Yours Whimsically - Part 9: Waking up with Stella

I chose ecology not with the motivation of delving deep into research. I knew I had one year in hand as part of my Master’s thesis and I wanted to make the most of it – go to different places as part of field work, meet new people, gain as much diverse experiences as possible. I looked at it as an opportunity in character building than a research project. Little did I know that I would be faced with my first challenge within a fortnight of reporting to work.

Disclaimer: I do not hate animals. I wouldn’t be in ecology if I did. It is just that I am a little scared. Err…quite a lot, actually!

I have taken some poetic license in describing the incidents here. You can consider this to be an exaggerated ‘fictional autobiography’ or ‘autobiographical fiction’.

It was a Thursday when Senior told me that we will be going to his city for project-related work. Always on the lookout for experiences, I agreed. Before going to anybody’s house, I usually ask them about their place, family and other details before finding out if they have pets. I don’t know how I missed it this time, though. I was about to enter the house when Senior asked me to wait. They have a dog – a 9-year old German Shepard – as a pet and he had to see to it that it did not overreact to a stranger – that’s me. I froze. It slowly dawned upon me that this was a point of no return. Bravely, I marched ahead. Despite all precautions and me sitting at the far end of the hall, Stella walked upto me and for a brief moment, before she was pulled away by Aunty or Brother (I was in such shock that I don’t even remember!), she rested her muzzle on my thigh. I wonder how I did not soil my pants out of fear! Perhaps my mind was in stupor to even react. I will never know.

In Hindu mythology, we have Asthu Devatas – divine beings who keep saying “Asthu”, meaning “So be it”. That is why, as children, we are told to always think about and say good things. I am pretty sure of having told my friends in some conversation that I wanted what-is-the-word-for-female-dogs? around me. I did not mean it in the ‘literal’ sense, though. I then realized that Asthu Devatas did not use Urban Dictionary.

When I met Uncle for the first time, he genially asked if I had made friends with Stella. I, hesitantly, replied that I am not a huge fan of dogs. He laughed and asked me to think of her to be human. I would, if only she walked on two legs. I did not say this aloud, though. “You cannot work in the field if you are this scared”, he said. I couldn’t tell him that in the wild, when confronted, all of us had the same reaction – to run. Could I?

Since we had very few appointments, we spent most of the time in the house. Stella was lazily lying in the hall, as we sat and talked, worked or watched movies. I must say I spent half my energy in just keeping an eye out for every little movement she made – stretching, getting rid of insects or merely moving a limb while asleep. I do not know if they had a pact but there were times when both Senior and Brother conveniently disappeared for a few minutes. Those were moments when I sat there, chanting names of all those gods I have been familiar with since childhood, hoping Stella remained asleep. She opened her eyes sometimes and looked at me. I think, she sensed that I was watching her. Senior’s advice flashed in my head – “Do not look into dogs’ eyes. They take it as a challenge”. I then shifted my gaze, pretended to look elsewhere, but watched her out of the corner of my eye. I could not even be scared, for I had heard a million times that ‘dogs sense fear and prey on it’. That is perhaps the worst punishment – you aren’t even allowed to feel fear. The moment either Senior or Brother entered, I heaved a sigh of relief. Battle won!

Everytime I sat down to eat, despite the food being very good, I was unable to relish it. Aunty asked if I was okay. How could I say I wasn’t? How could I say that half my mind and one of my eyes was constantly monitoring Stella, fervently praying that she didn’t come too close for comfort? Had I so constantly and single-mindedly thought of any god, I guess he or she would have been mighty impressed and appeared before me! The Happy Man standing on the table looked at me. I asked if he was laughing at my predicament. He merely continued to laugh.

The first night in their house was perhaps the most difficult. Blame the movies for those scenes where dogs sleep with their owners. I spent the entire night, waking intermittently just to make sure that Stella had not entered our room to sleep beside Senior. I couldn’t blame her if she did. It was her ‘territory’, after all, and I was the ‘intruder’, in ecological terms. Every night, I relived this ‘fantasy’ of waking up with Stella. And everytime, I got up sweating, not so much because of the heat as out of fear.

Four – five days into my stay there, Stella and I seemed to have come to an unspoken pact. ‘I respect you. Please stay away from me’ I said. ‘Alright. I don’t care who you are as long as you don’t cause trouble’ she replied. There were no attempts are getting friendly. No attempts at scaring me away. We had, perhaps, learnt to tolerate each other’s presence. And we lived happily ever after. Err…cut out the last three words, please.

P.S: For those of you who started reading this piece believing that Simha has entered into a “new genre” of writing, I am sorry. However, I hope this was worth your time!

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Part 2

Our trail began through a wooded path with tall, sturdy conifers and the Himalayas were no longer visible. Tenzi dai, our guide, told us that those forests are a gift from our colonial masters, who replaced indigenous flora with pine trees to supply wood for a variety of purposes.

We stopped for tea at Chittrey. The tea shop there was the last establishment on Indian soil, beyond which lay Nepal. Throughout the trek, we would often alternate between India and Nepal, we were told. Over tea, the weather changed dramatically with the sun preferring to hide behind the clouds.

As we walked through the forest upto our next pit-stop, we saw trees full of beautiful red and yellow rhododendrons. All this changed after the break and we were asked to take the motorable road, due to the fog. The fact that I had totally neglected any fitness routine came back to haunt me on the slightly inclined path we treaded. We were served lunch in a local household which doubled up as a hotel for trekkers. Funnily, when the food was served, we spent time experiencing the warmth of hot rice and dal than eating it. The next few minutes were silent, punctuated periodically by speech to ask for servings of the items, for all of us were terribly hungry. I do not know whether it was due to the fact that we were served good food, at such a height, in such cold or just that we were hungry or a combination of both. There had been no delicacies, no exotic dishes, yet there was a deep sense of satisfaction within.

Perhaps it was the food. Or perhaps, I was tiring after having walked for so long with a backpack. Post-lunch, on the last leg enroute to Tumling, our camp for the night, I slowed down a little. This resulted in me having to walk alone at times, giving me time to be with myself. I remembered having read this statement somewhere – “If you are lonely when you are alone, you are in bad company”. Fortunately, I found this experience quite enriching. As I walked, I did feel the urge to off-load my backpack to the mules next day onwards. However, I had come to the trek with the purpose of putting my physical and mental endurance to test, hadn’t I? Besides, you experience a masochistic high in that pain when you push yourself to the limit! Thus, those momentary urges were fought back.

The fog was now so thick that the visibility had reduced to perhaps less than five metres. It is when the external world has nothing to offer that the vision turns inward. I was concentrating on my breathing, trying to recollect what we had learnt about hemoglobin as part of a course in physiology. In those few precious minutes of silence, there was nothing to listen to but my own heartbeat. It is in moments such as these when you realize that, perhaps, a trek, where you focus on your breath, is also a method of meditation. With every step you take in the mountains, you learn to love your heart - tirelessly beating, womb to tomb - adding new dimensions to your outlook towards life.

That evening in Tumling, over soup, we had another ice-breaker session. Each one of us had to introduce ourselves along with what ‘excited’ us most. More importantly, each person had to remember the names and interests of everybody else preceding him or her. I felt sorry for Tom & Brownene, both British, as they struggled to pronounce our names. It was here that Hemanth joined the group. He had planned on trekking to Sandakphu alone. However, due to uncertainty in weather, he decided to join our group. Hemant had left a lucrative career in the corporate sector to co-found a trekking group in Bengaluru called Nature Walkers. I felt an admiration (with a tinge of envy!) at his courage to take such a decision, living life on his terms. He was then on a two month ‘sabbatical’ in the mountains. Why is it that we always admire those which do not conform to the norm?

The next morning, we were given a wake-up call at five-thirty so that we could catch a glimpse of the Sleeping Buddha range at sunrise. It is named so because it appears like a person sleeping, with Mt. Kumbhakarna forming the nose, Mt. Kanchenjunga, the belly and Mt. Kabru North and Mt. Kabru South, the feet. It was too cold and the fog was still lifting as we walked nearly a kilometer to a proper view point. From the view point, we could also see the Everest, far away. Despite a very strong temptation, I shall not be putting up any image of the Sleeping Buddha range here.  Looking at the mountains, we realized what all we had missed the previous day, walking through the fog. As the first rays of the sun kissed Kanchenjunga, it turned a beautiful shade of gold. Gradually, it shifted to yellow and finally white. A profound sense of peace filled within, at that sight. I will perhaps fail if I try to write down what exactly I felt at that moment. “Experience cannot be explained” (a very famous line from a very famous Kannada movie). Walking through dense fog had been worth the effort, after all.

Having had such a beautiful opening sequence, what would the day have in store for us? The trail that day to Kalipokhri lay through the Singalila National Park, home to the endangered red panda. Would we be able to see the elusive red bear-cat? Only time would tell. 

                                                                                                           To be continued...

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Part 1

To be frank, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the 3^rd-AC coach of the Humsafar Express. Perhaps because it is a relatively new train with new coaches, the train was fairly clean. What surprised me even more were the modern sanitary facilities like a jet-spray and a hand wash! The coach also had a feature of displaying the station which we were approaching, like the metros. It seemed like fiction! On the return journey, we were booked in a sleeper class coach, which was more ‘real’ – more like what I had expected on train journeys. I shall tell you more about it at a later stage.

As per schedule, we were supposed to reach NJP at 4.30 AM while our pick-up was at 9.30 AM. The train seemed to have understood my apprehension about having to spend five hours at a railway station and hence, by the time we reached the station, it was 9’o clock. Feeling an urgent need to use the washroom upon alighting, I was directed by the station staff to the washrooms near the second-class waiting room. While in the queue, I saw another person standing guard close to a toilet. I clearly understood why when my turn came – the toilet doors had no bolt on the inside! Having asked my friend to be with the luggage in the waiting area, I had nobody to guard while I was at my business. That was when I decided to resort to the universal code of coughing, whistling and singing! This code came in handy at our camp site in Sandakphu as well. There is another fairly interesting story about that campsite. But then, we will have to get there slowly.

We met some of our co-trekkers over breakfast at a modest hotel outside the station. Post-breakfast, we set off in three vehicles towards Jowbari (or Jaubhari), our base camp. My friend, Naman (he personally asked me to mention names – his name, at the least) and I were grouped with four others from IIM-A along our journey. I found it unique that a group of young men and women should choose a trek as their grad-trip than perhaps getting drunk in Goa or a road-trip to Ladakh – things which are trendy. One of them is a pretty good singer and he sang along most of the Rafi and Kishore Kumar’s songs which were played during the drive.  

The setting was perfect – beautiful music, cool wind and majestic mountains. What was missing was, perhaps, coffee. Those mountains can silence us into introspection. Reflecting, I realized how insignificant we are. Yet, we humans bore through mountains to create tunnels and roads, stamping our authority on nature. However, would we have been able to do something had nature willed against it? All it takes are a few seconds for any earthquake or landslide to destroy all those symbols of human conquest, along with our ego!

The journey was pretty uneventful and by the time we reached Jaubhari, it was late afternoon. Fog was setting in and the weather was turning cold, prompting us to wear multiple layers of clothing. We were let off for a while to socialize, call up home and rest. I spent time looking at the mountains till they disappeared behind the veil of fog, trying to understand what I was looking for on this trek.

Here, we met our trek leader, Sushant. Along with him was Karthik as part of the Green Trails, a highly commendable initiative by India Hikes. The idea is to collect any waste, plastic especially, which we come across along our trek, in the “Eco-Bags” which were given to us and deposit them at the next camp for disposal. Thus, we leave the mountains cleaner than they were when we entered them. Over tea, we were given our health cards and our BP, pulse and oxygen readings were taken. For the next six days, our pulse and oxygen readings would be taken thrice a day – in the morning, upon arrival at a camp and in the evening. What caused anxiety was the fact that in the health card, it was written that any parameter below a certain level mandated immediate evacuation. Everytime the oximeter was put on to take my readings, I sincerely prayed that the score was favorable, just like while waiting for results of an exam!

We were served hot soup, the first of the many delights that we were served through the trek, and Sushant explained the itinerary in some detail, with special stress on the no-smoking and no alcohol clause. There was also a mini ice-breaker session. An interesting observation about our batch is that the youngest member was 11 while the oldest was 52 years old. Dinner was good as well. Perhaps one reason why I would recommend India Hikes is the amazing food that they serve. Throughout the trek, at all camps, we were served quality food, not to forget the sweet dish and ‘hot drink’ (no euphemism there – we were provided Bournvita or ginger water!).

I was surprised to find myself happily going off to sleep at around 9’o clock, unlike in the hostel, where an average day ends at 1’o clock in the morning. I went to sleep wondering if the ensuing week would reset my biological clock to timings which my parents would be proud of!

The next morning, after a moderately heavy breakfast, we were set to begin our trek. With backpacks, shoes and trek poles, we looked professional. Through the clouds, we caught a fleeting glimpse of the snow-capped Himalayas, beckoning us and off, we were.                                                                                 

                                                                                                               To be continued…

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Prologue

The trek is over. The hangover is fading. Now that I have sat down to write about it, I am faced with a question. When actually did this story begin taking shape? It surely did not begin on Day 1 of the trek. More importantly, it does not end with that final step with which we reached the end point on the trail. Experiences of that one week will be ruminated over for days, with new insights gained every other time.

Over the next two or three pieces, I shall narrate this story, hoping to capture the spirit of Sandakphu.

                                                         *************

It was in November when a couple of friends and I sat down to make plans for the break in the coming semester. Package tours were too mainstream. Our previous experience had not been great either. That's a story for another day. Besides, a bunch of 20-somethings are expected to do things which are hatke. The idea of 'self-discovery' has been much romanticized. Moreover, 20s is the age when you decide what the philosophy of your life is. It was this that drove us towards the idea of a trek - to find our real selves and where better to delve within than the mighty Himalayas?! December was dedicated for shortlisting treks and trying to get other 'like-minded' friends on board. We also promised that regardless of who joined us or otherwise, the three of us would surely be going.

By January, our group was five-member strong. After much deliberation and debate, to the extent of switching over to the idea of a package tour, we zeroed in on the Sandakphu - Phalut trek offered by India Hikes. The batch of 12th - 18th March seemed tailor-made for our plans. The website said it was a trek for beginners. The trail was through a national park, in a month when flowers would just begin to bloom. The summit provided views of the Everest! What more reason do you need to start a love affair with nature?

A few days after having booked the tickets, one of our friends decided to back out. The reason is still not known to any of us, perhaps even to himself, even after the trek is over. Attempts at convincing him failed miserably. That was, however, only the first wicket to fall. Some days later, two more decided to cancel, with justifiable reasons, though. Of the initial three, only I remained and the group was reduced to two. In fact, until the day that we actually boarded the train, I dreaded that the only other member would decide to back out as well, for whatever reason!

Couple of weeks before the trek was when we decided to burn a hole through our pockets – by purchasing gear and equipment from Decathlon. While shopping was an experience to remember, the fact that we travelled nearly a couple of hundred kilometers for the same is a story in itself. On that fateful day, we travelled to and from the warehouse (which is in the middle of nowhere!) in buses, local trains, cycle rickshaws, auto ricks and motor thelas. Lack of time prevented us from travelling by steamer across the Hooghly, though. By the time we exited the warehouse, we had heavier bags and lighter wallets, having purchased more than what we had intended to!

Our first challenge was not on the trekking trail but on the train to Howrah. Bengal is, of course, a densely populated state. That evening on that local train underlined this for us. We already had difficulty moving with our heavy backpacks. Add to it the heat, sweat and pressure of a crowd trying to push you in every other direction! At one point of time, some of the kids on the train began crying, perhaps because they felt claustrophobic and were gasping for air. In hindsight, it feels that this was the first point along the entire trek which highlighted the value of one of the things we take for granted – breath.

Funnily, though, throughout this prelude to the trek, I felt absolutely no sense of excitement – not while backpacking, not on the night before the trek, not on the train to Howrah. It was replaced with an eerie sense of calmness. Or was it anxiety? I will never know.

Humsafar Express, our train to New Jalpaiguri, our pick-up point, was a couple of hours late that night. Our journey had just begun.

                                                                                                                       

                                                                                                                To be continued…

ಬಿಡುಗಡೆ

ಅವತ್ತು ಸಂಜೆ ಗಾಂಧಿ ಬಜಾರಿನಿಂದ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ, ಪಕ್ಕದ ಮನೆಯ ನಾರಾಯಣರಾಯರು ಗೇಟಿನ ಬಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕರು. ಸುಮಾರು ಎಂಭತ್ತು ವರ್ಷದ ರಾಯರನ್ನು ಕಂಡರೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಬಡಾವಣೆಯ ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ಪ್ರೀತಿ. ಒಂದು ತೆರನಾದ ಗೌರವ. ನಮ್ಮ ತಲೆಮಾರಿನವರು ಅವರನ್ನು ಸಹಜವಾಗಿಯೇ 'ತಾತ' ಎಂದು ಸಂಬೋಧಿಸುತ್ತೇವೆ. ಅವರಿಗೆ, ಅದೇಕೋ, ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯವರು ಅಂದರೆ ವಿಶೇಷ ಆತ್ಮೀಯತೆ. ನಮಗೂ ಅಷ್ಟೇ. ಮಗ, ಮಗಳು ವಿದೇಶದಲ್ಲಿದ್ದದ್ದರಿಂದ  ಪ್ರತಿ ಹಬ್ಬಕ್ಕೂ ರಾಯರನ್ನು ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಗೆ ಊಟಕ್ಕೆ ಕರೆಯುತ್ತೇವೆ. ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಅಲ್ಲ. ಅಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಏನೇ ಸ್ಪೆಷಲ್ ಅಡಿಗೆ ಮಾಡಿದರೂ ಅವರಿಗೆ ತಲುಪುತ್ತದೆ. ಕಿವಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಊನವಾಗಿದೆ  ಎನ್ನುವುದು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ, ರಾಯರು ದೃಢವಾಗಿಯೇ ಇದ್ದಾರೆ.

ಗೇಟಿನ ಬಳಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕ ತಾತ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಅವರ ಮನೆಗೆ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋದವರೇ ಅವರ ಮನೆಯ ಹಜಾರದಲ್ಲಿ ಹರಡಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದ ಮಾಸಲು ತಿರುಗಿದ್ದ ಕೆಲವು ಪತ್ರಿಕೆಗಳನ್ನೂ ಭಾವಚಿತ್ರಗಳನ್ನೂ ತೋರಿಸಿ ಅವುಗಳ ಹಿಂದಿನ ಕಥೆ ಹೇಳಲು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದರು. ಅವುಗಳ ನಡುವೆ ಒಂದು ಹತ್ತು - ಹನ್ನೊಂದು ವರ್ಷದ ಹುಡುಗನ ಭಾವಚಿತ್ರವೂ ಇತ್ತು. ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯ ಬಂದ ಸಂದರ್ಭದಲ್ಲಿ ಶಾಲೆಯ ಯಾವುದೋ ಕಾರ್ಯಕ್ರಮಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ತಾತ ಪೋಷಾಕು ಧರಿಸಿದ್ದಾಗ ತೆಗೆದಿದ್ದಂತೆ. ಇವುಗಳನ್ನು ನೆನೆಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಾ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಭಾವುಕರಾದರು. ಆದರೆ ನನಗೇಕೆ ಇದನ್ನೆಲ್ಲಾ ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಎಂದು ಅರ್ಥವಾಗದೆ, ಅವರನ್ನು ಕೇಳಿದೆ. "ನನಗಾದರೂ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾರಿದ್ದಾರೆ? ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದಿದ್ರೆ, ಅವರಿಗೆ ಹೇಳ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಅವರ ಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ನೀನಿದ್ದೀಯ" ಎಂದು ತಾತ ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ ನನಗೆ ಏನು ಹೇಳಬೇಕೆಂದು ತೋಚಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ.

ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೊತ್ತಿನ ನಂತರ "ನೀವು ಯಾಕೆ ಹೋಗಿ ನಿಮ್ಮ ಮಗಳ ಮನೇಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ, ಮಗನ ಮನೇಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ ಇರಬಾರದು?" ಎಂದು ಕೇಳಿದೆ. ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ತಾತ "ಆ ಪ್ರಯತ್ನಾನೂ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೀನಿ. ಇವಳು ತೀರಿಹೋದಾಗ ನನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳು, ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಎಲ್ಲ ಬಂದಿದ್ರು. ಅದೊಂದೇ ಸಲ ಅನ್ಸತ್ತೆ ಹಾಗೆ ಎಲ್ಲ ಒಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಸೇರಿದ್ದು. ಇವಳು ಹೋಗಿದ್ದಕ್ಕೆ ಅಳಬೇಕಾ? ಖುಷಿ ಪಡಬೇಕಾ? ಅಂತ ಒಂದು ಕ್ಷಣ ಅರ್ಥವೇ ಆಗ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ! ಹೋಗ್ಲಿ ಬಿಡು. ನಾನೊಬ್ಬನೇ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಇದ್ದು ಏನು ಮಾಡಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ಮಗ ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ಸಲ ಹೋಗಿ ಬಂದು ಮಾಡಿ ನನ್ನನ್ನ ಅವ್ನ ಜೊತೆ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋಗೋದಕ್ಕೆ ವ್ಯವಸ್ಥೆ ಮಾಡಿದ. ಹೋದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ ಅವ್ನು, ಸೊಸೆ ಇಬ್ರೂ ರಜ ಹಾಕಿ ನನ್ನ ಜೊತೇನೆ ಇದ್ರು. ದೇಶಾನೂ ಸುತ್ತಿಸಿದ್ರು. ಆದ್ರೆ ಅವ್ರು ಕೂಡ ಎಷ್ಟು ದಿನ ಅಂತ ಈ ಮುದುಕನ ಮುಂದೆ ಕೂರಕ್ಕಾಗತ್ತೆ ಹೇಳು? ಜೀವನ ನಡಿಬೇಡ್ವ? ಅವ್ರು ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದ್ಮೇಲೆ, ನಾನು ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಟಿವಿ ನೋಡ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೆ. ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಓದ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೆ. ಹೇಗೋ ಒಂದೆರಡು ತಿಂಗಳು ತಳ್ಳಿದ್ದಾಯ್ತು. ಆಗ ಅನ್ನಿಸ್ತು. ಇಷ್ಟನ್ನ ಮಾಡಕ್ಕೆ ನಾನು ನನ್ನ ಮನೆ ಬಿಟ್ಟು, ನನ್ನ ಊರು ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಯಾಕೆ ಬರಬೇಕಿತ್ತು ಅಂತ. ಮಗನಿಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದೆ. ಪಾಪ, ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಬಂದು ಬಿಟ್ಟು, ಹೋದ. ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಬಂದ ತಕ್ಷಣ, ಅದೇನೋ, ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ಬಿಡುಗಡೆ ಸಿಕ್ಕಹಾಗಾಯ್ತು. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ನೋಡ್ಕೊತಿರ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ ಅಂತ ಅಲ್ಲ. ನನ್ನ ಸೊಸೆ, ಮಗಳ ಥರಾನೇ ನೋಡ್ಕೋತಾಳೆ. ಮೊಮ್ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಭಾಷೆ ಅಷ್ಟಾಗಿ ಬರದಿದ್ರೂ ದಿನ ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ, ರಾತ್ರಿ 'ಗುಡ್ ಮಾರ್ನಿಂಗ್', 'ಗುಡ್ ನೈಟ್' ಅಂತ ತಪ್ಪದೇ ಹೇಳ್ತಾ ಇದ್ರು. ಈ ಮುದುಕಂಗೇನೇ ಅದನ್ನ ಹೇಳಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳೋ ಅದೃಷ್ಟ ಇಲ್ಲ" ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ವಿಷಾದದ ನಗೆ ನಕ್ಕರು ರಾಯರು.

ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ಹೊತ್ತು ಹಾಗೇ ಕುಳಿತಿದ್ದೆನೋ? ಕೊನೆಗೆ ತಾತನೇ ಮೌನ ಮುರಿದರು. "ಪಾಪ, ನನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳದ್ದು ಏನೂ ತಪ್ಪಿಲ್ಲ, ಬಿಡು. ಅವರನ್ನ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಓದ್ಸಿದ್ದು ಅವ್ರ ಜೀವನ ಅವ್ರು ರೂಪಿಸಿಕೊಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ತಾನೇ? ಹಕ್ಕಿಗೆ ಹಾರೋದು ಹೇಳಿಕೊಟ್ಟು 'ಹಾರಬೇಡ. ಗೂಡಲ್ಲೆ ಇರು' ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಅದು ಕೇಳತ್ತಾ? ನಂಗೇನು ಕಡಿಮೆ ಮಾಡಿಲ್ಲ ನನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳು. ಪ್ರತಿ ತಿಂಗಳು ಹಣ ಕಳಿಸ್ತಾರೆ. ಹೋದ ಸಲ ನನ್ನ ಮಗಳು ಬಂದಿದ್ದಾಗ 'ಇನ್ಮೇಲೆ ನೀನೇ ಅಡಿಗೆ ಮಾಡ್ಕೊಬಾರದು' ಅಂತ ಖಡಾಖಂಡಿತವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಿ, ಒಬ್ಬ ಅಡಿಗೆಯವಳ್ನ, ಕೆಲಸದವಳ್ನ ಗೊತ್ತು ಮಾಡಿಕೊಟ್ಟು ಹೋದ್ಲು. ಅವ್ಳಿಗೆ ಹಣನೂ ನಾನು ಕೊಡೋದು ಬೇಡ ಅಂದ್ಲು. ತಿಂಗಳಾಗ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ ಅವ್ರ ಅಕೌಂಟ್ಗೆ ಕಳಿಸೋ ರೀತಿ ವ್ಯವಸ್ಥೆನೂ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಾಳೆ. ಎರಡು ದಿನಕ್ಕೆ ಒಂದು ಸಲ ಇಬ್ರಲ್ಲಿ ಒಬ್ರು ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡ್ತಾರೆ. ವಾರಕ್ಕೋ ಹತ್ತು ದಿನಕ್ಕೋ ಒಂದು ಸಲ ಸ್ಕೈಪ್ ಮಾಡ್ತೀವಿ. ಥೇಟು ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದ ಹಾಗೆ ಆಗತ್ತೆ. ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಇಲ್ಲ ಅಷ್ಟೆ" ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ತಾತ ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರು ಬಿಟ್ಟರು.


"ಅಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಹೋದಮೇಲೆ ಒಂದು ವಿಚಾರ ಗೊತ್ತಾಯ್ತು. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಇದ್ದು ಒಂಟಿಯಾಗಿ ಇರೋದಕ್ಕಿಂತ, ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಒಬ್ಬನೇ ಇದ್ರೂ ನಿಮ್ಮಗಳ ಜೊತೆ, ನಾನು ಬೆಳೆದ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಇರೋದೇ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಸೂಕ್ತ" ಎಂದು ಅವರು ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ ಅವರು ಬಹಳ ಬಳಲಿದ್ದರು ಎಂದು ತಿಳಿಯುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಆದರೆ, ಅವರಿಗೆ ನಾನು ಏನೆಂದು ಸಮಾಧಾನ ಹೇಳಲಿ ಎಂದು ತಿಳಿಯದೆ ಒದ್ದಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಫೋನ್ ಬಂತು. ತಾತನನ್ನು ಅವರ ಭಾವನೆಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ಏಕಾಂತದಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಹೊರಬಂದಾಗ, ಕಣ್ಣುಗಳು ಮಂಜಾಗಿದ್ದವು.

ದೃಷ್ಟಿಕೋನ

ಹೋದ ಮಂಗಳವಾರ ಮನೆಗೆ ಕರೆ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಾಗ, ಇತರೆ ಹಲವಾರು ವಿಚಾರಗಳ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಅಣ್ಣ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ತೀರಿಹೋದ ವಿಚಾರವನ್ನೂ ಹೇಳಿದ. 'ಅಯ್ಯೋ, ಪಾಪ' ಎಂದು ನಾಮ್-ಕೆ-ವಾಸ್ತೆ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಕನಿಕರದ ಮಾತುಗಳನ್ನಾಡಿ ಮಾತು ಬೇರೆಡೆಗೆ ಹೊರಳಿತು. ಆಗ  ಬಾಧಿಸದ ಅವರ ಸಾವಿನ ವಿಚಾರ ಆನಂತರ ಅದೇಕೋ ಕೊರೆಯ ತೊಡಗಿತು. ಅವರೇನು ತೀರಾ ಹತ್ತಿರದ ಸ್ನೇಹಿತರಲ್ಲ. ಸಂಬಂಧಿಯಂತೂ ಅಲ್ಲವೇ ಅಲ್ಲ. ಹೀಗಿದ್ದರೂ ಯಾಕೆ ಬಾಧಿಸುತ್ತಿದೆ ಎಂದು ಅರ್ಥವಾಗದೇ, ಕ್ಯಾಂಟೀನಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕಾಫಿ ಹೀರುತ್ತಾ ಯೋಚಿಸತೊಡಗಿದೆ. 

ರಾಮಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಎಂದ ಕೂಡಲೇ ಅವರ ರೂಪಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಮೊದಲು, ಮೂಗಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವರ ಧ್ವನಿ ನೆನಪಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಅದೇ ಧ್ವನಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ತಕ್ಕ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಸುಶ್ರಾವ್ಯವಾಗಿ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು ಕೂಡ. ಒಂದು ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಕರ್ನಾಟಕದ ರಣಜಿ ತಂಡದಲ್ಲಿ ಆಡಿದ್ದರಂತೆ. ಅವರಿಗೆ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲವೆಂದೂ, ಅವರ ಸೋದರ ಸಂಬಂಧಿಗಳು ಮೋಸ ಮಾಡಿ ಪಿತ್ರಾರ್ಜಿತವಾಗಿ ಬಂದಿದ್ದ ಮನೆ ಕಸಿದುಕೊಂಡರೆಂದು ಅಪ್ಪ, ಮಾವ ಇವರುಗಳು ಎಂದೋ ಇನ್ಯಾವುದೋ ಸಂಭಾಷಣೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳಿದ್ದು ನೆನಪಾಯಿತು. 

ನನಗೆ ನೆನಪಿದ್ದಾಗಿನಿಂದಲೂ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರದ್ದು ಮುಕ್ಕಾಲು ಬೋಳುತಲೆ. ಇದ್ದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಬಿಳಿಕೂದಲನ್ನು ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಬಾಚಿ, ಬಿಸಿಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಹೊಳೆಯುವಂತೆ ಬುರುಡೆಗೆ ಎಣ್ಣೆ ತಿಕ್ಕಿ, ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಿದ್ದ ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಮೂಲಕವಾಗಿ ಸಜ್ಜನರಾವ್ ವೃತ್ತದ ಸುಬ್ರಹ್ಮಣ್ಯ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಖಾದಿ ಜುಬ್ಬಾ ಪಂಚೆಯೊಂದಿಗೆ ಶಲ್ಯ ಹೊದ್ದು, ದಾರಿಯುದ್ದಕ್ಕೂ "ನಾನು ಕ್ರಿಕೆಟ್ ಆಟ ಆಡೋದಕ್ಕೆ..." ಎಂದು ಸ್ವರಚಿತ ಹಾಡೊಂದನ್ನು ರಾಗವಾಗಿ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಆ ಹಾಡು ಕೇಳಲಿಕ್ಕೆಂದೇ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಬಾರಿ ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಗೆ ಬಂದು ನಿಂತಿರುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ಅರ್ಚನೆ-ಅಭಿಷೇಕಗಳ ಚೀಟಿ ಬರೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅವರು, ನಾನು ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಪ್ರತಿ ಮಂಗಳವಾರ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋದಾಗ, ಕರೆದು ತೆಂಗಿನಕಾಯಿ ಚೂರುಗಳನ್ನೋ, ಬಾಳೆಹಣ್ಣೊಂದನ್ನೋ ಕೊಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಸುಮಾರು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದಿನ ಮಾತು. 

ಹೀಗಿರುವಾಗ, ಇದ್ದಕ್ಕಿದಂತೆ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದ ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ಬರುವುದನ್ನು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಿದರು. ಕಾಯಿ ಚೂರು ಬಾಳೆಹಣ್ಣುಗಳು ತಪ್ಪಿ ಹೋಗುವ ಆತಂಕದಲ್ಲಿ ನಾನು ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದಿದ್ದ ಅತ್ತೆ, ಮಾವನನ್ನು ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ  ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಕೇಳಿದೆ. "ಲೆಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲಿ ತಪ್ಪು ಮಾಡಿದರಂತೆ" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ಮಾತು ತೇಲಿಸಿದ ಅವರು, ಆನಂತರ ನನಗೆ ಏನೂ ತಿಳಿಯದ ವಯಸ್ಸು ಎಂದು ಭಾವಿಸಿ ನನ್ನ ಮುಂದೆಯೇ ಒಳಕಾರಣವನ್ನು ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನೊಡನೆ ಚರ್ಚಿಸಿದ್ದು ಇನ್ನೂ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಕಟ್ಟಿದಂತಿದೆ. ಅರ್ಚನೆಗಾಗಿ ಬರೆಸಲು ಹೆಂಗಸರು ಬಂದಾಗ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಬೇಕೆಂದೇ ತಡ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರಂತೆ. ಅಗತ್ಯಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಹೆಚ್ಚಿನ ಸಲಿಗೆಯಿಂದ ಅವರೊಡನೆ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರಂತೆ. ಇದನ್ನು ಅದ್ಯಾರೋ ದತ್ತಿಯ ಗಮನಕ್ಕೆ ತಂದು, ಆಡಳಿತ ಮಂಡಳಿಯವರು ಅವರನ್ನು ವಜಾಗೊಳಿಸಿದರು ಎಂದು ನಮ್ಮ ಮಾವನಿಗೆ ಪರಿಚಯವಿದ್ದ ಅರ್ಚಕರೊಬ್ಬರು ತೀರ್ಥ, ಪ್ರಸಾದಗಳನ್ನು ವಿತರಿಸುವಾಗ ಹೇಳಿದರಂತೆ. 

ಇದ್ದ ಪ್ರಾಯಶಃ ಒಂದೇ ಒಂದು ಆದಾಯದ ಮೂಲವನ್ನು ಕಳೆದುಕೊಂಡ ಮೇಲೆ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಕಳೆಗುಂದುತ್ತಾ ಬಂದರು. ಪ್ರತಿ ಹುಣ್ಣಿಮೆಯಂದು ಸತ್ಯನಾರಾಯಣಸ್ವಾಮಿ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲೂ, ಶನಿವಾರಗಳಂದು ಹನುಮಂತನಗರದ ನರಸಿಂಹಸ್ವಾಮಿ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನದಲ್ಲೂ, ಸಂಕಷ್ಟಹರ ಚತುರ್ಥಿಯ ದಿನ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಗಣೇಶನ ಗುಡಿಯಲ್ಲೂ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಜನರಿದ್ದರೂ, ಅವರ ಮಾತಿನ ಸದ್ದು ಮೀರಿ,  ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರು "ವಾತಾಪಿ ಗಣಪತಿಮ್ ಭಜೇ..." ಎಂದೋ "ಶ್ರೀಮನ್ನಾರಾಯಣ..."  ಎಂದೋ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಕೇಳುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ ಬಂದ ಜನ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ ಶಲ್ಯದೊಳಗೆ ಒಂದು ರೂಪಾಯಿ, ಎರಡು ರೂಪಾಯಿ ಹಾಕಿದಾಗ ಅವರು ಕೈಯೆತ್ತಿ ಮುಗಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ನೆನೆಸಿಕೊಂಡರೆ ಒಂದು ತೆರನಾದ ಸಂಕಟವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಅವರೊಡನೆ ಮಾತಾಡಿ ಬರುತ್ತೇನೆ ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ, ಅಮ್ಮ ಕಾರಣ ಹೇಳದೆಯೇ, "ಆ ಮುದುಕನ ಜೊತೆ ನಿಂದೇನು ಮಾತು?!" ಎಂದು ಗದರಿ, ಎಳೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು.   ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಬಾರಿ ಕಂಡಾಗ ಅವರನ್ನು ನೋಡಿ ಪರಿಚಯದ ನಗೆ ನಕ್ಕೆನೇ ಹೊರತು, ಹೋಗಿ ಮಾತಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ - ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಹೆದರಿ. 

ಆನಂತರದ ವರ್ಷಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ ನೆನಪುಗಳು ಮಾಸಲು ಆರಂಭವಾಯಿತು ಎಂದು ಕಾಣುತ್ತದೆ. ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಕಂಡರೆ ಅಪರಿಚಿತರಂತೆ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ತಮ್ಮ ಬಗ್ಗೆಯೂ ಅವರಿಗೆ ನಿಗಾ ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗಿರಬೇಕು. ಕೊಳಕಾದ  ಜುಬ್ಬವನ್ನೇ ಧರಿಸುತ್ತಾ, ಇದ್ದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಕೂದಲು ಕೆದರಿದ್ದರೂ ಬಾಚದೆ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ಇಷ್ಟಾದರೂ, ಮತ್ತೆ ಸುಬ್ರಹ್ಮಣ್ಯ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನಕ್ಕೆ, ನಾನು ಕಂಡಂತೆ, ಕಾಲಿಡಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನಮ್ಮೊಡನೆ ಅಷ್ಟು ಆತ್ಮೀಯವಾಗಿದ್ದ ಅವರು ಹೀಗೆ ಹುಚ್ಚನಂತೆ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿರುವಾಗಲೂ ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯವರಾಗಲಿ ಅಥವಾ ಅವರಿಗೆ ಪರಿಚಯವಿದ್ದ ಬೇರೆಯವರಾಗಲಿ ಯಾಕೆ ಏನೂ ಸಹಾಯ ಮಾಡಲಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ನನಗೆ ಅರ್ಥವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ. 

ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ತಿಳಿವಳಿಕೆ ಬಂದಾಗಿನಿಂದ ಹಲವು ಬಾರಿ ಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರನ್ನು ಕೆಲಸದಿಂದ ತೆಗೆದು ಹಾಕಿದ ಘಟನೆಯ ಕುರಿತಾಗಿ, ನಾನು ಗ್ರಹಿಸಿಕೊಂಡಿರುವ ರಾಮಮೂರ್ತಿಯವರ ಕುರಿತಾಗಿ ಯೋಚಿಸಿದ್ದೇನೆ. ನನಗೆ ಆ ಆರೋಪದಲ್ಲಿ ತಿರುಳು ಕಂಡಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವರ ನೆನಪಿಗೆ ನ್ಯಾಯವೊದಗಿಸಿದ ಆತ್ಮತೃಪ್ತಿಯೊಂದನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ನನ್ನ ಈ ತೀರ್ಪಿನಿಂದ  ಯಾರಿಗೆ ಏನಾಗಬೇಕಿದೆ?  ಎಂದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಾ ಕಾಫಿ ಲೋಟವನ್ನು ಬುಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಎಸೆದು ರೂಮಿಗೆ ಬಂದೆ.

Yours Whimsically - Part 8: Book Thieves

After Class 7, I had an opportunity to go on a trek to the Himalayas. It was successful, with some lessons on independence and responsibility for a boy just entering into his teens. On returning, one of my uncles, a writer himself, asked me to write down my experiences in the form of a travelogue. In hindsight, I think it was merely a passing remark or at the most, he meant it as an exercise in organizing my thoughts on paper. However, I took it seriously. So serious that even before I wrote a single word, I was mentally writing down a guest list for the book release and rehearsing a few lines of the speech I would make at the event, desperately trying to sound mature beyond my years!

It took me a couple of months to complete the first (and only) draft. A full eighty-pages of a king-sized notebook. When my uncle came home, he glanced through the draft and even read a few lines aloud, acknowledging and appreciating the effort. He agreed to read it and review it, before any thought could be given to publishing it. He took it home and while they were shifting houses a few days later, the book seemed to have developed a will of its own and disappeared from the face of the earth. That was the last I ever heard of my nameless travelogue.

Some of us in the family share a similar interest in books. Relatives who come home, at the least, glance cursorily at the collection before leaving. These are moments of tremendous anxiety for my brother and me. 'What if they decide to take a book which we plan to read?' Children in Indian households are brought up to never say 'No' to elders and specially, relatives. However, that is not the only reason for our anxiety. Experience has taught us that every now and then, we invariably bid farewell to a book for the very last time. Any attempt to convince our parents to ask the concerned party to respectfully return the book to the rightful owners is met with "What would she think if we asked - for a mere book?" It is very difficult to fathom the undercurrents at play in a middle-class Indian family. For some days, my brother and I employed the (seemingly rude) strategy of rehabilitating vulnerable books in our wardrobes (where nobody would look into) at any remote sign of impending 'danger'!

Trysts with friends in this regard haven't been positive either. The very first time a friend of mine borrowed a book was when we were in high-school. Those were times when '3 Idiots' was rewriting box-office records and my friend felt compelled to read Chetan Bhagat's 'Five Point Someone'. I am not sure if he read the book or otherwise. However, it has been more than six years since and there is no sign of the book being returned. While some may argue that it worked in my favor by ridding me of a Chetan Bhagat book, it is, ultimately, a book.

It is for these reasons that we came up with a not-so-rude strategy the last time we reorganized the book shelf. We now have a catalogue of all the books in our possession. Every time a book leaves the perimeter of the house, it is dutifully recorded into the catalogue, with details of who it has been taken by and when.

It is not that the idea of a Kindle hasn't crossed the mind. But then, electronic copies of books, however convenient, don't give you an opportunity to show off the opulence, do they?!