The Himalayan Arc

by Namita Gokhale

  A lesser man might have pursued this lapse with aggression or retreated into a lasting rancour, but not Mr Sanchan. He used this incident as a spur for ethnographic enlightenment and in a spirit of open enquiry, he interrogated everyone and absorbed the ramifications of the population into numerous tribes, sub-castes and clans, each with their own peculiarities. Even after Mr Sanchan familiarized himself with these to the extent that he astonished his visitors by accurately guessing their extractions, his own surprise never completely receded. Who would have known that there were so many variations among people who essentially looked the same?

  As the representative of a central government scheme, and one for which an impending Japanese funding was rumoured, his position in Gangtok was an ambassadorial one. A moment of engulfing pride arrived in the beginning of his third year when the official mascot for HESAM was chosen as the Himalayan yellow-tailed civet. It was a creature unique to Sikkim, and had been driven to near-extinction in retribution for its poultry-stealing habits. The mascot and the logo were unveiled at a grand ceremony and everyone from Mr Sanchan’s old office in Delhi, save for Mr Khanna and Mr Singh, attended it and congratulated him on his work. The chief minister of Sikkim singled him out for admiration: ‘There is so much that you can teach us.’

  Now in Lajpat Nagar, the day’s accumulating heat made Mrs Sanchan bring the hydrangeas in. They were always in danger of withering. She brought the smallest pot in by herself then glared at her husband until he whistled his way to the balcony and brought the rest in. She drew the thick brocaded Tibetan cloth curtains which shut out the sun. The room cooled.

  ‘We should have got another set of those curtains,’ Mr Sanchan ventured.

  ‘Ask her for another set.’ The curtains had been gifted by Mrs Bhutia, just before he had approved her promotion.

  Mrs Bhutia was a sensitive topic between Mr and Mrs Sanchan.When he took charge, she was a joint secretary with the environment department who had been deputed to HESAM. Until a short while back, she had sung with the All India Radio at Tibet Road. She constantly hummed to herself, and one day, Mr Sanchan found himself accompanying her to the tune of ‘Panna ki tamanna hai’. It gave him the burst of confidence that shy people need to confess their own talents. When Mrs Bhutia insisted that he was as arid as all the senior officers she had known, he brought in photographs to prove his boast of winning a ghazal competition in his college days, and he had never seen anyone so glad to concede a mistake.

  At the wedding of the environment minister’s second son, Mrs Bhutia invited him to sing a duet on stage. Sachit accompanied them on the guitar – this was another of his talents. They sang ‘Gata rahe mera dil’, their synchronization enhanced by extensive practice sessions at Mrs Bhutia’s house. The department was astounded by the range of Mr Sanchan’s vocal abilities – why had he waited so long to let them know? Overnight, the directorate was transformed into a building of old Hindi film song enthusiasts. At a function, Mr Sanchan was heralded by the chief minister in a much-quoted speech: ‘Sanchan is one of those men who bring the light of culture wherever they go.’

  The duets ceased shortly after Mrs Bhutia attained the rank of additional director, with the support of Mr Sanchan. Mr Pradhan and Mr Lepcha objected to the forced parity, for she had been a joint director for only two years, and to make it so easy was demeaning to the high office. Mrs Bhutia went to Mr Sanchan and sniffed that the whole department was whispering about them. It was such a glamorous insinuation that Mr Sanchan failed to be offended, but he acknowledged that it was not the same for women. And then there was the delicate matter of Mrs Sanchan’s feelings. Mrs Pradhan and Mrs Lepcha had each invited Mrs Sanchan for lunch when their husbands were away on tour to the West District. When he returned home, he found that she had turned insecure about the sincerity of his affection. Tears were shed and hands held on hearts. There were to be no more duets. Mr Sanchan and Mrs Bhutia suppressed their songs and the light of culture faded from the Directorate of Biodiversity.

  Now, in Lajpat Nagar, Mr Sanchan resisted going for a nap after lunch, unlike Mrs Sanchan, who gave in to the heaviness and was soon emitting contented snores. In the street, drainage works were being undertaken by the Public Works Department and the bureaucrat in him could not resist an inspection.

  The works were around his colony’s courtyard where the gulmohar tree was located. Its roots had broken through the pavement in a number of places and now constituted a picturesque hazard. The workers sawed through the roots, and Mr Sanchan felt their wounding. He knew he was powerless here – to protest would invite ridicule – but he wished he could at least write a column about it.

  Sikkim had brought out the best in him. In the same way that it had teased out Mrs Sanchan’s passion for horticulture, it helped the latent writer in her husband emerge. As part of the outreach programme for the Himalayan yellow-tailed civet, Mr Sanchan had interacted with the local media. At the suggestion of the editor of Sikkim Everyday, Mr Sanchan wrote a piece on the endangered animal and this, the editor told him, was so well received that he was soon authoring a regular column, ‘A Forester Speaks’. At public functions and ceremonies, he met people who thanked him for revealing their homes to themselves. Mr Lepcha went furthest in his adulation, printing a line from Mr Sanchan’s cogitation on the forests of Nainital and framing it for his office: ‘In the woods, the heart is not alone, even when it is alone.’

  By the end of his fourth year, Mr Sanchan had written enough pieces to warrant a collation. It was titled A Forester Speaks: Reminiscences of a Himalayan Sojourn and it was a bestseller at the directorate and critically acclaimed by its salaried staff. Mr Pradhan and Mr Lepcha bought 300 copies each, paying upfront. They were overshadowed by the environment minister, who bought a thousand copies, and had them distributed in his constituency. ‘Let them know what a great man we have in our midst.’

  There was an occasion during Mr Sanchan’s final year, at a plantation drive in Punkeybung in the environment minister’s constituency, where the former was the chief guest. The formal function was held in the school ground. The villagers sang and danced for him and presented him with a tribal shawl, which they insisted he wear for the remainder of the day. Later, during refreshments served at the local panchayat leader’s house, he passed a room with a study table – the panchayat’s child perhaps? – and saw a copy of his book, open and kept face down on the table. Who could have been unmoved by such devotion? Mr Sanchan could never remember the scene without choking.

  Now in Lajpat Nagar, in the early afternoon, Mr Sanchan paused before he re-entered his apartment. A boy ran down the staircase that wound around the lift. It was the Nepali helper from the kirana shop below on a delivery. He was new. As he turned at the landing, Mr Sanchan attempted the little Pradhani he had learnt. ‘Kasto chau?’

  The boy skipped down the stairs; he had recently been slapped for using the lifts for his deliveries. At the landing he turned and said in Hindi, ‘Theek hai.’

  ‘Sikkim yaad chha?’

  ‘Nai maloom.’

  If at all Mrs Sanchan stooped to confide that she missed Sikkim, she would mention Mrs Lepcha, the most constant of her Sikkimese companions. Mrs Sanchan preferred her company to that of Mrs Pradhan, for Mrs Lepcha spoke sparingly without being instructive while Mrs Pradhan never stopped trying to teach Mrs Sanchan something or the other about Sikkim, about gardening, about servants. Mrs Lepcha made herself responsible for Laizhal Villa’s shopping, saving Mrs Sanchan the trouble of weekly trips to Laal Bazaar. And once a month, she visited Laizhal Villa with a sack filled with seasonal vegetables and fruit from her farm in Lingthem, located high in Dzongu, that steep and fertile enclave in north Sikkim which was the natural home of her forebears. When Mrs Sanchan had a particularly bad attack of joint pain in the first year, Mrs Lepcha took her to a hot spring close to her farm in Lingthem. Mrs Sanchan’s bones were so mollified by the soaking that it became a yearly pilgrimage, and did much to keep that ineradicable afflict
ion in check.

  It was to her that Mrs Sanchan turned in the last year of their stay. Her husband was adamant about his retirement, at a time when she had finally opened her heart to Sikkim. For Mr Sanchan’s work, too, it was a propitious time. The project reports were just beginning to show results and the Japanese had agreed to fund a Museum for Endangered Species in Sikkim and insisted that it be executed under Mr Sanchan, who had been such a pleasure to negotiate with.

  Mrs Sanchan wept to Mrs Lepcha about her husband’s selfishness. Mrs Lepcha pleaded, he could not go, not just when his work was bearing fruit. ‘If not for yourself, then stay for Sikkim’s sake.’

  There was a compromise. After his retirement, they would not return to Delhi but live in Sikkim. It was the place where he had found the respect he deserved, where the creative artist in him was given nutrition and where Mrs Sanchan’s health had improved. They were content here, their children were grown and dispersed, and the natives were so hospitable, it was a wonder they found time for themselves. Since they were not Sikkimese, they could not buy land here, for this was a protected state, but they could always rent – and how many had already offered them their homes and cottages. He would work on a recent ambition, a companion volume to A Forester Speaks, a fitting end-piece to what had become an illustrious career.

  In Lajpat Nagar, he went into the bedroom and nudged his wife awake. ‘Did we forget something in Sikkim?’

  ‘No. Stop doing this every afternoon.’

  ‘I keep thinking we have forgotten something.’

  ‘Then go back and get it.’

  His retirement picnic was held in August, at Saramsa, a riverside park in a valley close to Gangtok, and organized almost single-handedly by Sachit, by now recognized as a valuable resource in such matters. At Mr Sanchan’s request it was a vegetarian affair, and at Mrs Sanchan’s request alcohol was not served. The whole of the biodiversity directorate and much of the parent environment department was in attendance, but they were outnumbered by attendees from allied departments such as agriculture, irrigation, power, and rural development, a testimonial to Mr Sanchan’s popularity. There was good cheer all around: everybody spoke of his refusal to lobby for an extension, and that too just as the funds for the next five years were on the verge of arriving. It was such an unselfish and inspiring act that they hoped Sikkim’s senior bureaucrats would all learn something from him.

  There was a brief moment of apprehension when Mr Lepcha fainted, no one knew why. Although he denied it, it was obvious that it was because of his grief at Mr Sanchan’s departure. Though he was incoherent for a while, he recovered soon enough to be the emcee at the little speech ceremony they held for Mr Sanchan.

  Sachit played the guitar while Mr Sanchan teamed up with Mrs Bhutia, under Mrs Sanchan’s permission, for one last time to sing ‘Dil pukare, aarey aarey’, a song with especial resonance for it was from Jewel Thief, a Dev Anand film which had been shot in Sikkim. There was so much warmth in the gathering that everyone, even Mrs Sanchan, sang along. Mrs Bhutia also presented Mrs Sanchan with a specially tailored bakhu she could wear to the many social occasions Mr and Mrs Sanchan were going to be invited to, now that they had time on their hands. The environment minister, on his way to his constituency, dropped in to offer a personal farewell and presented Mr Sanchan with a luggage set, an ominous gift perhaps. Before he left for another function, he invited everyone to his daughter’s wedding, to be held in December. She was marrying the son of the additional secretary of the education department, and it was a love marriage, not something arranged by the Department of Personnel. He wagged his finger and said, ‘Attendance is compulsory.’

  There was an unscripted moment when Karma, the peon, spoke. He would never know anyone like principal director saab. He had learnt so much from the great man from Delhi. He then insisted on doing a farewell dance and the merriment increased when he stopped dancing to begin weeping. Mrs Sanchan later remarked that try as they might, they could never keep the locals away from their alcohol.

  Then Mr Sanchan spoke with a mixture of fear and joy. He was fearful because he did not know what lay ahead and he was joyful because he would continue having them as his friends. He hoped to make good on all the dinner invitations that he and Mrs Sanchan had just received. He thanked the department for allowing him the use of the bungalow for a further six months. Mrs Sanchan, shy in public as always, declined to speak.

  It was dark when the picnic ended, and when Mr Sanchan departed the gardens, his vehicle packed with the traditional khadas and presents, he saw some of the peons and lower officials dancing in the fading light. He could make out Karma’s stalk-like silhouette as it jerked to a faint beat, likely from a mobile phone. Karma tripped on a rock but found his feet and there was a burst of applause.

  Now, in Lajpat Nagar, Mr Sanchan took his afternoon shower to rid himself of any residual dullness. When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Mrs Sanchan standing on a stack of three cartons that held unsold copies of A Forester Speaks, in an attempt to access the upper shelves on the wardrobe. She looked at him with some guilt.

  ‘Get down now,’ he said. She stepped down and began to push the cartons back to their storage place under the bed. ‘You have no respect for education, no respect,’ he shouted at her.

  It was to be a cold winter for the Sanchans. After Mr Sanchan’s handover to Mr Lhaduri, the incoming principal director, was complete, they left for Delhi. There they spent Dusshera and Diwali with their children, who had converged from their distant homes and who fully supported their decision to live in Sikkim. Better to breathe the mountain air in the autumn of one’s life than to inhale the city’s smog. They returned to Sikkim in November and found that their support had halved. Only Maya had returned to work after the festivals. Chakrey, so useful for the gardens and for running errands, had decided to stay back in his village and help out his family in the fields. Mr Sanchan encouraged his wife to be more accepting – the rains were over for the year and the garden had always been an evanescent gift. He made her promise not to bring it up when she would meet Mrs Pradhan at the minister’s daughter’s wedding.

  When the invitation card did not arrive in the expected time, Mr Sanchan knew it was an oversight, for in his final days as the mission’s head, the minister had personally requested his attendance at least three times. He waited for someone from the department to visit him so that the lapse could be rectified. He called his former colleagues, offering help in what must be a very exhausting time. Only Sachit attended his call and assured him that it was all under control, now that the environment and education departments had both been pressed into its organization. When he enquired, ahem, if Sachit knew who was responsible for delivering his invitation, Sachit said, ‘Everyone is so busy, sir, you can come here and see for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  The evening before the wedding, Mr and Mrs Sanchan did not speak to each other. Their New Year too was spent at Laizhal Villa, without external company. In January, a tailor came to visit Mrs Sanchan with a bill for the bakhu that Mrs Bhutia had presented her at the farewell picnic. He was paid with more puzzlement that rancour. In February, Mr Lepcha called to inform Mr Sanchan that he had been unable to sell the 300 copies of A Forester Speaks which he had purchased. If Mr Sanchan had been more severe, as his wife wished he were, he would have reminded Mr Lepcha of his enthusiasm when volunteering to take the copies. In the end, Mr Sanchan paid half the printing costs in exchange for the books. They were delivered to him by Mrs Lepcha along with some vegetables, not in a sack as she had always done but more modestly, in a shopping bag. Mrs Sanchan asked her, ‘Have we done something wrong?’ She nodded with her habitual docility but would not give an answer and when she left, there was nothing in her behaviour to suggest that it was the last time Mrs Sanchan would see her.

  In February, Maya gave her notice. She wanted to return to her village and she was beyond any inducements the Sanchans could offer. Her sister was to be married soon and
they would need an extra hand at home. At least her reasons were genuine. They gave her two months’ salary as a bonus before she departed.

  Now in Lajpat Nagar, the day’s heat had retreated. They drew back Mrs Bhutia’s curtains. Mr Sanchan sat in the balcony and took in some of the evening’s coolness, which would change very soon, giving way to unremitting heat. He could stretch his legs now – the hydrangea pots were still in the living room.

  Perhaps he should bring them out and water them, he thought. His wife kept insisting that he take this on as a regular duty. Then he remembered her feet on his books, and he also found precious the space in the balcony thanks to the flowers’ absence. He said nothing and stretched his legs out as far as they would go.

  Perhaps all that happened might have been overlooked. They could have found another servant, or moved into a smaller house and learned to manage by themselves as they had done for two months after Maya’s departure. Mrs Sanchan took to shopping by herself at Laal Bazaar, where she was disturbed to find that none of the vegetable vendors had heard about her husband’s stature. She returned in tears from one of these trips because she had seen Maya accompanying Mrs Pradhan for her shopping. ‘They saw me, and they didn’t even try to hide.’

  Mr Sanchan comforted her by saying that this too was in the nature of things. After all, he had never been under any illusions; officers became obscure once their powers eroded.At least he still retained a genuine popularity among those who had served under him, the clerks and the peons of the directorate. He held this belief until the evening when he went for an evening walk and saw Karma at the Vajra Cinema Hall, emerging from the afternoon show. Their eyes met; Mr Sanchan waved, perhaps too eagerly; the peon turned his face to the side, spat and shuffled on. When Mr Sanchan remarked that public etiquette had declined so much since his retirement, Mrs Sanchan asked him to stop being a gentle fool.