Winter of despair
With this grey, drippy weather and a weekend lock-in, it feels as if I am back in Nainital in the Fifties, when we lived in a huge Gothic house that was impossible to heat no matter how many fireplaces were lit and how many sigris were placed in bedrooms. We used to be trapped inside this refrigerated tomb because there was no sunshine outside and knee-deep snow covered the lawn. Huge icicles would hang from the eaves of the roof that resembled stalactites and stalagmites. One distraction was to break them off and make swords of them until we were pulled inside by our mother. And yet, with beds that cooled immediately after the hot-water bottles became lukewarm, and fights about whose turn it was to turn off the lights (we had no bedside lamps), my overwhelming memory of that time is one of joy and happiness.
Contrast this with the luxuries that we now take for granted: running hot water, radiators, electric blankets and gadgets that warm a room in minutes. We complain because we have so much. When these were unknown to us, we cheerfully bore the hardships that went with spending winter in the hills. Ah yes! I forgot to mention thermal underwear, puffy windproof jackets and hoodies. My mother-in-law once told us about their bi-annual trek to Badrinath from Chamoli, where my father-in-law was posted as the SDM. He was also the administrator of the shrine and had to seal the temple after it was closed for winter in October, and open that seal after the snows melted in early March. The trek took several days and along went a long line of porters and staff to set up tents and cook. There were no snow boots for any of them and the women wore saris, not pants and jackets. On one such trek in March, their party was joined by a few Naga sadhus who decided to go along with them for the ceremonial opening. ‘They were virtually naked,’ she told us. ‘All they had was a thin dhoti and a kamandal; their bare bodies were smeared with ash while dreadlocks covered their heads.’ At night, they sat outside the porters’ tents around a roaring fire, which also lit their chillums. Stoned out of their wits, they felt neither cold nor discomfort. This was truly a pilgrimage made by the faithful.
Contrast this with what our modern ‘pilgrims’ expect: a helicopter ride, the comforts of a modern hotel and instant VIP darshan. What is more, the government goes out of its way to widen roads (with disastrous ecological consequences) for a seamless Char Dham Yatra and gives many incentives to attract tourists. So religion has now become a part of tourism promotion for developing these pristine and hallowed spots. A laser show in Kashi, a jag-mag Diwali in Ayodhya and a meditation cave in Kedarnath! ‘Shiv Shambhu,’ my grandmother would say in horror at these reincarnations. The same may well be true of other religions in this millennium: everything that was deemed private between one’s God and oneself is now given social sanction only if it is loud and vulgar. Loud prayers, kitschy décor and an emphasis on consumption. Private religious rituals done in modest shrines are a memory like my winter memories of Nainital — they seem like fairy tales.
Let’s move to the drama unfolding in Punjab. While a furious debate is raging between two sides about whether there was a genuine security lapse or whether this was yet another ploy to gain electoral advantage, the truth is that all sensible people are disgusted at what this once-proud state has been reduced to. We spent a long time in Punjab and still maintain a deep affection and pride in its people, yet when one encounters the present set of political leaders, one can only hang one’s head in shame. No one is above blame: neither the politicians, nor the bureaucracy and police force, nor even the farmers. I want to say no more on this issue because I try and stay away from political topics, yet I have to share a hilarious clip sent by a The Tribune reader of a person who heads the Jumla Party of Punjab. He promises impossible dreams if his party is elected: free power, money in your bank every month, free water, schools, hospitals and roads. Not just that, if you want a house, all you need to do is bring a handful of sand and the rest of the expense will be taken care of by the state. Then there is the proposal to build a road from Kanada to Punjab and a Canadian citizenship to whoever wants it. The whole episode reminds me so much of our dear Jaspal Bhatti, whose deadpan face was a perfect foil for the sarcasm and satire he conveyed without offending anyone. I still love to watch his antics on YouTube and share them with our children, who now live abroad but have wonderful memories of the magical time they spent when growing up in Punjab.
I pray that common sense and decency return once more to a land that has so much to show the world: courage, generosity, a vibrant love of life and the capacity to laugh at themselves. How can they allow the country to laugh at them?
