MY INDIA

My India



I peeked out of the window as the bus halted to cries of ‘Dunera’’Dunera’& hawkers with trays of áam papar ‘& salt.The taste was distinct in my mind,from my days at school.Mouth watering I bought a roll.It did’nt taste the same somehow.Nicky sidled up to me with a “I told you so.Never.But never ever revisit the idyllic places of your youth …dreams die first and nine times out of ten you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“Ah,wisecrack, who said so ?

“I did”she retorted.”Try it out “

We got off at the main stop at the Chotan,Chamba with literally nowhere to go & began the trudge wondering where to pitch our tent,all the while singing “cheeno arab hamara….saara jahan humara…hindostan hamara….rehne ko ghar nahin.”

Walked to the palace the next day to present our credentials passing by a game of soccer in progress at the chotan watched and cheered by a sizeable group of spectators.Yuvrani Asha Devi,formerly of Sarguja (a thikana in MP) was also the local Congress MLA.We were invited to stay on for tea but between the small eats and political gupchup what eventually held our gaze was the sight of a big burly Himalayan bear holding a silver platter at the entrance of the royal drawing room.

‘midst the bracing mountain air we then trekked up to a temple which was the abode of a local ‘Devi’Swirled by the wind blowing in all directions the small and charming town of Chamba unfolded below.Enquiries were made from the locals about a ‘pugdandi’ to Khajiyar.There simply had to be.We were none the wiser but decided to proceed never the less.Off we went the next day arriving at the meadow – for that is precisely what Khajiyar is - at 3pm after a leisurely eight hour walk.Khajiyar is simply a sea of undulating green.The grass and the trees many shades of different greens.An old Vaishnav temple with the finest wood carving stands to a side while you can go crazy trying to locate an old ‘mother tree’mentioned in all the travel books.You could take a walk in any direction,passing the woods all around and into the sun speckled sky

A group of local women gather outside our tent flaps the next morning.Shy and withdrawn they are fascinated at the sight of two lone women braving the dark.Had’nt we heard there were ‘bhalus ‘around? Suguna shyly holds a glass offering us some milk It is fresh goats milk she announces,milked early this morningAfter that there is a never ending stream of gifts from the locals to us their guests.There are offerings of ‘kadi’at or of milk,’saag’ or ‘rotis’We are their guests who have come all the way from Delhi.Do we like the place ? Why do so many visitors come so often ? Is it really all that beautiful ?Delhi must be soooo amazing ?

We want to know what their means of livelihood is.At what age do they get married.How many children do they have.Are there schools in the vicinity and is education compulsory.What are their dreams for themselves and for their children ?

We are now friends and visit each other several times during the day sharing their ‘chai’and biscuits.

The beautiful Suguna,the one who got us the milk on the first day and who is the most friendly of them all is looking slightly unkempt – uncombed & unwashed.We want to know why? Her neighbours tell us us that she has been this way for several years now…ever since she lost her daughter. “Both my husband and my son are quite useless.I miss my little girl.I yearn for her.What is there to live for.? I will die too…very soon “ she cries

I take her hands in mine and try to soothe her.Nicky promptly removes her ear rings and makes Suguna wear them.The neighbours comb and plait her hair.Somebody sponging the face with a wet towel.

Such is life Suguna….”yehi hai dard ka rishta “



March10,2010