Farther From the Madding Crowd
FOG, mist, cloud, rain, and mildew - these were the things the British must have looked for when selecting suitable sites for the hill-stations they set up in the Himalayan foothills 150 years ago: Simla, Mussoorie, Darjeeling, Dalhousie, Naini Tal, all soggy with monsoon or winter mist and dripping oaks and deodars. The climate must have reminded them of their homes on the English moors or the Scottish highlands.
I have survived all that some 30 mountain monsoons that have been thrown at me; and having gone through the annual ritual of wiping the mildew from my books and a certain green fungus from my one and only suit, I decided to leave cloud country behind for a few days and be the guest of Cyril Raphael, an old friend who left these misty regions years ago and now administers the Bhuvneshwari Mahila Ashram (a social service organization) at Anjani Sain in Theri-Garhwal.
Pine country this, dry and bracing, with the scent of pine resin in the air. I have always thought 5,000 to 6,000 feet a healthier altitude to live at, but perhaps I'm prejudiced, having been born in Kasauli, which is pine rather than deodar country. Anjani Sain is about the same height and gets the sun all day. Given adequate food and pure water, it's a healthy place to live. Contrary to what most people think, Garhwal is not a poverty-stricken area. Almost everyone has a bit of land and does at least h ave the traditional do-roti for sustenance, which is more than can be said for the urban unemployed in other parts of northern India.
This area has always been known as Khas-patti, probably because it was special in several ways - climate-wise and probably economy-wise too. Down in the flat valley, there are green fields and even mango trees, the descent to lower altitudes being quite sudden in these parts. The small Anjani Sain bazaar, with its single bank, post office, and chemist's shop, shimmers in the noonday sun; it looks like a set for the gunfight at the OK Corral. But this is, generally, a peaceful area.
At the aashram, I am in time for an early lunch - thick rotis made from mandwa (millets) - two of these are more than enough for me! Endless glasses of milky tea will see me through till supper time.
Towering over Anjani Sain, and blessing all those who live or pass beneath, is the Chanderbadni temple, dedicated to one of the incarnations of the goddess Parvati. As this is not one of the main pilgrim routes, the temple does not get as many visitors as some of the other sacred shrines in the hills. Below the Chanderbadni peak is a rest house, for those who wish to break their journey here.
Anjani Sain lies midway between Tehri and Devprayag - a two-hour bus ride from either place. I came via Tehri, the road climbing steeply above the hot, dusty town that is destined to be submerged by the waters of the Tehri Dam. The dam should have been ready by now, but having been the subject of a great deal of controversy, work on it has progressed in fits and starts.
I am told that this entire region is "eco-fragile," one of those words bandied around at seminars all over the world. Well, I am not an expert in these matters (and who is, I wonder?) but I should think most of our earth is "eco-fragile," having had to put up with hundreds of thousands of years of human civilization.
Do we stop all development in the name of preserving the environment? Or do we move on regardless? Proceed with caution would be the rational person's answer. But are human beings really rational?
Old Tehri was no beauty spot, and New Tehri (growing rapidly above it) is even uglier; from a distance it looks like a giant cemetery.
When the architecture of suburban Delhi is brought to the hills, what is there to say? You just look the other way.
Fortunately the defaced mountain is soon left behind, and as it slips out of sight and we ascend into the pine regions, the eye is soothed by the pretty, slate-covered houses of the villages and their little gardens ablaze with marigolds and yellow and bronze chrysanthemums. Chrysanthemums love this climate. Down in the fields there are patches of crimson amaranth (cholai) interspersed with the fresh green of young wheat.
And here be leopards! My companion tells me of one that strolls down the motor road every evening, forcing the local bus to go around him. His presence also accounts for the absence of stray dogs.
SUDDENLY in the distance I see what at first glance appears to be a cloud or a large white sailing ship. On approaching, it turns out to be the freshly white-washed buildings of the Bhuvneshwari Mahila Ashram, clinging to the steep slopes of the mountain.
Here, for two or three days, I find rest and sustenance. The manifold activities of the ashram (directed mainly towards the welfare of widows and small children) are there for all to see, and I recall the relief work undertaken by its young field workers after the Uttarkashi earthquake last year - they had rushed to the area before the government agencies could swing into action.
However, as a social worker I am somewhat inept. I am just a frazzled old writer who never quite made it to the top, and who now seeks a refuge from the all-pervasive clutter of tourism that makes ordinary life almost impossible in our hill-stations.
I hope the land-grabbers and the real estate "developers" never get this far. They are welcome to their malls and artificial lakes and concrete parks. Just so long as I am free to escape from it all, to sit here at Anjani Sain contemplating a large white rose in Cyril's garden, while the rest of the world watches video.