, you are strangely innocent!