𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗞𝗛𝗥𝗜- 𝟯

Filter Coffee with Asha - Postcards rom Pokhri 3What is love?

I find defining it in words a futile exercise, especially after I discovered there is only one love that can pass through me and yet manifest in so many different forms in equal measure to everything and everyone around me. Like a single ray of light passing through a prism and splitting into a myriad of hues, there is only one single love. Now I just feel it flowing in and out, like breath, with an even tenor, sustaining my life. Love isn’t just an emotion anymore. What else it is, I do not know. Maybe, this story would explain what I cannot sum up with language.

It took two days for me get over the ordeal of reaching Pokhri. I was sleep deprived and the mental stress I had endured needed some good time to abate and get me back to my element. I stayed put in the room, a fine pinewood cottage about which I have written in my previous posts. Not everyone’s hangout, but tailor-made for me.

There weren’t major plans on my tour itinerary. I had decided to play it by the ear and do things that my mood and health would permit on each day. It wasn’t the kind of holiday where I had to push myself to see half a dozen spots in a day and make my trip Insta-worthy. So, I lazed on the first two days, (which is what I ended up doing on most days), going on short walks around the cottage and familiarising myself with the place and people.

I don’t have a count of the number of ‘pranams’ I filled my jacket’s pocket with on the first day and in the days thereafter.

One thing that struck me as I went on my stroll was that there were more womenfolk in sight than men. They were cutting grass, clearing farms of weeds, collecting green feed for their cattle, sowing seeds and in short involved in a variety of tasks that left me puzzled. Where did all the men in the village go? I gathered from Kiran that they found work in the towns and cities, while the womenfolk toiled back home looking after the family and indulging in labour of different kinds. It was only to till the soil that men show up, a task that is physically beyond a woman's might.

As I was walking on the second day, trying to align myself with the irregular pathways, climb ups and downs, in the thickets on the slopes I heard the chatter of two women in singsong Garwali. One was up on a tree, and now coming down with a bundle of green leaves. I watch her in awe, wondering to what extents women here stretched themselves, and what one earth was she bringing down.

I waited for her to alight and with an ease that has by now become my hallmark, I start talking to Bijay Lakshmi and her friend Manju. She had gone up the tree to gather a special variety of leaves for the ‘bhains’. Leaves from a tree for the bulls procured painstakingly by the womenfolk? That’s some seriously superior feed for a regular cattle breed, I thought.

‘Aap kahan ke ho?’ Bijay Laksmi asked, showing none of the strain the task must have wrought on her.

‘Kerala’, I said, preparing to explain it was a state at the southern end of India.

‘Naariyal laaye ho hamare liye?’ Bijay Lakshmi’s question threw me off kilter. Did she really know?

What on earth had made me underestimate the intelligence of a villager and expect her to be completely ignorant of a world outside the hills? What but my damned prejudice and assumptions? I deserved to be whacked for what seemed to be a colossal lapse on my part in assessing people. I had a lot of work to do in this area, I reminded myself.

Just as I was bidding goodbye to the two women after some more small talk about us, Saraswati, who looked close to fifty, walked towards me from another direction.

'Saraswati, why, that's my mother's name too!' I exclaimed.

The hill people are extremely pleasant-looking, and their smiles are worth a million dollars. I wonder what keeps them in such good humour all the time. It is not as if they don’t have challenges. In fact, they have substantially more to contend with than I can imagine in my most modern, urban life. Yet, their loving nature and guileless demeanour endears us almost instantly. It makes us feel as if all ills of the world end in those candid eyes. If only we in the plains could also be as generous with our smiles!

The usual pleasantries with Saraswati over, we took some pictures together for which she gave me congenial poses. And then Saraswathy suddenly held my hand and said, ’Come to our house.’

I said I would go on another day. But she was relentless. She insisted on taking me home for a tea right then. To invite someone home for a tea after the first meeting might be a civil gesture in our parts of the world, but here it wasn’t just courtesy. The urgency with which she invited me suggested it was an expression of genuine camaraderie. There was no way she would take a ‘no’ from me, and in any case, I am pathetic at giving emphatic no’s to people’s ardent requests.

I trudged behind her through the narrow path, panting a bit as I climbed, evading cattle dung and slippery patches on the way. I was only beginning to get the first hints of what walking in the hills would do to my lungs. It wasn’t going to be easy.

Saraswati summoned her daughter-in-law as soon as we reached her house and asked to get me chai. I had just had my tea at the cottage and was in no mood to have another one, but then again, if having a cup of tea would make her day, my stomach could easily accommodate another cuppa.

Enter Priyanka, another charming face with a coy smile, framed in a red dupatta. Saraswati presented a plate of snacks and sweets and made sure I didn’t give a slip. Left to her, she would have made me polish it off.

We sat and yapped about this and that, exchanging notes and snaps about village and city lives, and before leaving, Priyanka invited me home again for Karwachauth the next day. I couldn’t make it because it rained and it got too cold for my bones to bear, but she and I stayed in touch over whatsapp.

Two days ago, she sent me a message that read, ‘Deedi, aap meko bahut achi lgi sachi m.’

She was worried that I might forget her once I leave the hills, but I gave her my word. I will be in touch.

What had I done to deserve such love? I fail to fathom. And I often regret my incapability to reciprocate such unleaded love in ways other than the one the heart knows. Love for love. Heart for heart. Spirit for spirit. The distance between my small world and their small world was a little heart hop.

Today, I will be visiting Saraswati and Priyanka again to have a cup of tea with them. I wish I had something to take with me as present. I normally go loaded with chocolates and other little things when I go to my native place, because there are obligations there. But I had flown in emptyhanded here, because there was no one I thought I may have to please or meet someone whose expectations I may have to meet.

I have no material means to express my appreciation and love for them. I also fear that I will be undermining their love by attempting to payback with things, hence I shall just make sure that they know that they have left their footprints on my little patch of land, maybe with a warm hug or just by telling them in simple words that they are wonderful people and I love them very much.

𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗞𝗛𝗥𝗜 - 𝟮

Filter Coffee with Asha -

I love the way the locals call it Barkha and not Baarish. It adds magic to what we casually call rain. It makes it so lyrical that I hear lilting music in the very mention of it. Barkha. And when it happens in the mountains, you imagine it to be an occurrence of divine proportions.

So, it was only appropriate that on a day when the clouds decided to descend unannounced we visited two very holy shrines. Kali Math and Ukhi Math. It was a day trip that I was supposed to take alone, but when Kamla** mentioned that she had never been to these places, I suggested that they too tag along. Thus we – Kamla, her husband Ramesh, her son Pankaj and nephew Nagesh – bundled into the vehicle in the morning and went on an outing that will remain etched in my memory for long.

(I will not be giving detailed information on the places I visit. The idea of sending these postcards is to share experiences and not details that Google can provide.)

The best thing about driving from the high ranges to the plains is that the rivers begin to appear as you go winding your way down. I had missed a lot of views on my drive to Pokhri from Doon, but it was more than made up for by the animated waters of Mandakini and the giggling streams that run down to meet her. The pastel green of Mandakini was a sight to stop and behold for some time, and as we drove further towards Kali math, the clouds began to gather for an unscheduled rendezvous. What can make the ambience more magical than a downpour at an altitude of 6000 feet?

Kali Math is counted among the 108 Shakti Peeths and stands on the banks of River Saraswati. Animal sacrifice used to be part of regular offerings here and the blood of the sacrificed animals would continuously flow into the crystal-clear waters of Saraswati, Kamla’s husband apprised me. I shuddered at the thought of it and felt relieved that worship now is not accompanied by massacre. Else, what would I have witnessed here on this beautiful Barkha washed afternoon? Pools of blood and the reverberation of goats bleating?

I did not buy any prasad thali to offer at the temple. I had only myself to give. Anything less than that I don’t consider an offering. I sat watching Kamla and her husband offer their prayers following the priest’s instructions. It was probably a dream come true for them. She had many things to seek from the deity, and she laid all her petitions all at Kali Maa’s feet. I thought it my blessing to be able to bring them to this place of divine grace. That was my benediction. It seemed to come from the heavens in thick showers.

The weather was getting slightly unruly with heavy winds blowing and as we veered our way to Omkareshwar Temple situated at Ukhi Math, at an altitude of 4300 feet, we heard the horrifying news of the chopper crash just 750 feet above us. It was a sombre journey, accentuated by winds and harsh rain. Somewhere up there, the clouds had blinded the pilot’s vision and he, with six tourists, had perished. It brought to my mind our averted landing at Dehradun, and I felt grateful for having made it this far without a scrape on my skin.

Omkareshwar Temple is the winter abode of the deity at Kedarnath (Shivji). He is due to arrive here this year on the 29th, we were informed. When the shrine closes for winter up there, pilgrims come here to seek His blessings. The idea of the Deity shifting homes felt curious to me, but we belong to a land of enchanting myths and beliefs, and acknowledging it without questioning only made my visit that much more poignant.

We were all on empty stomachs, and the traffic snarls on our way back made sure that we don’t get anything seriously edible on the way except Maggi. The menfolk scooped up the spicy noodles, while Kamla and I settled for some biscuits and the ubiquitous chai that’s so welcome on a wet day.

The rain was relentless, and the cold winds made us shiver. Not even three layers of clothing was enough to keep my teeth from chattering. It would have snowed in the higher reaches we surmised, and it had, as the visuals that came from the chopper site demonstrated.

If someone asked me why the pilgrims who had just offered prayers at the shrine met with such a fate, I have no answer. If someone questioned the authenticity of the Divine in the light of the tragedy, I may not be able to explain in terms of cause and effeAsha Iyer Kumar - Freedom Song/Short Storyct. All I would have been to tell them is this. If this Barkha isn’t true, if this frolicking river isn’t true, if this ultimate joy I feel isn’t true, if the love and gratitude I see in the eyes of Kamla and her family isn’t true, then yes, even God isn’t true.

** Kamla is the caretaker at Himalayan Birdsong

𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗞𝗛𝗥𝗜 - 𝟭

The trip to Pokhri was both planned and unplanned. Planned as in I had been longing for a getaway for several months now, not the kind where I will be flitting between tourist spots among throngs of people, but one where there will be less of humans and more of the other elements of nature. A place where I will not be weighed down by the obligations of familiarity and relationships. I wasn’t sure what I wanted from my trip, but I knew what I didn’t categorically want.

When I reached out to Kiran making enquiries about her homestay called 𝗕𝗶𝗿𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴 & 𝗕𝗲𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱 somewhere in the hills, about which I had read in her fb posts, she was slightly skeptical, asking if I was certain that I wanted to spend two weeks in a ‘rather remote rural place and the quietness of a tiny village.’ She wanted to ascertain my objective and get me oriented to what the place could offer me.

The words she texted me were like divine ordain. ‘‘This has been designed just for you. Pack your bags, girl,’ I said. The very thought of landing in a place as described by Kiran, far from the madding crowd, filled me with feverish enthusiasm in the days that followed. The only thing I wanted to take with me were my warm clothes, my body and my spirit. The tormenting mind could stay behind and cook its own porridge.

It would be a long journey to 𝗕𝗶𝗿𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴 & 𝗕𝗲𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱, I reckoned, although none of what happened during the journey was remotely anticipated. I had flights to take at unearthly hours, transfers, a long drive, but nothing seemed so gargantuan to me. I would take it minute by minute, pace by pace and reach the place that I knew was waiting for me.

Upon reaching, I was surprised at the speed with which the distress of the journey dissipated, and I began to feel as if I had just been air-dropped into the cozy pinewood cottage that overlooked the snowcapped Himalayas. My blind date with the hills began on the morning of 10th, when I opened my eyes to stunning sights, of which I have only read, outside the large French window in my room.

I knew it was the beginning of a fairly-tale. A fairy-tale in which there are no witches and wicked stepmothers, but only the love of the common people in immeasurable volumes. A fairy-tale in which the loudest noise I would hear will be of birdsongs through the day. A fairy-tale in which the ochre of the desert that had settled in my eyes will be replaced by endless green vistas.

Suffice it to say that I didn’t find this haven. It found me. For the past one week, this has been home. It will be so for another week.