A story of change

Ira Pande

I HAVE just returned from a long trip to Kumaon, the land of my birth. For the longest time, we had been unable to visit those beloved areas, homes and forests that have sustained us through the toughest phases of our life. I cannot tell you how we savour every hour we spend there. So much remains the same, but so much has also changed. This is only to be expected as we are now in a new century and many old people and homes have vanished from our lives. Yet, the majesty of the forests and mountains remains unchanged and eternal. Along with us was a band of friends who were dying to see the Himalayas from as close as they could before time and infirmity caught up. Our first stop was Binsar, a forest sanctuary near Almora.

The great thing that development has done to these inaccessible and sparsely populated places is that they all boast of modern resorts and getaways, with all the mod cons. So the luxury of running hot and cold water, comfortable beds, en suite bathrooms and a caring staff erase the aches and pains of the bumpy and winding roads that many find exhausting. At 70, I was the youngest in the group and felt like a spring lamb as we trekked through trails to get spectacular views of the Panchachuli range that is fitted like a glittering tiara on the horizon. Next was a bone-rattling drive to Munsiyari that had everyone lying prone for the next day. Munsiyari is on the old Indo-Tibet trade route and was once the home of the Bhutia tribesmen, who took caravans of mountain goats through the passes to barter their goods from here for the herbs and medicinal plants, pashmina wool and so on from Tibet. There are magical accounts of these intrepid men who were chosen by the British to map the area as they played out the Great Game with Russia. But that is a story for another day. Trishul, named for its three peaks, is the jewel in this range of the Panchachuli mountains and each morning, its darshan from our camping hut fortified us to face a tough walk and trek to the market. I have been going there since the Seventies and the sea change I see in the little town is so heartening. Munsiyari lies on the main trekking route to Pindari and Milam glaciers through the Johar valley passes.

Several trekkers come here through the season and now this sleepy little town has some very nice inns and homestays that they can rest in. This story of the unchanging natural environment and the rapidly changing human environment hits you in the face as you roll along. First, there is visible prosperity all over the region. Seldom does one see a mud hut or a bare-footed traveller. Second, the Swachh Bharat Abhiyan has cleaned the place so effectively that there is no plastic waste clogging the hillsides or malodorous smells from the open defaecation in the fields. The government offers a handsome subsidy for eco-tourism, so smart homestays and modest resorts dot the countryside. Our old panda in Jageshwar has a spanking new eco-resort in this faraway temple town and proudly displayed his acquisition. Thirdly, and most happily, there is much more greenery and forest cover than I have seen in a long time. The greenery can be attributed to the fulsome monsoons this year but forest regeneration is the work of long years of planting and care by the Forest Department. Of course, all this makes one happy but development has a flip side that is disturbing. The same syndrome that I described when I went to Dehradun has afflicted Kumaon. The beautiful old homesteads, built of locally mined stones and slate roofs that gave it a distinct character, are now rarely seen. The flat-roofed cement boxes that the new generation of Paharis favour have erased the romantic views and the carved wooden doors and doorways have been replaced by cement lintels, often painted in lurid psychedelic colours. Eating places, from modest momo and the ubiquitous Maggie joints to posh restaurants that serve fancy Mediterranean and Punjabi fare, have taken over the old tea shops and aloo-poori dhabas. This is how we are being slowly colonised by a new kind of economic onslaught, but there it is.

Finally, a word on the gradually changing iconography of our beloved gods and goddesses. The gentle faces in our hill shrines are now projecting a hard, aggressive, and almost militant devta. The little local shrines, which were often just a small rock smeared in vermilion, are now boldly painted orange spires. And as if to keep up, every other religion, Muslim or Sikh, is busy as well. The raucous sound of off-key Ramlila performances ricochet off stone walls, just as the azaan and kirtan from the masjids and gurdwaras add to the noise. Do all our Gods need hearing aids (like us oldies) to hear the supplications and prayers better? How absurd is that!

My next column will tell you how I find Chandigarh when we go there next week to pay our homage to our dear theatre friend, Gurcharan Singh Chani, who would have turned 70 on October 19. Let’s see how our dear Chandi-ghar has changed from a time when we knew the phone number of every friend there. 

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