Murmur of the Lonely Brook

MURMUR OF THE LONELY BROOK

DEBASHIS DEY

Copyright © 2012 by Debashis Dey.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.

Published by: Salfas

ISBN:
978-0-9881700-1-8

Library of Congress Control No: 2012913706

Edited by Beth Bruno

First Edition

Printed in the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book could not have been written without the insights provided by Chintamoni, a tribal woman. Special and sincere thanks go to Beth Bruno, who not only edited the book but also provided continuous guidance.

I must also thank my wife Kakoli and daughter Tania, my publisher Salfas, and my friends Aloke, Chayan, Nandini, Sampa, and Madhumita for their ongoing support and encouragement.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Rakcham is a remote Himalayan village in Himachal, India, near the Tibet border. The people here are tribal nomads known as Kinnauri. The origin of the tribe can be traced back thousands of years, as it is mentioned in the Hindu epic Mahabharata. This is a known fact; what is unknown is that traditions and rituals dating back to primitive times are still in practice here. Although this book portrays life in this remote village, the storyline is purely fictional. The characters and incidents portrayed and the names used in the book are fictitious, and any resemblance to the names, characters, or history of any person is coincidental and unintentional.

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In Nature, things are broken with a purpose—clouds break to pour rains, rivers break to water fields, fields break to yield crops, seeds break to yield plants … so if ever you feel broken, understand that you must be part of a better and more beautiful purpose...

Chapter 1

Diwakar was returning home from Chandigarh after nearly a month away. He walked steadily, confidently, as he looked around at the familiar peaks surrounding him. He was taking the old Indo Tibet road, which had recently been repaired by the border force. The road from Sangla to his village of Rakcham was barely fourteen kilometers but it would be nearly an hour before he reached it. He could have waited for the local Jeeps that frequented this route, but he preferred to walk.

He saw very few people up and about so early in the morning. It was late October, still monsoon season. After a few minutes, Diwakar was out of Sangla and walking uphill. A light drizzle had made everything smell fresh. He continued on, soaking up the scent of the pine needles that rose from the wet earth. Rounding a bend opened up a totally new vista, a rain soaked forest with pines, deodars, and poplars. The raw smell of rocks and greenery filled his senses; inside a floating fog, the forest stood in a mist. A few trees were visible, some smoky and some just a shadow. Though they looked similar, each pine tree had a shape of its own. The sharp end of the needles held on to drops of water and looked like combs with beads as if stuck on the head of a village belle, while below, the grass blades tried desperately to hold on to the dew, sometimes in single and sometimes in groups. Most of them bent down as if expressing their silent gratitude for the blessing they received.

Diwakar would have taken the night bus, which took about twenty-four hours to reach Rakcham, but the service was erratic and most days the buses were cancelled with some excuse or another. From Chandigarh, he traveled on a local Jeep huddled in warm comfort on the back seat with two old women, a sheep and two sacks of onions. The local Jeeps were lifelines and packed in as much as possible.

That part of his journey was good except for the sheep, which occasionally tried to munch his pants, and for the one lady who twisted every now and then to scratch her unreachable backside hidden below layers of blankets and clothing. Diwakar did not mind. After a stop for tea at Rampur, by early morning the Jeep reached Sangla, where everyone got out. While others stretched to ease their joints after the long cramped journey, Diwakar wasted no time and picked up his bag. He was seventeen and thought of himself as a Fauji (soldier,) though it might take another exam and another year before he could don the uniform.

The old lady had looked at him affectionately and said, “My son, why don’t you wait for the next Jeep? It has been a long journey!”

Diwakar smiled and replied, “It’s okay. I can walk the rest of the way with ease.”

As he looked around and took in his surroundings, he was thinking about Nisha, who was his brother Pravin’s wife. Nisha was the new arrival in the family and Diwakar had fallen in love with her the day she came to the house.

“What will you bring back for me?” Nisha had asked him when he was leaving.

Diwakar had only smiled back at her. He could not speak, as he felt devastated at the thought of being away from Nisha for so long. He had to bring something to her; she would be expecting it. He thought for a few seconds and decided to pick up two packets of Maggi from the village shop. Nisha loved noodles, as they offered a pleasant break from the daily buckwheat pancakes. Diwakar could imagine the smile on her face. He felt proud of himself and for a moment the stoicism that had settled on him after failing the Army exam lifted. He got back on the road and started his walk with newfound confidence.

Nisha was from Ribba, famous for its fruits and anguri in particular, a kind of liquor made from grapes. She was tall with sharp features, with an air of affection and dark black eyes reflecting warmth and humor. Her complexion was fair, and while her rosy cheeks had a red tint, they formed dimples every time she smiled. Pravin had met her at Peo where she was studying literature in college. After two months of courtship, which mainly involved momo treats at the local restaurant and listening to his various achievements like trekking, fetching wild flowers for Devta, the local deity, bare hand trout fishing, and bear chasing etc., Nisha had decided that Pravin was the ideal man for her.

Nisha loved adventure, although she was sure the rest of her life would be spent in tending cattle, feeding them, collecting their refuse, tilling fields, removing weeds, cooking and bearing children. She was also sure that the movies, serials, and soaps on TV depicted a world far beyond her reach, much like the fairytales that her Aaya (her Grandma) had shared with her during childhood. She had never traveled beyond Peo, having spent her life among hill people following traditions and customs dating back thousands of years.

Her two years of study at Peo had been different. She had read books, magazines, and seen movies about love and romance that enticed her. She met girls who were lost in love, and heard them discuss their boyfriends and affairs. She tried to understand romantic love; it was something new to her. For the first time she saw a window that held the promise of a new vista, a new land unknown to her.

Peo, short for Reckong Peo, the district headquarters, was a quiet town with a bustling market nestled among hills. And the new things she saw, listened to, and experienced left her in a confused state. Pravin was the first man she met there and one she thought had access to the other side of the window, one who would take her to the promised land of happiness. She was sure she had found true love with him.

Diwakar looked at the deserted road and the surrounding peaks. He had left in the warmth of early September and now there was a chill in the air, announcing the approach of winter. His village, Rakcham, was squeezed between high peaks on three sides, peaks covered with pines standing in regimental dignity; age-old granite peaks formed millions of years ago; clean peaks that reflected the sun and changing hues of each passing day, only showing their cracks and lines during winter when the sky poured white on them. He saw brown peaks with bhujpatra and a few deodar and oaks, perpetually white peaks emitting wispy clouds to kiss the sky; and shady blue peaks—shrouded in mystery—at a distance beyond in Tibet.

West of the village, the land ended abruptly as the road sloped down toward civilization. Here, in one single sweep, the sky tried to reach the valley below through the deep gorge. The Baspa River flowed down with the sky, rich with trout hiding below rocks at every bend. Diwakar had often accompanied his older brother Pravin on fishing adventures. While his aaté (elder brother) had developed skill in fishing with bare hands in ice-cold water, Diwakar barely managed to catch one or two. Thoughtfully, Pravin never boasted about his fishing prowess.

At age twenty-two, Pravin was the eldest son of Shevak. He had a good physique, wore a goatee, and loved to keep his hair unkempt. He had the most ordinary looks, was short-tempered like his father, and was totally unpredictable. Nobody understood him. Unlike all other Kinnauri youth of his age, he was neither frustrated nor depressed but was confused with the world and desperate to break out of the monotony of life among the hill people. This desperation had caused him trouble in his short life so far, but after completing a diploma course that taught electrician’s skills, he had set a new target for himself. All he dreamed of was opening a shop in Sangla for electrical goods, contracting with a few hotels for his products, and buying a Mahindra Jeep for tourists. The dream had several layers to it, such as hiring a local boy to run the shop and an assistant to take care of minor issues in the contracts. This would free him to drive the Jeep long distances, sometimes with and sometimes without passengers. He discussed his dreams with Nisha and she had given her smile of approval, although Pravin was not sure if she dreamed of traveling beside him like in the movies. He was sure that Nisha was the girl for him. He had proposed marriage to her, and after a long argument with his father, who wanted him to choose a local girl for a bride, he managed to get his consent.

Nevertheless, the marriage proceeded according to the ancient custom still prevalent in the hills when the daring groom ran away with the bride of his choice, without parental consent. The real celebration would occur after many years, often in the presence of their own children, when the girl’s family accepted the marriage. The same custom is still in practice, but now it is always with the consent of the girl. The approval was easy and reflected on her face. Pravin felt relieved. Marriage was important, as his parents needed a helping hand, but he had never wanted to make it elaborate. Pravin was a dreamer but he was not the romantic type.

Diwakar was close to the ancient village of Batseri. The forest gave way to a flat stretch of road. The rains had stopped and the terrain was waking up to a cold morning with birds chirping in sharp voices either to shake away the cold or to invite the sun. A gentle breeze blew and the oak leaves swayed and turned, displaying their silvery undersides washed clean. Frosty blueberries glistened while violets growing in cracks and crevices spread their pastel petals. Bushy undergrowth held on to the raindrops displaying a string of miniature lights. The other side of the gorge looked like a washed out Chinese landscape painting in living monochrome. Diwakar looked at the village below from the road high up. He could make out the houses with dark walls and tin roofs and the village temple standing high in the middle with its slanted slate roof partly visible. The red, green, and yellow Tibetan flags, standing tall in several houses, greeted and waved at him in peace. Nearly all villages had temples housing the local god as well as a Gompa (a Buddhist shrine) and people generally followed one or both religions. There was hardly any conflict and though most of them were Hindus, they hold a special sympathy for the minority Tibetans living there from the time they had lost their homeland to the Chinese.

The peaks at Rakcham were home to the Himalayan black and brown bear, goral, leopards, musk deer, blue sheep, and other wild life who found a means of survival in high altitudes. In winter, only a few of them came down in search of food. The bears were less intrusive as they were happy with a meal of apples or apricots and would then go back into hibernation, while the leopards, who the locals call tendua, kept the villagers on high alert to protect their stray cattle and dogs. The other inhabitants of the hills were the alpine choughs, large black birds with orange beaks that only came down in winter, disturbing the otherwise peaceful valley with their shrieks and calls.

The base of the hills was normally full of life. Various birds, such as finches, wagtails and sparrows, made their home near the springs and waterfalls. The Leh berry trees with tiny orange fruits and apple orchards invited them by serving decent meals, while the poplars and deodars provide nesting grounds. Flocks of pigeons also make their daily rounds of the valley, flapping their wings in unison and wandering around the buckwheat fields in search of food. So far, Diwakar had only seen a brown bear once and that was during a trip to Kanda with his father (his Aau).

Kanda, the valley hidden in the high altitudes, was used mainly for grazing by sheep and goats. Once or twice every year, Shevak traveled to Kanda to shear the coat of wool from their sheep, which was then carried down and kept for the winter when the fleece was turned into yarn. Shevak was in his late forties and quite stout, certainly strong enough to carry on with his daily activities. He led a disciplined life and though he brewed apple liquor like all the others in the village, he had never tasted it. He worked as a linesman with the state electricity office and was the father of three children, his two sons Pravin and Diwakar, and one daughter, Ria, who was also the youngest of the three.

Shevak himself was illiterate but had provided schooling for all three of his children, despite serious doubts about the benefits of education. The teachers, always complaining of the harsh conditions, did everything except teach, and hardly one among a hundred managed to get employment without showcasing their Tribe certificate. Shevak was known to have a short temper but the villagers tolerated it, mostly due to his invaluable service in restoring power, during both summer and winter. His wife Parvati was a down-to-earth woman who did all the farm work and housework and looked much older than her actual age.

Shevak had high hopes that his younger son Diwakar would gain employment with the army, which would ensure steady earnings for the family. The only hope left for all fathers in their village was the army, especially the border force, where the locals get some relaxation due to their familiarity with the terrain and the climate. However, written exams posed a threat and this was why Shevak hated the school, as the majority of applicants failed the test. Even Diwakar had failed this time, though he passed all the physical tests with ease.

Shevak rarely discussed his feelings about Pravin’s dreams with anyone. Whenever he did, he started swearing so much that even the listener started sympathizing with his son, probably wondering what someone so young could have done that was so wrong. They saw him as a young man who mostly remained silent while observing everything around him, so they didn’t understand the inner workings of his mind. Shevak never elaborated on the various exploits of Pravin and normally ended the discussion with a grunt coupled with a disgruntled look as if sugarless tea had been served to him.

The mere mention of Ria, his daughter, brought sunshine to his face. Ria, now fourteen years old, was a bundle of demands—from TV serials to bangles to chewing gum to hairclips—but Shevak rarely showed intolerance with her and pampered her within his means.

Ria possessed the same short temper as her father, although the brunt of it was mostly borne by her mother (her Aama). Ria was in standard eight and loved going to school, not only for the free rajma-rice lunch but also for the opportunity to discuss nightly episodes on TV with friends. At home, she barely helped her mother with housework, spending most of her time in front of a mirror. However, she was all ears for her father and went out of her way to please him, sometimes cooking, sometimes washing, and even carrying small lots of wood for the bukhari (ironstove) whenever he was at home. Ria never displayed her temper to her father and on rare occasions when Shevak scolded her she simply turned away to hide her tears.