Wood for Dorje Tshering

-Raaja Bhasin

All carried

A piece of wood

For Dorje Tshering

 

 

Some carried dried loppings

Others the trunk

Of a middling cedar;

In her tiny hands,

Dolma held sprigs

Of scented juniper

 

Moving up the hill

The entire village

Carried wood

For Dorje Tshering

 

For fingers,

Sacred doob-grass

Was woven into rings

 

The gong was struck

It shook

The bare mountain

 

Dorje Tshering

Never left his remote highland home

But regardless, something

Came for him

 

And the village used up

All its wood

For Dorje Tshering.

 

 

 

Mints for the Mind

 

-       Raaja Bhasin

 

A Review of ‘Polyticks, DeMockrazy & MumboJumbo’ by Avay Shukla

 

I don’t really have a sweet tooth and will happily give jabelis, burfis and other diabetes-inducing foods a go-by. There are, however, a couple of items of exception. Chocolate mints being one. The favourite is, not unexpectedly, an ‘After Eight’. The taste that emerges from its little green sachet is pleasant, sometimes piquant , sometimes provocative  and it leaves an aftertaste for the tongue to examine at leisure. Avay Shukla’s ‘Polyticks, DeMockrazy & MumboJumbo’ is a somewhat like a cerebral version of the edible ‘After Eight.’ You can gorge on it, or you take it in little bits. Either way, it is enough to provoke comment and hopefully, some thought.

This book is a collection of blogs that I and several others have been assiduously following and enjoying for several years. The subjects vary from politics and administrative foibles to the great love of Shukla’s life, nature. This is nature that is both majestic and sublime; this is nature that is life-giving and which we, in our great wisdom, have repeatedly ignored to our peril. Almost seamlessly, satire, humour and serious commentary fuse together in this set of short and highly readable pieces. With no holds barred, he takes on political masters and minions with equal aplomb; socialites and ‘wanna-be’ socialites who have yet to master the art of air-kissing around the aura of the kissee, may be able to recognise themselves in these pages. Some of the finest pieces come from his own years as an officer of the Indian Administrative Service.

Over years of meeting each other socially (without the air being kissed or otherwise polluted), and occasionally, professionally (where a handshake would suffice), we have become friends of sorts. More lightly than not, considering that Shukla has spent much of his life moving one heavy file after another, one may say that he has found his true calling after retiring from Government. His pen has found a purpose past a file noting, howsoever weighty that may have been.

It is appropriate to mention that this is the first book to be published by Pippa Rann Books & Media, a Member of the Independent Publishers Guild. As they say, ‘…the Group  is dedicated to publishing material which nurtures human values around the world. These values are, in our perception, being attacked, subverted and suborned – with a resulting decline in the quality of life for most people.’ They could not have chosen a better person than Avay Shukla to begin this mission.

 

 

 

The Year No One Wanted

 

This is the year no one wanted.

Homes turned to prisons.

Livelihoods, hated

Born as gilded dreams

 

 

This is the year we didn’t want.

It forced us

Think.

Of yesterday, today,

The

If, of tomorrow

 

The far distance of another day

Has never looked so close

So shadowed

Till today

 

(The photograph is of two children in Sungra, Kinnaur, Himachal 

Ⓒ Raaja Bhasin)

 

Galwan

Bugle, parade

Sharp creased trousers.

Honour.

A life. A bank account.

 Money to send back home

 For an old man, an old woman

A sister to be married,

A brother in school.

A flight, a truck, a posting.

Gun between my knees.

A name I’d never heard before.

But ours

A first.

Friends.  Brothers in arms,

A week; two.

My phone,

Clear screen, no connection.

A girl, some pay-cheques down,

Shallow waters by the Harmandir Sahib; the temple, the imam by the masjid, the SDM’s office.

We would marry.

June, my father, his white beard flowing

Sweat across his body

Hand on the wheel of an erratic tractor.

June, I, icy, freezing.

Nails on a cold rod.

One patrol.

Just one.

My father, his white beard flowing.

The boy from school.

His bag, his lunch box.

Me in a box.

Partition (Again): To the ‘migrant labourer’.

Partition (Again):  To the ‘migrant labourer’.

Go,

Gather what you can in minutes

No, less.

Run,

For the last train, bus, lorry

Something that moves.

Walk,

For miles; days you must.

Take your life, your family, your dreams in a bundle.

This country has been divided.

The tarmac, the railway track is the line.

But we care,

We are watching you.

From a distance. Safe for us.

Don’t worry.

This will pass.

We will call you back.

When we need you again.

©Raaja Bhasin 2020

We let things happen

We let things happen. It suited us to look the other way till it all slapped us in the face and locked our doors.

We let rivers die; we let forests shrink.

We let highways that were not required be built. We let thousands of  trees be cut. 

We complained among ourselves, but we did nothing about it.

We ignored the basics that humans must have and we let the poor become poorer still, for it suited us and gave us lifestyles we could not otherwise hold.

We ignored our rich natural, built and intangible heritage that had been built over millennia.

We are responsible for the way things are, because we let them happen.  

For worse, or if we choose, for better.

(The photograph is of the Rosa Brunonii, the Himalayan Musk Rose)

The Noisiest Spring

Past the blooming calla lilies

The struggling petunias of the garden 

Beyond iris flowered and gone

Fleabane on stone

Bergenia along still-dry moss.

Madness

Of red rhododendron in the woods.

Air-polished,

The distant snows shine.

The river water, as we are told,

Is clear,

Drinkable

A leopard, or was that two?

Wait for the lights to change.

A foursome of deer move

From the rough to the green.

A civet cat not seen

Sets out to examine the marketplace.

 We watch from our windows,

The noisiest spring of the century goes by.

© Raaja Bhasin 2020

Karma Corona

Karma Corona

On the eve of April Fools’ Day, 2020 this is my take on how things will change when the business of the Chinese Virus get’s over – let’s call it that, after all we do have Delhi-belly, German Measles and Spanish Flu.

I included, many of us men will emerge with first-time beards and hands that now know how to deal with soap, water and dirty dishes. The art of forced smiles and equally forced family conviviality will be another great acquisition of these weeks of quarantine. We have also had long and deep chats with the Man (or Woman) Upstairs. However, the cacophonies of birds that inhabit each individual’s attic have not really helped and we are sure our god will save us, while the other’s is dragging us on the path of doom.

Well, all this is nothing new.

When the two world wars ended, they taught us one basic thing about world affairs. That no matter how strong your military might, at the end of the day, the stronger economy would win the war, if not the occasional battle. This virus has taught us another thing, if the country’s health goes awry several other things do too and this is an insidious enemy. It creeps up stealthily and can drag you under.    

In our country, this is what I think will happen:

In the short term -

The obvious: many businesses will take ages to recover and many will simply go under. The leisure industry (tourism, event, hospitality) will be among the worst hit.

Not so obvious: Polarities in the country will sharpen. Minorities will be further isolated and the rich-poor, urban-rural divide will accentuate.

Hardly looked at: It will give rise to a new movement in the arts.  Theatre, film, poetry, painting  will find a fairly distinct genre.

In the longer term –

The economy will recover, but the polarities that have developed, will remain. The migration that made thousands and thousands leave cities, will see a return migration. Their villages cannot feed them, which is why they had left in the first place. They will continue having to depend on those who care nothing for them except the services that they provide and yet, on whom they are dependent for their livelihoods and existence.  

The role of the government will become even more overreaching. the monitoring and control mechanisms set in place during these times, will not be dismantled in a hurry - if at all.  

The nineteenth century British Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli had spoken of the two nations of England – the rich and the poor. He said: “Two nations between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are as ignorant of each other’s habits, thoughts, and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different zones, or inhabitants of different planets. The rich and the poor.”

This, more than ever, is applicable to our country – or should I say, the several nations that make our country.  

Across the world – this may well mark the end of physical globalisation as we have known over the past couple of decades. Countries will tighten their borders and turn more inwards. Unfortunately, that is the opposite of what should be done - more than ever we need to co-operate and share information. 

And as for China, it shall bash on regardless – the economy is too big, centralised and they couldn’t care less.

As I said, this is written on the 31^st March, 2020. It is April Fools’ Day or All Fools’ Day tomorrow. We still don’t know of its origin. Among the many stories told of its basis, most place this to the time when the Julian calendar that started the year on the 1^st April, around the time of the Spring Equinox, moved to the Gregorian calendar that began the year on the 1^st January.

This left quite a few celebrating a ‘new year’ when there was none.  

Hill History:

A Review of 'Himlayan Histories' by Chetan Singh

Human migration with all its agony, hardship and hope was responsible for settling the higher hills of Himachal Pradesh. Around those small early settlements, there may have been considerable natural beauty, but that alone could not put food on the table. For all the perceived simplicity of pastoral life in these isolated montane tracts, there was a complex array of relationships and systems that had evolved over centuries. Almost all the seemingly scattered communities were integrated within a broader framework.  These connects were both formal and informal and in turn, they broadly defined the process of living in the hills.

Unlike some of the more prominent and larger settlements that lay alongside rivers, sources of history from the hills are scant. Records that predate the arrival of the British in the nineteenth century are virtually absent. Oral histories – which are not necessarily reliable – and local legends have woven themselves almost seamlessly into traditions and perceived history. Polity drew on religion for affirmation and often, sustenance. When the colonial towns were founded in the nineteenth century, the British settlers often treated these sparsely populated areas as vast blank spaces over which they could write their own story. This added to the myth that barring dynastic changes or battles, these were areas without history. The story of a family would be taken as much the same as that of its ancestors.

As a result, almost nothing was known of the people of the hills. Chetan Singh’s Himalayan Histories is a much-needed study and as the author of a sophisticated volume on the subject, Singh is eminently suitable. A renowned historian of the Himalaya, Singh has impeccable credentials. He knows the ground that he talks of and he is versant with the theoretical frameworks – in both the global and local context – to place and analyse his material. The approach is, expectedly, scholarly and the language carefully structured and each word seems to have been chosen with great care. The construct defines spaces and communities and subsequently moves to the idea of the state as it existed in the area that is today’s Himachal Pradesh.

The study systematically removes the idea that the tiny villages of the hills were totally self-contained and politically and socially isolated. For example, the migration of trader-pastoral communities not only supplemented incomes but also reinforced interdependence and allegiances. The volume also explores the role of community consciousness – as in the role of the ‘Dum’ protests. The fine chapter on polyandry explores customary rights of inheritance and the social relationships built around the pivotal unit of the household and family.

Himalayan Histories comes at a time when the hills are undergoing considerable changes. Within the span of half a generation, connectivity has taken a leap and the environment has taken a plunge. This is an excellent book for both the scholar and the casual reader who wish to understand the history, economy, polity and religious traditions of the hills of Himachal.

 

 Himalayan Histories by Chetan Singh.

Pub: Permanent Black in association with Ashoka University.

Pp. 303. Price: Rs. 895/-

Charles de Russet: Shimla's French fakir

A few days back, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a call from #TheTribuneasking me to do a fortnightly column for the #Himachal section. Under the #tagline 'Jottings from Himachal', this is the first:

https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/weekly-pullouts/himachal-tribune/charles-william-de-russet-shimla-s-french-fakir/764165.html?fbclid=IwAR3wHG0Tc-nBvpQDj--_P2Gw4ZLVMat2YmGzGJefy2pYpGjfdniO_GFq9xw 

A View of Pakistan from a Golf Course and Elsewhere

Well over a decade back, Lahore’s golf team came to Shimla to play the local team at the Naldehra Golf Club that is a few kilometres beyond town. I’m not a player as such, but was a member of the club. Someone in the government asked if I could take care of the ‘informal side of things’ for the event.

The players had teed-off long before I reached the course and I parked myself in the club house. There were a couple of men there and the rest were ladies. I settled down for my favourite activity at events like this, melting as best one could into the background and watching the world go by. The ladies from the other side of the border, dripped rubies and emeralds and breakfast was still to be served; the river-rapids and waterfalls of diamonds were for dinner and Jimmy Choo had plugged into a benign market. Ladies from this side, wives of the doctor, the lawyer, the bureaucrat and the soldier were dressed in the way one would expect them to be at a sports event – smartly and sensibly. One only wondered if this little display of a little obvious one-up-womanship had been planned over bed tea.

 Past the greens and roughs of the course, a fairly large crowd had gathered from the villages around to witness the big tamasha on the course. One of the ladies learned over to another and said, “How can they allow people like that near the course. This would never have been permitted in Lahore.” Of course, they would not have been permitted. The multiplicity of the ‘us’ and the ‘them’ would become clearer over the following couple of days. It would have taken just one cry from one of those spectators who had left their fields and work, “Why are you playing them? They killed someone of my family in the last war (or in Kargil).” That would have been the end of big tamasha.

 

The Naldehra Golf Course (Pic: Courtesy: Himachal Tourism)

Within a short while, one of the gentlemen from Pakistan – and one with whom I was to spend a fair bit of time over the next couple of days and learn a lot – sidled over. Like me, he was not playing. He just gave his name then. Over the course of the next few hours it came out that he was the secret service man from Pakistan keeping an eye on the brood. As I was also sitting around, seemingly doing nothing, he wanted to check if I was the Indian equivalent.

The Pakistan team was the who’s-who of that country. This was an army, landowning and business elite. They and their brethren called all the shots that needed calling. Between a couple of hundred families (if so many), they not only controlled the country, they owned it. They made no bones about this ownership and the fact came out repeatedly in their conversations. What also came out was that the children of almost all were overseas or were trying to move overseas.

“Will they come back?” someone asked.

“No. Not unless the countries they are in, revoke their visas. There is no future for them in Pakistan.”

Here was Lesson No. 1:  Their stake in their own country was limited if they did not want their own children there.

On all days, liquor was freely available and most of the visitors had carried their own stock from Delhi’s duty-free shop. This provided another revelation. Many could drink us under the table and they did not sip, or even swig, they held a glass of whisky to their lips and knocked it back like there would none again from where that came.

This was Lesson No. 2: If you were a somebody, you could get whatever you wanted and get away with it – and be holier than thou while you were at it. This was subsequently reinforced some years later, when on one of my TV assignments, the British crew came via Pakistan and gleefully shared (complete with sneakily taken live coverage on their phones) of a grand party they had attended. This had been hosted by a person who is supposedly the most important man in that country today and to whom many in that country turn to for succour. The barmen were soldiers in uniform and had machine guns strapped to their backs as they passed the whisky around.     

 By the time we came to the last day of the golf tournament, one had become quite friendly with some of them. They were far warmer than many of us, I may add. On the last official dinner, one of them came up and mentioned how he had never had a drink in a bar. This was something hard to fathom. So off we went. The gentleman was nervous as we entered the bar. “I can drink here? No will stop me? Will I be reported?”  Once he had thawed, he lined up about six shots of the whiskies available in front of himself and lovingly had them all.   

This became lesson No. 3:  These are lives lived while constantly looking over one’s shoulder. If you can get away with something while no one is looking, go ahead.

Some years later, with a reference from my father’s former school in Lahore, a couple came to visit us from that city. The man had lived most of his life in Chicago and business losses had made him return to Pakistan. Before Partition, his father had been with the Punjab government and posted in Shimla; this was where he had grown.

We became good friends over the years and from our numerous exchanges, came Lessons 4 and 5. “Pakistan,” he said “Is a country without heroes. There are only two real ‘home-grown’ ones, Mohammed Ali Jinnah and Imran Khan. For others, we have either to borrow them from India and deny our shared heritage or turn to the wealthier and not necessarily desirable images from other nations.”

Every country needs its heroes. These are people you look up to and wish to emulate. This is missing and substitutes were found lacking – or pointed in directions that only suited them.

“For all our friendships at a personal level, will there be peace between our countries,” I asked, if simplistically. 

“No,” was the answer. “India has taken a different trajectory from Pakistan. We got our constitution long after you did. By then, power had been taken and transferred to houses which will never let go of it. Power is also dispersed and uncontrolled. Very importantly, there is no clear power-centre in Pakistan. Who will you make peace with? The army? The ISI? The hard-line religious leaders? The elected government which is weakest link of all? If you make peace with one or two, it does not follow that the others will accept or adhere to it.” 

Not surprisingly, Kashmir came up time and again in the course of our conversations. And whenever one thinks of what he said, it rings true. Especially now. “There has to be definite border. This is here and that is there. As long as the lines are blurred, everyone will exploit them.”