Murmur of the Lonely Brook

by Debashis Dey

  Nisha smiled and asked, “So how was it in the big city? Is it true that there are more cars than people?”

  “Oh yes, there are so many cars. Big cars, very big cars, and special cars.”

  “Did you ride in any of them?”

  “Quite a few,” Diwakar said with an air. He did not mention that it took him half an hour and great courage to cross the road every day. “But somehow, I like my village more than any other place.”

  “Why so? I heard the city was full of beautiful girls,” Nisha said teasingly.

  Diwakar looked at her and wanted to say, Not as beautiful as you. But all he said was, “I haven’t met any.”

  Nisha smiled and kept walking. Diwakar thought for a while and then took out his mobile phone, browsed swiftly and then played a popular song:

  Below the clear blue sky,

  with the sun shining bright,

  let’s ride away my love,

  let me be your knight...

  While in the city, he had loaded all the latest songs onto his mobile phone. He was happy that a song could say much more than he could. He looked at Nisha and gave her one of his adolescent smiles, a smile pure and innocent.

  Nisha looked at Diwakar and felt sad. She knew how strongly he dreamt of joining the army and how passionate he was about donning the uniform. She remembered the many times he told her about the distant peaks and how one day he would ride to the top and take charge of the country’s border. He was older than her brother, but with him being around, she did not miss her own brother as much. The first few weeks had been difficult. He was shy and never spoke to her. The few times they looked eye-to-eye he moved away with just a faint trace of a smile. It took over a month before they exchanged words but she could always make out his presence in the form of small gifts passed on through either Parvati or Ria. Be it some wild flowers or apricots or some other fruits. She knew that he loved his aaté very much and both spent time chatting and wandering around the valley. Apart from his mother, Pravin had asked Nisha to take especially good care of his brother and Nisha had done her best, though there was nothing much to do.

  Parvati walked a bit behind them. She stopped every now and then to chase the kid and the lamb. She could not leave them at home for fear of dogs; it would be at least a few more months before they could take care of themselves. After a while, she left them; she knew that they would come running behind her if the gap increased. She looked ahead and saw the floating puffs of clouds. They were not the dark clouds that carried rain but she was worried. The monsoon had come in late this year. Last year there was less snowfall and the fields were dry. Finally, Devta, the local deity, was brought to the riverbank, puja was performed, and two lambs were sacrificed; only then had the rains come. But now the rains needed to stop. Maybe another puja and sacrifice were needed.

  Devta held the whole village together, although he was just an idol, a local deity. But when Devta spoke, he provided answers, advice, and solutions to every problem. He spoke through Gur, the village priest, a person selected by him through a ritual when the Devta took possession of his body and soul and announced himself. The Gur interpreted his words and the villagers abided by what he said. The Devta owned land, a pickup van, and a storehouse. The villagers took turns tilling his land and driving his Jeep and earnings were kept in the custody of the temple. Though there were two others, Mother Goddess and the Serpent God, the main god was Samsher. Legend said that it was Samsher who founded their village hundreds of years ago, and he was rich and powerful. Six families (one low caste among them) accompanied him and settled here. His fame reached far and wide and it was said that he and his brother together killed the notorious ruler of Kalpa in a fair fight. While he settled here, his brother moved beyond the hills and was currently the Devta of fifteen villages. Both of them came from the high hills, which were now held sacred. A handful of youth selected by the Devta himself were allowed to visit once every year and bring down brahma kamal and other rare flowers on special occasions. There were very few snakes in the valley but still the Serpent God was held with reverence. No one could cook any fish, chicken, or eggs on the land marked for him.

  The pathway ended in a grass meadow and a new vista opened in front of them. The buckwheat had blossomed and a pink carpet stretched to the base of the hills with its flowers gently swaying with the wind. A few yellow patches of mustard grass lay in between; butterflies danced, birds flew in search of food and sunlight broke through the clouds every now and then. The peaks stood still in the background, their spiritual silence broken only by the springs. Diwakar watched Nisha walk gracefully through the field. She undid the shawl and set it below a tree and sat down. Diwakar sat cross-legged next to her and soon Parvati joined them. Nisha passed on tea to her and smiled.

  “Aama, why do you look so worried?”

  “Aama is always worried,” said Diwakar.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? The rains have damaged half the crops. This year we will have only two or three sacks and that’s not enough to feed six people.”

  “Don’t worry, Aama, everything will be all right,” Nisha said.

  Parvati got up, looked at the fields, and said, “Let’s get started. The rains could come at any moment.”

  Everyone started for the field while the kid and the lamb played around the tree munching grass and anything green. The buckwheat stood erect on its maroon stems. They started out green but after the flowering, they slowly turn into a pleasant pink while the wild variety remained green with just a tinge of yellow.

  Nisha and Parvati started in one direction while Diwakar went farther down. The buckwheat was cut from the base and set down in bunches for drying. Once dried, the bunches were beaten on large sheets to separate the seeds. The stems would be dried further to serve as cattle food during winter. By noon, half the field was done. While Nisha and Parvati managed a quarter of the field, Diwakar was halfway through and met them with a proud smile. Everyone needed a break to stretch as constant bending caused muscle strains. While Nisha passed on the pancakes, placing a pickle on them, Diwakar played songs on his phone. The kid and the lamb came and started tugging at Parvati. She gave both a piece of pancake; the kid gobbled it up but the lamb was not interested.

  Ria was on her way to school when she noticed her father sipping tea at the local shop. There was only one shop in the village that sold daily necessities. It also doubled as a hotel and served tea and maggi noodles. Most of the goods were second quality or contraband. The villagers never complained, as the next shop was fourteen kilometers away in Sangla. Bharat Singh ran the shop; he came from the plains and married a local girl, Dayawanti. But after three years of marriage, when she failed to give him a child, he went back home and got married again. His second wife gave birth to a girl and then two more in the consecutive years. Bharat stayed in the village and ran the shop, sending most of the profits to his second wife. Only in winter did he spend time with his daughters. Dayawanti accepted her fate and did her best to serve her husband. Apart from cooking, she took care of the shop, keeping everyone occupied with her constant chatter. It was as if she served as the radio local station, because one could get almost any information from her. She also enjoyed picking up goods from as far away as Peo and Rampur for the shop, though she rarely enjoyed the fruits of profit. Bharat normally sat at the counter on a large box watching a portable TV while a heater warmed his bottom. He kept swearing at Dayawanti for the smallest perceived shortcoming. He rarely moved. In absence of Dayawanti, the customers picked things up and brought them to him for payment.

  Ria ran into the shop and opened a jar of bubble-gum. She picked up a few pieces, smiled at Shevak, and proceeded on her way.

  A light drizzle came in and Shevak and others ran inside the shop. Bharat looked at him and asked, “Is it true that Diwa passed the physical test but could not make it through the written one?”

  Shevak grunted under his breath and said, “Those bastards don’t teach anything at the school, they ar
e just here to take their fat salaries.”

  “That may be true but one needs to spend money for such jobs. I know someone who gave two hundred thousand rupees to get his son inside,” Bharat said.

  “In which case I would prefer him to stay at home and look after the cows,” Shevak said and lit up a bidi.

  Bharat decided not to push the subject, as he was aware of Shevak’s bad temper.

  The rains reached the field also. First, it was a drizzle that floated down from the east and then it covered the field in a mist. Very soon, the three hurried to the shade of a large tree. Parvati crouched on one side and pulled her shawl on top of her head while Diwakar and Nisha stood on the other side. The tree provided some cover but then a big drop splashed on Nisha’s face, on her cheek and ran down. Diwakar was standing close and felt a strong urge to kiss her rain-kissed lips. But before long, another drop splashed on his eyes and Nisha laughed. A puddle formed next to them and the raindrops formed ringlets, breaking the silver at places where it hit the water. The rain fell harder; the slow drumming sound of water on oak leaves filled the space and very soon, everyone was wet. Nisha looked far away at the hazy mountains. Rains brought back memories, memories of her parents, her aaya, her brother, and memories of childhood.

  Nisha was thinking about Pravin. She remembered the meetings at Peo and his eyes full of dreams. There was no such thing as an affair; in the hills, marriage happens first and then love. In the hills, life is more primal and routine. Marriage is a duty, an unwritten contract to labor for the rest of one’s life in exchange for food and shelter. No one complained. No one thought that life could be something different. She remembered her aaya, who told her about Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati—that they were the ideal couple and Parvati the ideal wife, who would sacrifice her life for her husband. Every girl should aspire to be a wife like her and devote her entire life to her husband. After marriage, a woman should never look at any other man and always keep her eyes down in front of others. She should keep herself covered as far as possible and never speak in the presence of other men. She should always walk one step behind her husband and follow him for the rest of her life.

  Diwakar looked at Nisha, who was obviously lost in thought. Nisha’s kameez was plastered to her body; it accentuated her breasts, her slim hips, thighs, and whole body. Diwakar had a strong desire to hold her close; more than passion, he wanted to care for her. Nisha, as if sensing his thoughts, smiled at him and ran her finger down his nose, stopping briefly at his lips. He felt a stirring inside and a wave of excitement ran through his body. He stepped out of the shade into the rain and looked up stretching his hands. The rains cooled him down as it splattered his face.

  “You’ll get sick,” Nisha shouted above the sound of the rain.

  “Not me,” he said as he dashed out to the fields.

  Rains don’t last for long in the mountains. They travel from one valley to another washing the leaves and leaving small puddles and pearls on the grass. Awhile later, the rains lessened and the three walked back toward home. Ria, after coming back from school, made a few pancakes. Both she and her father had dinner and were watching TV when the three came in. They changed into dry clothes and then went straight to the bukhari to sit close to the fire. Soon the warmth spread and Parvati mixed rice and dal for making khichdi. She was in no mood to make pancakes after a long day. After dinner, everyone went to sleep. Diwakar decided to sleep next to the bukhari. He was feeling cold after his long day in the plains. He pushed in two thick logs and stretched out on the sheepskin.

  In the other room, Nisha was awake and looked out of the window. Everything was dark except for the few lights flickering on the hills far away. The sky was clear now and she could see a million stars hanging overhead. A few stray dogs barked in the distance. The house, Ria, the entire village was sleeping. Only a faint song came floating inside…

  Let’s ride away my love,

  let me be your knight...

  Chapter 3

  Pravin was waiting with others for the bus. It never came on time but everyone got used to it. This helped Bharat’s business as the bus-stand was next to his shop. People ordered tea, biscuits, bidi, and more if the bus was delayed. Sometimes the driver and his helper would order food, rice, and dal, prompting other passengers to get off and shop. The bus traveled another ten km to Chitkul, the last Indian village before Tibet, now under Chinese occupation. Passengers only got up on the return trip.

  Dayawanti came out of the shop and said to Pravin, “If you are going to Peo, you can come along with me. I’m leaving in half an hour with Balbir.”

  Pravin thought for a second and said, “Okay, that will be much better and save me time. But I don’t have much money.”

  “That’s all right. Just pay whatever you can. I have reserved the Jeep.”

  “When will you be coming back?”

  “It will be quite some time before I come back.”

  “So, you got a job?”

  “Not yet, but I am sure I will get one,” Pravin said confidently.

  “But how can you stay away from such a beautiful wife? You have just married and she will miss you.”

  Pravin smiled and gave a stoic look. The job was more important to him. He knew that Nisha was an understanding woman and would wait. Pravin took a seat and ordered tea. There were thousand of things going on in his mind. He needed to earn money. He did not want to get trapped in household work. He did not want to spend the rest of his life tending the cattle, collecting grass and firewood, and brewing liquor. He wanted to break away and make it big, not only for himself but also to provide some comfort and relief to the family. He had already provided his mother with a helping hand and stayed at home for the last six months but now he needed to move out. The six months had been bittersweet. He had had long arguments with Shevak. He wanted money for a shop, which Shevak refused to give or lend to him. He did not mind his aau’s outbursts as he knew he really did not have much in savings. He tried to get a loan to buy a Jeep, but again, the bank wanted some guarantee. The only solace was with Nisha who understood and listened to him. She was always confident that he would find a way.

  Balbir came with his Jeep and parked it in front of the shop. He had just washed the car near the river and it looked clean and glowing in the sun. The Jeep was a four-seater but most of the time it carried six. People also traveled on the carrier meant for goods. Balbir was one of the most reliable drivers in the region and he also maintained his car. He had been driving a long time and knew every corner, bend, and rough patch on the route. Balbir lived with his mother. His father was from Nepal. Balbir’s mother had three unmarried sisters and after marriage, his father was expected to stay with his in-laws, as he was the only male member of the family. He stayed for a few years but then left for Rampur where he worked with the PWD.

  Balbir had spent his childhood with his uncle in Chandigarh, who made him work like a laborer though he took him in under the pretext of bringing him up with a proper education. Most of his childhood and youth were spent doing errands until he got into driving. By then he was fed up with city life and returned to his village. He knew that the mountain did not allow its own people to stay away long; it did not like to lose them. Though the hill people looked down on the plains, to make a living they had to return to the mountain at some point or another.

  Balbir married soon afterward, but even after eight years, they did not have a child. He had performed puja several times and even called the local Lama to recite hymns but to no avail.

  Dayawanti started off the moment the car hit the road. “Look at Lalaji! How comfortably he sits in the shop while I do all the donkeywork. Travel such a distance, buy a thousand things, load them in this car, check the bills, bring them back and then place them in the shop. Is this a woman’s work? And all the while, he sits there and watches TV. My sister even comes to give him food.”

  “You can easily say no!” said Pravin, but Balbir smiled silently. He like others was use
d to her rumblings and no longer paid much heed to them.

  Dayawanti continued for some time and then stopped. Both she and Pravin shared the front seat while a few people got in the back seat. Some would go as far as Sangla while others would go a bit farther. There was also a patient, an old woman, accompanied by a lady. There was no hospital in the village. A government clinic was located there but had no supply of medicines and most of the time the doctor was absent. It was only good for minor cuts and bruises, as the jar of iodine was always full. If someone was sick, his family served him soups and offered puja. If the illness was severe, the person was taken to Sangla. It was more difficult in winter when the roads remained closed. Most of the patients would die on the road due to either the cold or the stress and strain of the trip.

  Very soon, the Jeep was out of the village and the valley opened up before them. The Baspa River fell from a gorge and, gracing a group of age-old boulders with chilled splashing water, ran down between the hills toward Sutlej. The apple orchards were in full bloom; the apricot trees spread their branches with ripe yellow fruits; walnuts and blueberries provided a playground for barbets and finches feasting merrily. Balbir switched on his tape to play music. It was a welcome change from Dayawanti’s blabbering and everyone fell silent.

  Rakcham was two thousand feet above Sangla and the road was mostly downhill. Sangla was a bit larger than a village, approaching the size of a township. It had a bank, hospital, a few hotels, a magistrate’s office, and a police station. The main market was about a hundred yards in length. Tourists flocked the streets. Balbir made a quick stop and then started again. It was much warmer here and the road had quite a bit of traffic at this time of the year, mostly trucks from the plains, which came to load apples from the orchards. Everyone was in a hurry to return, as quite often the rains caused landslides. Earlier and even now, trees were being cut indiscriminately and erosion had taken over. Balbir heard from a tourist that in the western world, dams were shunned as they disturbed the environment, but here new projects were passed every day with little concern for the natural habitat. Rivers had been gagged with concrete, forced to travel different routes, sometimes held back, and sometimes overflowed. Thousands of trees had been cut, mountains blasted, birds and animals forced to flee their homes, and all this just to serve a handful of businessmen or politicians in their quest for money and power.