Buddhaban

"No" - His father's no was as hard a stop as Saleem had ever seen. Equal with the will of those icy mountains he called home. Just like Abba, the mountains were always cruel. At 10 years old, he had some way to go before he understood that they both meant good.

His grandfather, Dada, was looking on as his mother, Ammu, lit the firewood in the clay hole and placed a milk bowl on it for the visitors. Dada knew that these were the moments that could change everything about them. Not just the child, it was about the Khandaan, the bloodline, his ancestry coming down from hundreds of years.

...

They have always been shepherds, grazing goats in the high mountain passes of the beautiful Parvati valley in the summers and migrating back to lower villages of Tosh, Pulga and Kulga during the winters. The valley was sometimes kind and sometimes cruel, but it was home. 

The Parvati gave them everything they needed to live a good life. And a river ran through it. The Parvati river that flowed right through the heart of the valley was ever refreshing and always has had nourishing fish to offer. The green pastures were heaven for the cattle and the forests had rare herbs. The forest also gave them the firewood which was the only fuel they used - key for survival during the winters when the snow was knee deep and cold made its way right through to the bones.

The winter months were just about that - survival. And so, they ventured into higher mountains during warm seasons leading the cattle into the grasslands. The sheep was the only wealth the family ever really possessed, they put their money where their mouths were -  the sheep’s mouths. Though the Muslim community was a minority, it was a significant minority, very much part of the valley life. The family, much respected through the ages, had built their summer shacks on one of the higher flatlands in the region.

This place, called Buddhaban, was practically the highest of meadows in the region. It was also at the furthest end of the valley, far away and high above Tosh, the last of the valley villages. Spiti, another charming Himachal valley to the east that touched the Chinese border, was just a days' trek away, maybe two. But the trekking paths went around some really big peaks and glaciers, through mountain passes that were safe only for a few months in the year.

...

As far as Saleem could remember, he had been going about his wanderings and small thrills without much care for all that his Abba and Dada tried to teach him. He loved herding the sheep and staring at the birds and the clouds on those lower Himalayan mountain meadows. His favorite times of the day were the mornings when his Ammu gave him glasses full of sweet goat milk, and the evenings when he sat around the fireplace with his Abba and uncles. He also loved running along the slopes with his elder brother Karim when they had to fetch something from the lower villages. His relationship with his brother was the closest he had or would go on to have - it was just that they had only each other for company and nothing to compare to. Everyone else in the Buddhaban dwelling, including their cousins, were way elder or younger than them. All the twenty-or-so people from the three families living together there were pretty much one family and had cattle as the main livelihood. That has been the way of things for decades now.

It was not all well for the family though, nor was it for valley people in recent years. The old times were changing. It was a boon for the Parvati people that the valley became the go-to hippie destination in the Himachal for all the prosperity that it had brought. At the same time, it was threatening. At the stake was their way of living itself.

The youth had lots of opportunities to earn a living now, catering to the tourists. No longer did they have to depend solely on cattle and farming. Livelihood was not an existential problem. Markets were getting bigger and trade has been ever-growing. The development came in the form of infrastructure and better opportunities. But the culture was slowly rotting underneath.

The fabric of the society was not as pure as it once was. But like any decay, this was slow. It was too late before anyone realized that their villages were not as happy as before - harmony was waning. Opportunity brought conflict with it and groups fought for prominence. The ugly side of urbanization - plastic, over-crowding and noise - was now a fixture in the famous marketplaces. Many young men and women were getting involved in the hashish business and it was a slippery slope from there towards more hazardous drug mafias. Too many outsiders were venturing into the mountains and valley lives, and not every visitor was a good-natured trekker. The villages more often felt like tourist destinations and relations based on familiarity were slowly giving way to more practical businesses. The traditions and habits passed on from fathers to sons and mothers to daughters were slowly being intruded by external factors.

...

Even as Buddhaban was more than four hours of intense trek through the maze of a forest from the nearest village Tabu, Saleem had been seeing visitors regularly this season. His father, Abba, was not thrilled with the strangers but he always treated them graciously -  warm to the travelers and tourists alike. Everyone who ever came was surely many times richer than them. After all, the shack that the family called home and what protected them from the chilly winds at night was nothing more than a handful of huts put together as though they were was meant for a few days of camping. But the visitors knew that these people here were living a life which was both a dream and a nightmare at the same time. They had seen enough on the way to understand what it meant to even survive here. So there was an environment of mutual respect accentuated by easy smiles and longer attention spans during conversations. 

As usual, these visitors were nice folks, awestruck with everything they saw around them. The scenic beauty of Buddhaban during that season was unmatched even by Himachal’s standards, which put the tourists in especially good spirits. Abba invited them into one of the bigger huts after the greetings. After the visitors enquired about the family's lives here and after they recovered from the culture shock, Abba offered them to come into another hut that had the fireplace and kitchen, for some refreshments. 

All the while the visitors were playing along and laughing with the kids. Saleem was especially enchanted these days with the visitors’ fancy gadgets. Abba had already warned him to maintain his distance with the outsiders but Saleem was just too thrilled with everything about the modern people and their stories, so foreign to him. He flooded them with questions, trying to understand everything that so was different from him and his surroundings. This had been sensed by his parents for some time now and they were slightly worried about his feverish energy whenever one of the visitors showed him their phones. Abba had already been given the wise word by his own father, Dada. The fascination with the glitter and glamour had to die young and Abba had to be the one to enforce it.

The person with whom Saleem was most playful this time around was relatively reserved about showing him his fancy stuff. He didn't use his phone in front of the kids except for the obligatory selfies and groupies. But the time had come when Saleem became over-enthusiastic after Ammu served them milk and the elders seemed to get engaged with their conversations. As his new friend was showing him pictures of the cities beyond his imagination, he was visibly vocal and started requesting for car games. The visitor hesitated knowing well that it wasn't for him to expose the kid to such seductive stuff. Especially when his father was looking on intently.

Abba seemed to look at Saleem forever who was trying to grab more of the iPhone. After a few moments though, he has had enough. His "Saleem. Nahi." was clearly a condemnation and not a scold. The stern voice grabbed everyone's attention. They all looked at him, a bit ungrounded. Abba had fire in his eyes "Pehle bhi bola tha tujhe" - told you before as well.

Saleem hung his head down - tears down the reddish cheeks. The visitors were apologetic with their soft smiles. They only wished well. The phone slid quietly into the visitors’ pocket, not daring to come out until they were out of Buddhaban.

Saleem didn't eat that evening and he would be moody for a couple of weeks, but he would never get enticed by the bait of fancy technology again, first from the fear instilled in him that day and later from understanding and the love for his people and place. He had learned his lesson and humiliation was a necessary tool in the process. Karim, three years older, was higher up the wisdom chain. He knew his Bhaijaan would come along fine now that the storm was over. His Abba told him so.

…

That evening, there was no fire in Abba's eyes as he squatted in front of the fire along with Dada. He only had moisture in them now, for all that his sons would never have. He said, "Kya kya qurbani mangunga apne baccho se" - what all sacrifices will I ask of my children. 

"Vahi qurbani jo maine tujse maanga tha" - the same sacrifices I asked of you, Dada looked straight through the fire into his teenage days in Buddhaban.

Cigarette after the joint - Short fiction

A man was sitting at a table in a lawn. His name was Attila, John. His fingers held a cigarette, which he lighted right after he finished the joint. He was brooding over his life in the past, and how he was now - contemplating his retirement from his city and old life, job and wife. He had been sitting at this table at half past four in the evening, every day the last year and a half.

Around when john had smoked half his cigarette,Prof. Krishnamurthy Naik came down the two step entrance into the lawn and asked John if he could borrow the lighter on the table. In reality, Krishnamurthy just held the lighter in his hand and raised it, and half glanced towards the stranger while saying, “Can I?”

It was sudden for John because he was too relaxed, but he was not surprised enough to react in haste. He was used to the valleys and mountains through which his mind took him when he was off guard. He said “Sure”

This sounded more like ‘sha..’ to Krishnamurthy’s ears. But then, Krishnamurthy knew that he would have sounded the same given the breeze from the sea, the calmness of the place and his own mind.

It had been three years since Krishnamurthy was disillusioned about his career as a social activist. Some day at age forty five, it dawned upon him that the most important thing was for him to be with himself all the time.The world was becoming too political for him, hence petty. He drifted here and there and ended up as a small time legal writer in this beach village in the south-west coast of India, where his engagement to the real world was limited to his dealings with his employers and colleagues. It was a hour job which paid well, yet was mechanical for him due to superior experiences. He was free to walk his walks the rest of the time.

He took the lighter and took a couple of steps towards the edge of the lawn where standing underneath the coconut trees, surrounded by small plants and grass, he could feel the vastness of  sea, while taking in the breeze coming from over it. He lighted a clove flavoured Marthin, his favorite, not usually available near the beach. He took his time to leave the lawn after finishing the cigarette - it was a magnetic place.

Krishnamurthy came back the next day around the same time and took the same lighter from the stranger sitting at the table. John wondered if they could be still be called strangers.

This went on, more or less everyday, for several years. No one spoke after the first day.

This lawn was attached to a sea facing lodge. Winds blew from under its nose, for the lodge was located on a ridge on a small mountain. It was a tourist kind of a place - but the tourists tended to turn settlers while the residents migrated away. It was the summer, and windy. Or so it seemed because of the spaciousness of the beach and waters ahead. Or maybe because of the brightness of the sun facing the lawn. Yet it wasn’t hot because of the cool breeze. Krishnamurthy spent hours walking the pavements that were laced between these small single-storey buildings and the mountain. The pavements had a view of the ocean from across the lawns. The lawns themselves were small, but looked luxurious due to the scenic background.

One day after these several years where nothing had changed about the place or the people, a third person entered the lawn when John and Krishnamurthy had been smoking their cigarettes as usual, quietly as usual. He wanted to sell some tea, so the kid shouted “Chai” in his native accent. Krishnamurthy said “two cups" and so started a conversation.

A lesson on screwing up your life

He wasn’t the best student in our class. But wasn’t bad enough to end up like he did! Our only hope now is that its not the end..

After passing 10^th grade in a not so grand B grade along with us, he chose POLY TECHNIQUE over the regular intermediate - with electronics as majors. No one said it was bad. It wasn’t. Except that it was a 3 years course. But had a benefit that the B.Tech that followed was reduced to 3 years for them. But that is still a long way! The first year in the 3 year poly technique shit, he cleared most of the subjects. Not beginners luck but enthusiasm and a small dread that was assumed from the school. Then the problems started with the following semesters. He started failing more subjects as the course grew. The problem wasn’t the complexity of the course. It was the amount of distractions he gathered around himself.

But even then he wasn’t fully into the pickle yet. He struggled with some new subjects, cleared some old ones and so it was alright till the third year. Then came a new circle of friends into his world implying that he completely lost track of whats happening for three months or so. Even that was not the end. He eventually moved away from them and had a whole 2 months or so before the final exams of the third year. And he had some seven subjects in the spare as back logs. No one knows how he spent those two months and no one cared then actually. So he wrote the finals. To be correct, he just attended them and gave a blank paper most of the times. Other times he had more important works to do than write the most important exams in his life.

He flunked the exams successfully after his tremendous efforts. The girls in the middle would be a special mention here but he’ll never agree with me there. Maybe he is right. I don’t know. But that failure was just the beginning of a series of extravaganzas.

So he failed and he convinced his family that he was gonna complete it in the next year without any doubt. He wrote the exams in September again. Sorry, he just bunked all of them because there was still another attempt left for him. He told his parents that September was the last attempt but the results would come in May or something. So he still had the March attempt.

For March, he studied a bit more sincerely, at least because we were pressurizing him to do so. So he wrote the exams and wrote fine till the day before the last exam when he bombed me with another fact. That he didn’t write any of the exams except the first one. And first one, he gave gathered enough strength to give a blank paper. I tried not to get animated. I only hoped that he was trying to make an ‘april fool’ out of me. He wasn’t.

To sum it up, In addition to the one year that he wasted after the third year, he accomplished the task of wasting yet another year. The problem is that he is still at the beginning of that year! Its like standing at the foot of a huge mountain and wondering if he would ever reach the top. In fact, whether he wasted one year or a lifetime depends how his dad reacts when he gets to know this grand news! 

And now am off to play cricket. Of course with the lead character of this story!     

And yeah..no comments  :-)

 

Four A.m - Story of a beggar

Heyaa...back :-D. Well, four a.m is exactly the time i have finished this story and that has nothing to do with the actual story!!

I Am writing the story of a beggar here (No, I haven’t turned a beggar yet :-@) whom I and my friends happened to meet accidentally

This was when I was forcefully dragged to yadagiri gutta (Don’t act posh. you heard that place before, didn’t you? It’s a holy place btw)by friends. Why? They have this promise made to god which they have to fulfill (I don’t know the exact term :-P)

So we went there and finished whatever we wanted to do (I am not going into details for hell now) and on our way back through the stairs, we were passing by this beggar when one of us gave him a coin and we were going on when he said “Thank you, Sir”

We were not exactly surprised as he had every right to know basic English! We joked on our friend saying that a beggar could start speaking English after seeing him.

The beggars name was Ramalingam (I am not comfortable calling him a beggar too much), he was crippled, bent and his face was exactly how a beggars face would look like - worn out, uninterested and tired of life.

He somehow heard our talk and replied “Hello, I am a degree holder”

We were like shocked by that response but didn’t stop. After getting down a few steps, I gave the idea of going back and getting some info about how he got into such a position (just with a hope that we would learn to avoid at least one way of becoming a beggar!!) and one of us initiated and we went back to where he sat. But we didn’t go straight to him…We didn’t have the guts actually to go and talk to the man whom we accidentally insulted, we just sat on a rock a few steps from him and fought on who was to approach first. So, the guy who first gave him a coin went forward and dropped another one (keep count of the coins :-P) and started the conversation. I didn’t hear the whole of it as I joined in the middle. But I learned all the details later from them and this is the STORY OF RAMALINGAM THE BEGGAR (how’s that for a movie title eh? :->)

“I am from karimnagar district, usnabad” I means Ramalingam ra rascal! “I am a degree holder from public degree college in Usnabad. I am in this position by fate.” Then he told his whole story. “After my degree I got a job as an attender in a government office. Then, I changed a few jobs and in the end turned out to be a sweeper in a government hospital. I had some property, a wife and two children, a boy and a girl. Eventually, I fell ill and the doctors certified that one of my kidneys failed. So I took voluntary retirement and got a lump sum amount of Rs.6 Lakhs! “

I wonder if he was crippled from childhood.

“My property was on the name of my wife. She stole the money and ran away with another man and then sold my property off and now I don’t even know where she is! With nothing else to do, I turned out here to be begging. My children are studying under scholarship from government in a hostel. Both are district rank holders. I give them a helping hand with whatever I save here. I stay in a rented room down the hill here”

Well he didn’t last the whole story, he burst out crying half way down the story and we were moved. In fact, the first guy had tears in his eyes... our guy gave the beggar another coin and we found out the details of his college etc. We turned back not knowing how to console him (if there was any way). We dropped another coin and walked back.

But hopeless that we are, we were laughing in a few steps from there and I committed to myself that I was going to write the whole story of this Mr.Ramalingam on my blog!

Moral of the story: If you are reading this before the actual story, come from the first line now and you may get the lesson! But if you already read the whole story, then what is the point in telling you the moral? You must have already got it. Isn’t it?!! :-P