Mountains and I.

As I start to write this essay, my playlist is playing Kun Fayakūn on loop at a certain low sound level. ‘Kun Fayakūn’ translates to ‘Be, and it is’, which means that “When He decrees a matter, He only says to it, "Be," and it is.” The believer quite simply describes God’s will and absolute control over every creation. So while I am conveniently a self-titled agnostic atheist, I have often said in awe that the above mentioned song does tend to bend me towards theism. So it is likely not a fluke that I felt like playing this song when I am to write about mountains, which is the second creation that made me ponder over ‘existence’, the first being sea. Both seem infinite. And they are!


Mountains! Snow covered mountains, to be extra precise.


So this was my first experience living for a few days at a place so up high from the sea level, so far from the swarming city life, so much without things we considered basics & essentials for a 'nice’ living, so much doing without any doing, so much of undoing, so much organic, so much of everything I never thought of. This is about my first Himalayan trek to Brahmatal in Uttarakhand. I don’t think I need want to write up the trivia of the place and location, Google might just feel envious. I should better be unfolding the rest.

                                                                                                                                                                   PC: Vivek


The trail I covered was Gandhinagar (Guj) to Ahmedabad to Delhi to Kathagodam to Lohajung to Brahmatal Summit and back to base in the very reverse order. And almost all modes of transportations were used in the journey: taxi, plane, train, rickshaw, metro, mules and my very own limbs. And what lay in between was some six days of pure enchantment, chastity of nature that was unmasked, with ceaseless discoveries of wonders at every step. Seeing the glorious sun setting down and just disappearing in a matter of moment was something like an achievement, although all you did was keeping your eyes wide bright open. And how gloriously the sun greets the mountains! Rise & shine of the sunlight with ‘no filters’ over the endless landscape was a trancelike visual. The express sunrays that burned your skin even with suggested layers of sunscreen didn’t bother one any much. Hearing just no noises all these days but only the soothing music of bells on the mules, of the whispers generated when winds traversed with just no barriers in between, of the zealous footsteps of your own and of the co-travelers, of the little laughter and conversations with them, of the little things your heart murmured to your mind, and of the silence that shouted out to your guts. It was also my first meeting with snow, and it was pure love at first sight. (Don’t know what snow felt though, one-sided love, possibly.) The white cover was such as if fresh cotton was sprinkled in abundance across the landscape. Since there was no snowfall during our visit, and a lot of layers had already melted under the sun, we could find snow at distant patches. But for a first timer, it was a miraculous enough feeling to be able touch and see snow. The view of valley and mountains that surrounded was just the live presentation of something which I only saw in paintings by the greatest of artists, while there was also a consciousness that the best artist is not known, neither visible. The Rangrez (dyer) did a great job there with the colors. Shades of green turn to yellow, turn to gold, turn to orange, turn to red, and turn to white, scarlet and purple, here and there. The nights in the mountains right under infinite stars was the most glorious ever. So many deep bright stars as if there was an electricity board behind the skies lighting them up! I could see, feel and hear nature alive everywhere. The air was clear, crisp, fresh and easy to breath. So much for a city dweller! I felt I had all that I needed and I missed nothing really. There was a feeling of tranquility around and inside me. The presence of the almighty did REALLY seem to surround me.

And oh cold! I couldn’t believe I survived the cold so coolly. Till the last moment before leaving, I was worried about the layers I was carrying (which were pretty enough), because I had no familiarity with anything below six or seven degrees earlier. But all turned out smooth and soft, like a fresh whipped cream. Yes it was cold enough at nights to shiver one down. There was a childlike and stunned grin when on the first morning in the mountains I found water in the drum all frozen. This, in fact, is one of the most highlighted mentions to everyone I have been telling about my trip 😄. In all, those were chilled out days, in the very literal sense.


So in four days, we were destined to hike from the base camp Lohajung to Bhimtal camp, then to Brahmatal camp, then to the summit for a phenomenal finale sight of Himalayan Garhwal range of Nandaghunti, Trishul and Mrigtuni, and then hiking down to Lohajung on the fourth day. This was about all it was! Who also earned a mention are the people of mountains, the paharis, who were just as I heard in description from other travelers, sweet as sugarcane. I was amazed not to have found any grime or annoyed face in the villages I crossed up there. Those places and people had no artifice. May be the mountain effects! I want to thank enough everyone whom I got associated with for this trip. India Hikes, who apart from being a professional hiking organizer, equally provided a very easygoing and homelike surround. Our IH aides to the summit were Arvind, Namgyal, Raka & Gopal, each one of them stayed with us even after we left the place. I also have to thank my co-travelers Vivek, Shital, Soumya, Balaji, Sushant, Manjunath, Srinivas, Manish, Deepu, Arun, Sadhvi, Shubham, Vikram, Nishant, Kashish & Rishabh to have serendipitously opted the batch I opted for 😊. As is once read quote by Nelson Mandela, “After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.” Sure, I’d say.

While we, atheists and theists, in one voice, appreciate the creator for his creations, we also are in a grim need of contemplating the reverse actions. Nature needs to be equally pampered, to be loved deeply. The soil, the sea, the mountains don’t deserve the filth that we human beings audaciously & thoughtlessly carry around – the plastics, the smoke, the pollutants, the non-degradable, the inorganic. For what if He said ‘Don’t be’?

PS: मैंने सोचा लोग दरबदर क्यों भटकतें हैं ईश्वर या अल्लाह की पनाह में आने को। साल में एक दो बार पहाड़ों में ही क्यों नहीं आ रह जाते। समंदर और उसकी विशाल काया देख मैं हमेशा मंत्रमुग्ध हुई हूँ, उसकी धाक की कायल भी। अब ऊँचे पहाड़ों में भी उतनी ही श्रद्धा हो गयी है। पहले कुछ नास्तिक थी, अब आस्तिक हो गयी हूँ। क़ुदरत मज़हब है, और ख़ुदा भी।


(For more trekking trails, visit https://indiahikes.com/ )

रात और रास्ते

यूँ तो ट्रैफ़िक का शोर-शराबा किसे पसंद है, मग़र ढ़लती रात को जब सब शांत होने लगता है, सड़के ख़ाली हो जाती है, तब सरर्र से गुज़रती कुछ चंद गाड़ियों की हुँकार मुझे बड़ी अच्छी सी लगती है। वो हॉर्न की आवाज़ और तीख़ी हो जाती है। जैसे हमारे शाँत मन में कुछ ख़याल अचानक शोर कर जाते हैं, जगा जाते हैं, वैसे ही ये आवाज़ें रात के सन्नाटे को जगा जाती है। सड़को पर कितना कुछ बीतता है, गुज़रता है ना।
अभी अभी एक ट्रक गुज़रा था दूर से, वही बुलँद आवाज़ में हिनहिनाता हुआ। पता नहीं कहाँ से आया, और कहाँ जा रहा होगा। ड्राइवर कौन होगा, उसका परिवार कहाँ होगा, कितनी रातों को जागा होगा, कितने दिन बस सोया होगा। कहानियाँ होंगी बेहिसाब !
और अब शायद एक स्पोर्ट्स कार टाइप गुज़री है साँय-साँय करती। पॉर्श की हो शायद, या कोई और। होगा कोई जवाँ दिल अपने लड़कपन में झूमता हुआ, मचलता हुआ।
ट्रक और पॉर्श, और सड़क एक। सड़क भी 'क्लास डिफरेंस' को समझती होगी शायद? बतियाती भी होगी हर गुज़रती गाड़ी से। कहती होगी, सुनो, तुम जो भी हो, चार-पहिया, दू-पहिया या दस-पहिया, गुज़रना तो तुम्हें मुझ पर होकर ही है!

वैसे रास्तों की बात है तो मुझे उन पर जमे चौराहे बड़े पसंद है, जैसे तुम्हें चार तोहफ़े दिये हों कि जो चाहे ले लो। उम्मीद जैसे उमड़ती है, भरमाता भी है मन। यूँ तो रास्तों पर अब साइन बोर्ड्स होते ही हैं, मग़र कभी कभी लगता है कि ये ना होते तो बेहतर होता। अपने आप रास्ता खोजते, ग़ुम जाते, मिल जाते, फ़िर ग़ुम जाते, फ़िर मिल जाते।

ये है दुनिया-ए-हुस्न-ओ-इश्क़ ..

चलो बेख़ौफ़ हो कुछ कर जाएँ

चलो बेख़ौफ़ हो कुछ करते हैं
ख़ुद ही ख़ुद से लड़ जाएँ
ख़ुद ही सुलह कर जाएँ
रात को सफ़ेद रंग जाएँ
दिन को रात कर जाएँ
चलो बेख़ौफ़ हो कुछ कर जाएँ
बह जाएँ या तर जाएँ
या फ़िर दरिया निगल जाएँ
मिल जाएँ बिछड़ जाएँ
बिछड़कर फ़िर मिल जाएँ
चलो बेख़ौफ़ हो कुछ कर जाएँ
पिंजरे को कैद कर जाएँ
ख़ुद पर लगा कर उड़ जाएँ
जी जाएँ मर जाएँ
मर कर फ़िर उठ जाएँ
चलो बेख़ौफ़ हो कुछ कर जाएँ

तू दूर कहीं है

तू दूर कहीं है पर तेरी महक यहीं है शिकायत तुझसे नहीं शिकायत हवाओं से है !

तू दूर कहीं है तेरे ख्व़ाब यहीं है शिकायत तुझसे नहीं शिकायत रातों से है !

तू दूर कहीं है तेरे चर्चे यहीं है शिकायत तुझसे नहीं शिकायत महफ़िलों से है !

thought over a mango

Summers. I had the seasons' first mango. It wasn't that good but still tasted good. Because it was first. I love mangoes, any which ways. So while eating, I started pondering randomly. Not really crazy, but yes, crazy. I started pondering. That from where this mango might have reached right to me. Like where must be that tree which it was hanging on to some days back. That tree must be still standing somewhere, decked lusciously up with thousands of fruits. How old that tree must be. Who might have sown the seed years ago. Is he/she alive or dead now. Whose hands would have done the job of cultivating it from a sapling to big tree. Might be one. Or might be many hands together. Who might have plucked this mango and sold it in the 'mandi'. How many channels it might have crossed. How many. How many people were involved. Yes, so many.

The next moment I felt, 'Oh! it is the same process involved in everything we eat or utilize in and out'. This pondering didn't mean much sense. Nothing actually. But I felt good thinking this for a minutes' or seconds' while. This thought totally amazed me that we are so organically unintentionally unknowingly connected to people and places we don't know or would never get to know. We are all so interconnected. We are so really global. Wow.

PS: I love water melons too :)

I'm explaining a few things, By Pablo Neruda

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
 and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
 and the rain repeatedly spattering
 its words and drilling them full
 of apertures and birds?
 I'll tell you all the news.

 I lived in a suburb,
 a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
 and clocks, and trees.

 From there you could look out
 over Castille's dry face:
 a leather ocean.
 My house was called
 the house of flowers, because in every cranny
 geraniums burst: it was
 a good-looking house
 with its dogs and children.
 Remember, Raul?
 Eh, Rafel?         Federico, do you remember
 from under the ground
 my balconies on which
 the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
 Brother, my brother!
 Everything
 loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
 pile-ups of palpitating bread,
 the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
 like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
 oil flowed into spoons,
 a deep baying
 of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
 metres, litres, the sharp
 measure of life,
 stacked-up fish,
 the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
 the weather vane falters,
 the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
 wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

 And one morning all that was burning,
 one morning the bonfires
 leapt out of the earth
 devouring human beings --
 and from then on fire,
 gunpowder from then on,
 and from then on blood.
 Bandits with planes and Moors,
 bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
 bandits with black friars spattering blessings
 came through the sky to kill children
 and the blood of children ran through the streets
 without fuss, like children's blood.

 Jackals that the jackals would despise,
 stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
 vipers that the vipers would abominate!

 Face to face with you I have seen the blood
 of Spain tower like a tide
 to drown you in one wave
 of pride and knives!

 Treacherous
 generals:
 see my dead house,
 look at broken Spain :
 from every house burning metal flows
 instead of flowers,
 from every socket of Spain
 Spain emerges
 and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
 and from every crime bullets are born
 which will one day find
 the bull's eye of your hearts.

 And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
 speak of dreams and leaves
 and the great volcanoes of his native land?

 Come and see the blood in the streets.
 Come and see
 The blood in the streets.
 Come and see the blood
 In the streets!

(Translated by Nathaniel Tarn)

Aaj Din Gustaakh Hai.
Yeh Din Mere Blog Ki Shuruaat Hai.