Where the mind is without fear

In these darkest hours of my existence in the middle of this melancholic night, when the rain outside befalls the putrid leftovers of last winter's undergrowth, when an eerie ominous noise of acidic precipitation seems to have engulfed the rest of sleeping humanity, when the baffled pigeons knock themselves against cold windowpanes and street dogs occasionally bark and break the suspended dreams of this neighborhood, when the mind grapples with despair and the lungs puff out stale, polluted air with monotonous effort, my heart sees a faint, distant hope.

And it whispers, in those secretive ways of the heart which only hearts understand: let there be light. And the door of the refrigerator opens.

Kathmandu

Another Boeing 737, on its way into the Tribhuvan International Airport, hovers in the clouds, playing hide and seek above the bowl-shaped valley enclosed in mountains. Flying on a clear summer day like this, when the streams are all dry, one can witness the numerous meanderings of countless serpentine rivers which spawn this part of the Himalayan foothills. There are so many of these yellow ochre patterns on earth, that it seems like the hands of some creative yarn dyer have carelessly thrown bits and pieces of silk threads on a green canvas. As if complimenting these natural designs, almost all of these hills are lined by man-made earthen roads moving up in elliptical paths to the mountain tops – those small, flat patches of land with tiny wooden houses surrounded by terrace cultivations of the local crop.

Stepping out of the airport and driving a little bit into the city, one is greeted at once by the noise and pollution of a thriving, but rickety metropolis – a city which is thousands of years old, which has almost been kept preserved by the hills all around, and which now seems crumbling with the weight of a teeming populace, haphazard new construction, bustling number of motored vehicles, and an ever increasing commercial activity. The numerous old monuments, monasteries, temples and trekking paradise around the valley serve as an attractive beehive for tourists all over the globe, and keep the city alive despite all the mayhem mostly due to the lack of effective governance. My cab driver, an old man driving a 30 year old rickety Toyota, laments about the days when the kings used to rule, and everything was much better. The reference undoubtedly is to the period before 2001's infamous regicide, after which the Maoist insurgency found a new foothold in the kingdom, slowly leading to a complete abolition of monarchy in Nepal a few years later. Discounting for the nostalgia-driven exaggeration of 'good-old days' by this man, I could still notice that the capital of this beautiful nation could well, have done better!

My sleepover for the night is going to be in a budget hotel in Chhetrapati, Thamel – an old part of town which boasts of the iconic Durbar Square, a UNESCO Heritage Site housing the Kasthamandap temple after which this city is named. The Square is surrounded by palaces of old rulers, courtyards and temples; and is a vivid concoction of what is called the Newari architectural style – structures with elaborate carvings, delicate paintings, and low, narrow doors and pathways. Durbar Square is also a busy local market today, with tiny vegetable shops and numerous snack places selling momos, fish, and other local delicacies. It is thronged by tourists, considering it is probably the best way to soak-in the hyper-activity of people, animals, motorbikes and vendors in this world – sitting on a place high atop one of the temple stairs and sipping the local tea. I'm here on the day of Seto Machhindranath jatra, a chariot procession by the ethnic Newar community to please the God of rain, and I also get to witness countless devotees moving through the Square dancing on drum beats.

More than 80% of Nepalis are Hindus, followed by the Buddhists and other communities. Situated on the eastern part of Kathmandu is the the temple of Lord Pashupatinath, one of the most auspicious Hindu temples in world. Its current pagoda-style main structure was built in the 17th century, but the temple itself dates back to more than two thousand years. As I enter the Pashupatinath compound, I am greeted by a not-so-pleasant sign – "Only Hindus allowed inside the temple premises." The compound is thronged by believers, and houses numerous small temples other than the central structure lined in gold and silver. Towards the back of the compound flows a small stream of river Bagmati, the banks of which also serve as a cremation ground. This mystical sight presents a beautiful philosophical quagmire – inside the four walls of the compound are thousands of men and women praying for their health and a long, happy life; while outside lies the ground extinguishing minds and bodies and physical forms into flames.

Another to-be-checked tourist attraction, the Boudha Stupa lies just a few miles north of the Pashupatinath temple. Built around fifteen hundred years ago, this is a tall structure symbolic of peace. The Stupa has the characteristic Buddhist prayer wheels on its entire periphery. It is believed that rotating these wheels is equivalent to reciting the six syllable Sanskrit mantra carved on them in Tibetan – "Om mani padme hum," roughly meaning "May I achieve purity, compassion, and wisdom." It is surrounded by small shops selling artifacts and other souvenirs causing quite a hustle-bustle, which seems a little uncharacteristic for a Buddhist structure – reducing it from a monument of tranquility and peace, to a largely commercial hobnob.

Getting around Kathmandu isn't very easy – the local taxis are generally expensive for the distance they travel and mostly do not use meters. The city itself has very narrow, rough, and often hilly roads leading to frequent traffic snarls. My next destination is Swayambhunath situated in the far west of the valley, right across the city from where I am – a long, drowsy ride away. My last meal was quite a while ago – an early lunch of traditional daal-bhaat-tarkaari, or the assortment of rice, pulses and vegetable curry which forms the staple twice-a-day meal of the Nepalese people. Before climbing up the stairs of Swayambhunath, I subside a little of my evening hunger pangs through 'chatpati', a spicy concoction made of puffed rice and a few other ingredients.

Swayambhu, the Monkey Temple, is an ancient complex housing stupa, temples and monasteries from an erstwhile era. Being at the top of a mountain, it also serves as an excellent viewpoint to witness the sprawling Kathmandu valley. In contrast to the Boudha Stupa, Swayambhu is markedly peaceful, and does not have 'hard-selling' stores looking out for travelers. Lighting one of the ghee lamps near the shrines could be an elevating experience, truly enlivening one's spirits. Inside the Dongak Chhyoling Old Monastery, I find hundreds of these lamps being lit up, rendering a rather mystic touch to the whole setting. Witnessing the small monks at the monastery give an indication of the stunningly simple pace of life in these pockets of culture, and more than justifies the occasional escape from rather mundane, fast-paced existence of the 'modern' world.

After a tiring day spent in this gateway to Nepal, I settle for a relaxed meal of Thupka and Momos in a small, cozy restaurant in the Thamel marketplace. Tomorrow is going to be another day of surprises and discoveries in this small, landlocked nation which owns the Himalayas.

The Magician

"Dhyaan dibin dada, mayjik dakhabo!" - shouts the boy in an attempt to attract attention.

The second class air conditioned chair car feels a bit too cold in these winter temperatures. The train had left Calcutta a little over 30 minutes ago, and is chugging westwards into the mainland. The people - mostly sleepy, induced by a post lunch departure time and the last 30 minutes of train's sweet lullaby - are well sprawled into their seats with backs pushed as far back as possible. For most of them, this is meant to be a 4 hours of journey to meet their loved ones during the upcoming festivities.

Some of them look up with a faint, vague sort of interest at this teenage boy who has just announced his arrival. Old tattered shirt with faded broad check prints, a pair of grey jeans rugged through years of constant use, old but prominent sneakers which might have been discarded by someone after they had lost their prime, and a tattered black bag made of cheap rexine and cotton - the boy's appearance, in both form and expression, bears no resemblance to a magician. The only extra item he has added to his decor is a silk handkerchief tied near his jeans pockets - an odd piece of cloth hung there probably to provide a semblance of oddity, if nothing more; so that he doesn't pass off as just another kid selling magazines or tea or spiced puffed-rice popular in these areas.

He must have taken a calculated risk in entering this reserved coach - the ticket checker, after doing his job within the first 30 minutes of train departure shouldn't be returning anytime soon, and the next station is at least another 60 minutes away - he shouldn't be thrown out prematurely, before he has demonstrated his magic, and collected some coins from those who shall spare any change.

He starts with simple tricks which are sold to curious kids in numerous fun-fairs organized in various parts of the country during celebratory days of the Goddess Durga or the Lord Ganesha - the ones where yellow feathers turn red and blue after being wrapped up in a newspaper, or a rope keeps taut even when held up, or things disappear in small velvet bags with round openings. His incessant narration of what's next up his sleeves is so well rehearsed with overuse, and hence so monotonous, that it has lost the sense of surprise normally associated with this art. The newspaper he uses seems shredded with excessively repeated demonstrations across different trains, the rope has smudge marks all over due to persistent rubbing of his rough, dirty hands, and the velvet has almost lost its sheen and furs, displaying marks of age and tolerance. His small bag is the repository of all this material useful for the performances - bloated with the numerous objects and torn at corners, the bag looks too old to bear this weight beyond a few more months. 

He moves on to probably his harder tricks. A bottle of coke comes out of the bag and is placed in a hollow wooden tube. A few 'leaves' made of the glossy, confetti material paper cut into flowery shapes have been woven into rings, and many such rings are combined into sort of a shining, almost gaudy bouquet of red, blue and green coloured paper; but with too many folds and crumples marked across it. This bouquet is used to cover the tube, and after a flipping into the air, the beverage bottle disappears from inside the tube.

As the boy places his bouquet back into the bag, he is stopped by a man who holds his hand and says - "show that to me!" The boy seems a little petrified at first - the expressions on the man's face are serious, sort of petulant, and his voice has both a commanding, as well as a winning tone. The boy hurries, and his hands seem shaky now - with trembling fingers he pushes the bouquet and other stuff into the non-accepting bag faster, and responds timidly - "after a while, when I'm done I will." The man doesn't seem discouraged and persists - "no, I want to see that now," and the boy repeats his line. The air around the boy seems uncomfortable now, probably he has already self-accused, and self-sentenced himself for this 'cheating' which was almost caught. The man's face is grim, mixed with a slight hint of arrogant satisfaction.

The boy has either ended his performance, or has decided to end it prematurely - one can't be too sure - and walks down the aisle asking for "dada, puroskaar kichhu". He tries to be fast, unsure of himself. After a few coins and currency notes have been spared in the next few seconds, he quickly takes his bag and moves to the next compartment, without looking back.

He had dropped one of his shiny paper rings on the floor, red in colour - probably in the haste of shoving them in his bag.

When the train stops at the next station, activity resumes in the so far lull train compartment. Sleepy people are awake - some of them get down to buy their evening snacks and get bottles of water, or just to stretch themselves. There is a fresh breath of air inside the cold compartment with the opening and closing of doors. People walk in the aisles, and the boy's paper ring slowly gets pushed to a corner near the door, after being tromped by many shoes.

Dance of Democracy

The entire stretch of Asaf Ali Road between Kamla Market and Daryaganj is dotted with people in pink turbans. Clad mostly in kurtas and dhotis, this mass of humanity is almost continuous – it's difficult to discern individual pieces in that seemingly aimless flow. For a change, vehicles are lined on both sides of the road; pompously displaying their red beacons, VVIP signages, and occasional sirens and pressure horns helping them crawl; and the teeming populace occupies the center stage – rustling and bustling against each other, most of them also have their packed bags with them. Toting a camera, and donning a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt, I might easily be overlooked as a journalist hungry for a bite in the evening editions.

Amidst the jostling crowd, occasionally I pass through groups of men of probably higher importance than others – the ones who are also carrying placards about the maha-rally today – a show of strength by the nation's ruling party. That's when I also notice that all the walls around, the ones still visible through the sea of people, have posters asking people to gather in large numbers at the Ramlila Grounds for the vishal jan-sabha.

This crowd is largely composed of farmers sourced from nearby states, as is apparent from their accent and travel bags. Smoking beedis, and occasionally marijuana, every individual seems engrossed with his own little world composed of friends from the same village, but still very much a part of the troupe. Most of them would've come here because they would have had nothing better to do in their villages anyway, or would have been promised an afternoon meal. They probably wouldn't know why they are here either, except for the fact that they would get to watch and listen to the powerful people who appear on TV channels regularly – they would also run a stampede to touch these 'celebrities' by hand, or just get a view up close, without knowing the reason why they are doing so.

There are two Indias. This is the India which breathes. And that's the only resource which it consumes more than the first India (one could argue about land, but without data to substantiate, it can still be safely presumed that in terms of real value, it does not). This is the India which comes only in statistics, the one which is classified and reclassified with different measures of dispersions, which is calculated by econometrics and humanities, but is somehow hidden out of view despite its size. This India is incomprehensible by the first India – the one which shines; whose claim to fame, the IT industry, consists of about 30-90 lakh people, depending on who is counting. Agriculture employs 25 crore people – that's about 25-80 times of everyone in IT – a magnitude which simply can't be comprehended in terms of real people.

Eight months ago, the Planning Commission lowered India's poverty line, in an attempt to better identify the poorest of the poor. That number stands at about 35 crore people – on an average, half of them are sleeping tonight without any food during the day. That number is incomprehensible in magnitude too – in our India, we don't 'see' it. It oozes out inconveniently, like purulence from festered wounds, at traffic signals and railway stations and sometimes, most inconveniently, in temples and mosques and churches. There are numerous more stats – on hunger, on poverty, on unemployment, on malnutrition, on quality of life, on urabanization, on slums, on diseases, on drinking water, even on manual scavenging (2 crore people live solely by cleaning excreta). That India is a huge swarm – the one which cannot think about Solon, Draco or Plato's works on democracy, the one which does not have time for education, and for which 'demanding rights' is an alien concept. It bothers about survival.

The first India, on the other hand, attends offices, reads papers, has an online presence, uses resources, and frets about city traffic. This is the India which might know the GDP stats, cry foul about Rs. 32 poverty line, but would largely be unaware of which five-year plan the country is running in. This is the India which feels disgusted at the classes in power, which hates bureaucracy, which even discusses the national issues in forums and conferences and blogs, occasionally rises up behind people like Kejriwal to do its bit for the country, and forms a sympathetic opinion of the second India through the lenses of camera channels or bollywood movies – as far as they realistically go.

The second India votes – for money, or food, or alcohol, or caste, or just because it wants to be alive. The first India votes too, without reading party manifestos, maybe in much lower percentages, which becomes further insignificant because of its size. Amidst this classic divide, the dance of democracy comes alive in full view – obscenely flashing itself from altars in Ramlila Grounds – persisting through decades by keeping the second India just the way it is, denying it with everything, and balancing off its destitution with belied human hopes in smooth murderous perfection.

I wriggle myself out of this sea, walk past the Delite Cinema towards my destination, the Daryaganj Sunday book market, and find the footpaths empty. "Aaj baazaar nahi laga hai sir, rally hai na," a paanwala informs me. Realizing the relative importance of the two things, I get back home.

दिल्ली

राजधानी दिल्ली में हमारा आगमन जीवन के उस पड़ाव पर हुआ, जिसकी व्याख्या "अनिश्चितकाल" नामक संज्ञा देकर मोटे तौर पर की जा सकती है। और मोटे तौर पर अगर कुछ भी सिद्ध हो सकता हो, तो हमारे देश की प्राचीन परम्परानुसार उसकी वैधता, बिना हो-हल्ला मचाये, किसी भी वैज्ञानिक प्रयोग से अधिक मानी जानी चाहिये। मसलन ‒ भगवान एक है और उसके रूप अनेक, कर्म के हिसाब से जीवनोपरांत स्वर्ग और नरक मिलते हैं, सबसे बड़ा रुपइया ‒ ये सब कुछ मोटे तौर पर सिद्ध किये जा सकने वाले भाववाचक सिद्धांत हैं, और इसलिये इनका प्रयोग किसी भी बुद्धिजीवी परिचर्चा में बेहिचक करना पूर्णतः वैध है।

ख़ैर। हमारे जीवन का अनिश्चित पड़ाव इसलिये, क्यूँकि विशिष्ट रूप से इस पड़ाव पर अतीत, भविष्य, और उमर ‒ तीनों अनिश्चित होते हैं। जिस प्रकार उच्चतर शिक्षा के कुपोषण के शिकार किसी भी दर्दनाक अतीत को अँग्रेज़ी व्याकरण के क्लिष्ट शब्दों से चेपकर गरिमामय और रंगीन बनाया जा सकता है, उसी प्रकार किसी सड़ियल कोने में झख मार रहे वर्तमान पर चमकीला लेप लगा कर सुनहरे भविष्य का प्रचार आराम से किया जा सकता है। और इन दोनों अनिश्चितताओं के बीच उमर भी ५-१० साल इधर-उधर खिसककर, थोड़ी-बहुत अनिश्चितता और फ़ेसबुक पर लगे दार्शनिक चित्रों के बनिस्पत मोटे तौर पर एक छोटी सँख्या पर आकर अपरिहार्य कारणों से स्थगित हो जाती है।

इन सबके बीच, अपने अनिश्चितवें जन्मदिवस पर खा-पीकर डकार लेने के कुछ ही दिनों बाद हमने परदादाओं के ज़माने की कहावत "नौकरी हो तो सरकारी, नहीं तो बेचो तरकारी" को चरितार्थ करने का बीड़ा उठाया, और इसी उद्देश्य से निज़ामों की सुशिष्ट नगरी हैदराबाद छोड़कर राष्ट्रीय राजधानी क्षेत्र की ओर निकल पड़े। यहाँ की अक्खड़ वास्तविकता से हमारा आमना-सामना सबसे पहले गुड़गाँव में तब हुआ, जब हमने ट्रांसपोर्ट की ट्रकों पर भारतीय राजमार्गों से जूझकर लायी गयी अपनी चरचकिया गाड़ी को चलाकर घर लाने का प्रयास किया।

स्पष्ट है कि गुरू द्रोणाचार्य ने जब यहाँ गुरू-ग्राम (भूतपूर्व गुड़गाँव) की स्थापना की, तो जीवन-यापन के कुछ मूलभूत सिद्धांत भी छोड़े, जैसे अकूट प्रतिस्पर्धा, अनुशासन, शिष्टाचार, इत्यादि। इस क्षेत्र की प्रतिस्पर्धात्मक संस्कृति का थोड़ा-बहुत बोध वाहन चालन में होने वाली वर्चस्व की लड़ाई से किया जा सकता है। कभी पीछे न हटने की इस परम्परा के बीच शिष्टाचार के नाते प्रयोग किये जाने वाले माँओं और बहनों संबंधित प्रतीकात्मक शब्द अनुशासन बनाये रखने में सहायक हैं। धड़ल्ले से हॉर्न बजाकर चिल्ल-पौं से सुसज्जित किये गये इस माहौल में एक अलग ही भारत की पहचान छुपी है जिसका वर्णन दर्शनशास्त्र की किसी थ्योरी से शायद मोटे तौर पर किया जा सके।

धूल मिट्टी के रोमांचक कोहरे और शरद ऋतु के तपते सूरज के बीच वाहन चालन में हमें भूमि से जुड़े होने की सुखद अनुभूति प्राप्त हुई। इसी बीच सड़क की दाहिनी ओर निश्चिंतता से खड़ी, सम्भवतः इसी सुख को मध्यरात्रि के अलाव की तरह सेंकती हुई एक गाड़ी का पिछला दरवाज़ा जम्हाई की तरह खुला, और हमारे पीछे देखने के प्रयोग में आने वाले शीशे पर प्राणघातक तमाचा जड़ गया। दरवाज़े से एक अधेड़ उम्र की महिला अवतरित हुईं, और सामने से एक श्रीमान। हमारे पास आकर गम्भीर मुद्रा में बोले ‒ "सौरी, हम-लोग यहीं रहते हैं और रोज़ ही इस टाईम पर आते हैं। जॅनरली इधर कोई गाड़ी नहीं आती, इसलिये पीछे देखा नहीं।" विदित है कि यहाँ के प्रतिस्पर्धात्मक सांस्कृतिक परिप्रेक्ष्य में इस प्रकार का मनुहारी संवाद केवल अतिथि सत्कार के लिये सुरक्षित है, और इसलिये मोटे तौर पर इस घटना को स्थानीय निवासियों की सहिष्णुता का परिचायक माना जा सकता है।

सेक्टर चालीस नामक इस मुहल्ले में हमारा डेरा श्री एवँ श्रीमति सिंह के घर जमा। श्री सिंह ‒ बड़े ही सज्जन आदमी ‒ "कबीरा खड़ा बाजार में सबकी माँगे खैर, ना काहू से दोस्ती ना काहू से बैर।" श्रीमति सिंह ‒ राष्ट्रीय दैनिकों में आने वाले "सुंदर-सुशील-शिक्षित-गृहकार्यों-में-दक्ष" सरीखे विज्ञापनों की साक्षात् अभिव्यक्त्ति। इस परिवार के निर्बाध प्रेम के बीच सहजता से भाँति-भाँति के व्यँजन तोड़ते हुए लगभग दो सप्ताहों में हमने मुहल्ले की गतिविधियों को आत्मसात करने का प्रयास किया। जैसे मुहल्ले की सुदृढ़ संचार प्रणाली ‒ जिसके द्वारा अगल-बगल लगी इमारतों के बरामदों से श्रीमतियों द्वारा सूचनाओं, गालियों, एवँ चुगलियों का, तथा कभी-कभी नवजात शिशुओं का आदान-प्रदान होता है, मुहल्ले में सुबह-सुबह आने वाला गौ-ग्रास रथ ‒ जिसको एक रुपए और एक रोटी देकर छोटे-मोटे पापों से छुटकारा प्राप्त किया जा सकता है, रात्रि के दूसरे-तीसरे पहर में सक्रिय होने वाले लावारिस कुत्ते ‒ जिनके होने भर से मुहल्ले की परिसीमा अंतर्राष्ट्रीय सीमारेखाओं की तरह सुरक्षित रहती है, तथा मुहल्ले के पास स्थित सेक्टर चालीस बाज़ार ‒ जिसके ईर्द-गिर्द गोधूली बेला में मँडराकर इस क्षेत्र की सांस्कृतिक विविधता और भौगोलिक समृद्धि का अवलोकन किया जा सकता है।

इन्हीं दो सप्ताहों के अंतराल में हमने निजी प्रयोग हेतु एक घर ढूँढने का भी बीड़ा उठाया और इंटरनॅट पर बहुतायत में उपलब्ध "फ़्लैटमेट रिक्वायर्ड" सरीखे विज्ञापनों से दिग्भ्रमित हुए बिना एक "वन प्लस वन" परिसर किराए पर लेने का निश्चय किया।

इस क्रम में हमारा प्रथम पड़ाव था जैन साहब का कार्यालय। जैन साहब ‒ हमारे कॉलेज के दिनों के घनिष्ठ मित्र और आजकल दिल्ली में उद्यमी; लगे हाथों दक्षिणी दिल्ली में ज़मीन-जायदाद के क्रय-विक्रय और पट्टेदारी में भी दिलचस्पी। जैन साहब ने हमारे मामले में स्वयँ रूचि ली, और तपाक से अपने एक कर्मचारी को हमारा केस सौंपा। कर्मचारी ने अपनी गाड़ी की चाभी को उँगलियों पर घुमाया, आत्मविश्वास का चूरन मुँह में दबाया, पूरी तन्मयता झलकाते हुए मामले की जाँच-पड़ताल की जिससे ऐसा प्रतीत हुआ कि हमारी आवश्यकताओं का एक सचित्र ख़ाका उनके मानस पटल पर गाढ़ी स्याही से छप गया हो, और अंत में आशावादी स्वर में बोले ‒ "ओ कोई गल नई जी, हो जाएगा! अभी आपको ले चलते हैं विज़िट पे - एक तो यहीं ग्रेटर कैलाश में है प्रौपर्टी, सिंगल रूम विथ स्मौल बाथरूम ऐंड किचन, बैड-ऐलसीड्डी-टीवी वगैरह भी हैं, फ़ुल्ली फ़र्निश्ड। एकदम फिट आपके लिए, अकेले ही रहना है आपको तो। इसके अलावा दो और हैं लाजपत नगर में, मेन मार्केट, आपका ऑफ़िस तो सीपी में है ना, बिलकुल बगल में।" इस आश्वासन के साथ हमारा मनोबल बढ़ाकर अपनी गाड़ी की चाभी को उँगलियों से निकालकर गाड़ी में घुमाया, और किसी अंतर्मुखी आनंद द्वारा बाहर की ओर धकेली गई विशुद्ध मुस्कान को मुखमण्डल पर धारण करते हुए बोले ‒ "चलिये!"

ग्रेटर कैलाश का मकान दरअसल तीसरे तल्ले पर बना एक कमरा था, जिसपर लोहे की गोल सीढ़ियों द्वारा हाथ-पैर समेटते हुए चढ़कर पहुँचा जा सकता था। कमरे का विस्तार इस इलाके की किसी भी छोले-कुलचे की दुकान की तरह सीमित था, परंतु कमरे के दो कोने, छोले-कुलचे की दुकान के कोनों की तरह ही सामरिक महत्व रखते थे, और अत्यंत उपयोगी थे। एक कोने पर लकड़ी की एक मेज़ थी, जो कक्षा से बाहर निकाले गए किसी छात्र की तरह उकड़ू बैठाकर छोड़ दी गई थी। इसी मेज़ की सतह पर दाहिने कोने में एक गड्ढा बनाकर स्टील का एक बेसिन जड़ दिया गया था जो विवशता से मुँह फाड़े कमरे की छत को ताक रहा था। कमरे के दूसरे कोने पर एल्यूमीनियम की पट्टियों और प्लाईवुड वाले तख़्तों से एक शौचालय निर्मित था, जिसे संभवतः हवादार रखने के लिये ऊपर की ओर खुला छोड़ा गया था। इस पूरी संरचना में किसी आधुनिक वास्तुशिल्पी का चातुर्य निहित था, और शायद उसी चातुर्य से प्रभावित होकर, उसे स्पष्ट करने की मंशा से हमारे साथ वाले श्रीमान हमारी ओर मुख़ातिब होकर बोले ‒ "है ना फ़र्स्ट क्लास, एक आदमी के लिए? और चूँकि आप जैन साहब को जानते हैं, इसलिए आपके लिए हमने मात्र अठारह हज़ार रुपए में बात भी कर ली है! कहिये।" हम सकुचाए ‒ किराया, मकान की परिस्थिति पर विचार किये बिना, हमारे निर्धारित बजट से बाहर था। गले तक उभरती पीड़ा को थूक से निगलकर हमने टूटे शब्दों में कहा ‒ "जी वो… थोड़ा छोटा है। एक बार लाजपत नगर वाला भी देख लें?"

लाजपत नगर का पहला मकान लगभग पचपन वर्षीय एक पंजाबी सज्जन का था, जो प्रत्येक वर्ष लगभग आधा समय "अब्रौड" बिताते थे। मकान के नीचे चाईनीज़ बल्बों से जगमगाती दुकानें किराये पर लगा दी गयीं थीं, जो अगल बगल की दुकानों से केवल व्यावसायिक ही नहीं, अपितु सामने की सड़क पर सामान एवँ गाड़ियाँ रखने की भी प्रतिस्पर्धा करतीं थीं। ऊपर सरदारजी स्वयँ रहते थे, तथा छत पर दो कमरे, अलग-अलग किरायेदारों के लिये निर्मित थे। कमरा दिखने में प्रागैतिहासिक सा था, परंतु चकाचौंध वाले बाज़ार के बीचोबीच होने से आधुनिक युग में बेची जाने वाली "रेट्रो" चीज़ों की तरह एक प्रकार से महत्वपूर्ण था। कमरे के मध्य में लगभग दस इंच ऊँची, आठ-बटा-छः की लोहे की सफ़ेद पलँग रखी थी जो मुग़ल-ए-आज़म के नये रँगीन प्रिण्ट के कुछ दृश्यों की याद दिलाती थी। पलँग ने कमरे के एक बड़े हिस्से पर अतिक्रमण कर रखा था, और बचे हिस्सों में एक छोटा सा रसोईघर, और एक गुसलखाना अटाया गया था। कमरा दिखाने के बाद सरदारजी ने हमें अपने घर पर बिठाया, और मित्रवत शैली में बोले ‒ "और, क्या करते हो?" हमने भी मुस्कुराते हुए उत्तर दिया ‒ "जी दिल्ली में नया आया हूँ, अभी तक नौकरी शुरू नहीं की। इससे पहले हैदराबाद में था।" इसपर तपाक से स्वयँ को सम्भवतः कोई जुझारु हास्य अभिनेता समझते हुए बोले ‒ "तो हैदराबाद छोड़कर यहाँ आ गये? और गर्लफ़्रेण्ड?" हम सकुचाये, और इस वार्तालाप में रूचि न होने की सी मुद्रा बनाकर बोले ‒ "जी कभी थी ही नहीं।" सरदारजी नहीं माने, एवँ "हमारे ज़माने में…" से शुरू करते हुये अतीत की झलक दिखाकर संवाद की भूमिका बाँधी। तत्पश्चात असली मुद्दे पर आए और उसी शैली में बोले ‒ "कोई दिक्कत नहीं होगी यहाँ, मैं तो वैसे भी छः महीने यहाँ रहता नहीं। गाड़ी वगैरह लगानी हो तो नीचे पूरी सड़क आपकी ही है, आठ बजे दुकानें बंद होते ही ये जितनी भीड़ दिख रही है, सब खाली हो जायेगी, जहाँ मर्ज़ी लगाओ। ऊपर कमरे के बाहर भी काफ़ी जगह है, हवा खाओ जब मन आए! क्या?" हमने गम्भीर मुद्रा बनाकर निर्णय टालने के प्रयास से कहा ‒ "जी सोचकर बताता हूँ एक-दो दिन में!" इसपर उन्होंने कहा ‒ "क्या सोचना है?" हम निरुत्तर सी मुद्रा में उन्हें देखते हुए बोले ‒ "जी?" बिना हतोत्साहित हुए उन्होंने दोहराया ‒ "हाँ मतलब क्या सोचने वाले हो?" हमें उलझन हुई - सवाल गहरा था - क्या सोचने वाले हो। हम अब भी निरुत्तर थे और मरियल कछुए की तरह सिर्फ़ ताक रहे थे। हमारी वेदना समझते हुए, सम्भवतः अपने कई वर्षों के अनुभव को निचोड़ते हुए वे फिर हास्य-मिश्रित शब्दों में बोले ‒ "बेटा, ज़्यादा सोचना नहीं चाहिये, कर देना चाहिये। जैसे हम सरदार - सोचते नहीं बस कर देते हैं। हमारे मनमोहन सिंह को देख लो, पहले कर देता है, सोचता बाद में है।" वार्तालाप पुनः किसी और दिशा में जा रहा था, और हमने परिस्थिति भाँपते हुए अपने साथ आये श्रीमान की ओर आशापूर्वक नेत्रों से देखा। श्रीमान चलने को अग्रसर तो हुए, परंतु तब तक चर्चा शहर में ज़मीन-जायदाद की वर्तमान अर्थव्यवस्था पर आ चुकी थी, और हम झेंपते हुए बैठे रहे। बाहर आकर श्रीमान ने हमसे कहा ‒ "थोड़े मज़ाकिया हैं अँकल, ख़ैर ‒ दूसरा घर भी देख लें? यहीं पास में है, और अँकल का ही है।"

दूसरा मकान भी कुछ विशेष उत्साहवर्धक नहीं था, तथा इस इलाके की बाकी इमारतों की तरह संकरी सड़कों के बीच बीमारू सी मुँह बाये खड़ी एक इमारत के अँदर साँसें गिन रहा था। हम निराश होकर बाहर आये, तथा श्रीमान से बोले ‒ "ऐसा करते हैं, एक बार मयूर विहार वाले इलाके में भी घूम लेते हैं।" श्रीमान ने मयूर विहार का नाम सुनकर घृणा और तिरस्कार की लगभग बराबर मात्रा में मिश्रित दृष्टि से हमें देखा, थोड़ा खँखारे, फिर एक क्षण कुछ सोचा, शायद हमारे नये होने का आँकड़ा अपने समीकरण में बिठाया, और परिणामस्वरूप उभरकर आयी सहानुभूति के वशीभूत होकर बोले ‒ "मयूर विहार वगैरह बेकार है, नौएडा वौएडा में पड़ता है, ऑलमोस्ट दिल्ली से बाहर है। क्या करोगे वहाँ जाकर? देखो, रहना है, तो साउथ डैल्ही में ही रहो - द ऐड्रेस। दिल्ली में यही एक हैप्पेनिंग जगह है, और कहीं का सोचो भी मत! पर मन है, तो देख आओ - अपनी तसल्ली कर लो, फिर हम तो यहाँ हैं ही।"

मयूर विहार का इलाका दिल्ली के पूर्वी क्षेत्र में, यमुना के उस पार पड़ता है। दिल्ली के अनगिनत कारखानों द्वारा उगले गए लाखों टन कचड़े को धकेल कर ताजमहल एवँ उसके उपरांत पहुँचाने में यमुना के इस हिस्से का अमूल्य योगदान है। "सर्वजन हिताय, सर्वजन सुखाय" को चरितार्थ करती इस प्राकृतिक प्रक्रिया द्वारा निरर्थक नदी को नाले में परिवर्तित करने से राष्ट्रीय राजधानी क्षेत्र की स्वच्छता एवँ निर्मलता बनी रहती है।

मयूर विहार में पहला मकान हमने श्रीमति सिंह की अनुशंसा का सहारा लेकर जुगाड़ा। श्रीमति सिंह ने हमारी सिफ़ारिश अपने फूफा श्री सिंह से की, जिन्होंने हमारा केस "प्रौपर्टी डीलर" श्री चौहान को सौंपा, जिन्होंने हमें श्री सच्चर के पास भेजा, जो हमें डीoडीoएo द्वारा निर्मित एक मकान का स्वामित्व रखने वाले एक गुजराती परिवार के पास लेकर गए। मकान के दूसरे तल्ले पर यह परिवार स्वयँ रहता था, तथा तीसरे तल्ले पर दो कमरों का एक खण्ड किराए हेतु था। ऊपर चढ़ने के लिये निर्मित सीढ़ियाँ दूसरे तल्ले के दरवाज़े के ठीक सामने से जाती थीं, तथा घर की औरतों एवँ बच्चों को हर आगंतुक के ऊपर-नीचे जाने का सिलसिलेवार ब्यौरा मुफ़्त में मनोरंजन स्वरूप प्रदान करती थीं। श्री सच्चर ने इस परिवार के प्रतिनिधि को हमारा परिचय अत्यंत भाव-विह्वल कर देने वाले तरीके से दिया ‒ "बहुत पढ़ा-लिखा लड़का है। चौहान साहब ने भेजा है, और आप समझ लो कि इसकी पूरी गारण्टी मेरी। आजकल इस तरह आराम से सीधे बैचलर्स मिलते ही कहाँ हैं। एजुकेटेड, अच्छी-खासी जॉब, कोई इधर-उधर का झमेला नहीं।" फिर अचानक से कुछ स्मरण किया, और हमारी ओर मुड़कर बोले ‒ "बेटा इनकी एक ही शर्त है, नॉन वेज खाने वाले नहीं होने चहिए।" प्रतिनिधि ने भी इस बिंदु पर विशेष प्रभाव डालने की दृष्टि से दो शब्द जोड़े ‒ "हाँ जी, आप नॉन वेज वगैरह तो नहीं खाते हैं?" हमने ना में सर हिलाया, और इसके बाद अगल-बगल ताक-झाँक करके इस मुहल्ले की गतिविधियों का जायज़ा लिया। अंत में और एक-दो मकान देखने का विचार करते हुए सच्चर साहब से कहा ‒ "अँकल एक-दो दिन में डिसाइड करके आपको कॉल करता हूँ।"

तत्पश्चात कुछ और निराशाओं तथा पूर्वी दिल्ली के अलग अलग इलाकों के दलालों को निर्भयता से झेलने के बाद हमने अंततः बिना लिफ़्ट की एक इमारत में चौथे तल्ले का एक परिसर लेना सुनिश्चित किया, तथा अपने गृह-अनुसंधान यज्ञ का समापन किया। सड़क के उस पार एक छोटे से बाज़ार में मिलने वाले पनीर टिक्के, इमारत के बगल लगे एक विस्तृत उद्यान में प्रातःकाल टीवी पर मशहूर बाबाओं द्वारा सिखाई गई क्रियाएँ करते वृद्धजन, बिना पालतू कुत्तों को साथ चिपकाये घूमने वाले लोग, तथा "बनाना शेक" में बिन माँगे मस्ती में एक चम्मच आईसक्रीम डालने वाले दुकानदारों के बीच यह आवास हमारी "दिल्लीवासी" बनने की अनिश्चित प्रक्रिया को मोटे तौर पर प्रोत्साहित करता है।

Epilogue: Reflections on Kashmir

[Part 7 of 7 writings on Kashmir]


It was the day of jumme-ki-namaaz yesterday – a big day, considering it was the last jumma in the holy maah-e-ramzaan of this year. Evening traffic from Ganderbal to Srinagar, and everywhere else in the city, was filled with large and small buses and Sumos (they call it "Somu" here) shouting Dargaah-Dargaah to attract the attention of devotees who would want to offer this namaaz at Hazratbal. I was in the shikara of Ghulam Mohammad, an 85 year old man who got me back on the shore when it was time to open his Roza – I paid him more than he had asked for, and got a heartfelt "dua karoonga khuda aapko salaamat rakhe." Walking by the lake at this hour, you could witness numerous people drinking glasses of milk offered free outside various shops across the entire stretch – the first drop of liquid after a day-long fast.

Abdul, the guy at my hotel, left for his home this morning – a place near Pahalgam, with a beautiful name called Aish-muqaam – where he intends to spend Eid with his family. If the moon is sighted this evening, Eid will be celebrated tomorrow itself, else he'll have to wait one more day, fasting. I gave him a tip when he was leaving, and got a sincere "shukriya janaab, meherbaani."

I have an afternoon flight, and I spend the next few hours by the lake. I recall my dad's words, when I had told him I'm going to Kashmir alone. He had said – "Oh go ahead! Paryatan apne aap mein ek adhyayan hai (travel is a study in itself)." He has this knack of saying important things, diluting their intensity with a background smile – when I was a kid, he used to tell me the most simple of things, and add up their priority by a passing remark "Dhyaan rakhna, chhoti kintu mahatwapoorna baatein! (remember, small but important things in life)."

I reflect back on the things I learnt over the last week.

About the forbearing of Kashmir's suffering masses under the dual bane of poverty and militarization. About the utter simplicity of soul and the collective spirit of faith which unites them into a people who live seemingly unimportant lives in silence. About Islam, a religion so powerful that it has survived through centuries without adulterations even when the world kept altering, unites populations across the entire globe, and can still be condensed in just one holy book.

About the beauty of nature. About the 'stationary' valleys and mountains and rivers and trees which are more 'living' than the moving human creatures deluding themselves as the creators of a 'free world'. About the purity and power of rains, skies and earth in making you feel the insignificance of rushing through a few decades of existence, with a worthless purpose largely composed of outrunning each other.

About my own self. About being called a tourist, a journalist, an adventurer, or an idiot at various points of time during my travel. About thinking a little bit more, a little bit beyond. About ilm, amal and akhlaq (theory, practice, and virtues). About writing. About missing people. About meeting people and trying cuisines. About getting tips on riding a horse, which never worked. About feeling an adrenaline. About dropping my guard and doing different things in life. About being inspired.

I boarded my flight at Srinagar around 2:30 PM after going through at least 4 layers of security screening – the Srinagar airport is a fortress, and getting past it includes rules such as no handbags on-board, and identifying your check-in luggage by actually going inside the luggage loading area: your luggage isn't loaded into the place until you have physically identified it as yours. I had asked for a window seat today. As the plane takes off, the valley below me starts receding into a beautiful panorama once again. A smile crosses my lips – a stray thought says "I was there." Parting from Kashmir is tough, and I promise myself to come back again, within this lifetime.

They say that a picture speaks a thousand words. Sitting at the Delhi airport, I am looking at the numerous pictures I clicked during my trip. Visiting Kashmir on a 14.1" LCD screen seems to be a gross injustice – after all, a thousand words for Kashmir are like a drop in the ocean.

Kashmir is like love. It doesn't have a 'summary' or a 'conclusion'.

Sonamarg

[Part 6 of 7 writings on Kashmir]


An old adage says that the journey is often more important than the destination. In Kashmir, a lot of times, it's hard to distinguish between the two.

Visiting Sonamarg is a journey to the Himalayas, through the Himalayas themselves; and after a little while of embarking on this journey, you wouldn't really care what the destination was. Traveling to Sonamarg is like floating into the most simplest forms of human dream – brightened, spaced out and easy, non-engaging, non-involving, but silently rustling through the heart – one that leaves a pleasant, prolonged aftertaste even when you've woken up.

It is said that the snow-capped Himalayan peaks reflect a golden sparkle in the sun, earning this place its name which translates to "Meadow of Gold". I didn't have the good fortune of witnessing this, but well, the destination simply didn't matter. The first 25 Kms from Srinagar to Ganderbal is a traffic heavy, dry sort-of route. Beyond Ganderbal, there are 60 more Kms of narrow roads through the mountains all the way to Sonamarg. It is this particular distance on which you play hide and seek at every turn, that makes actually reaching Sonamarg a non-event.

Ganderbal to Kangan is around 20 Kms of journey through thick vegetation – the Himalayan foothills with their rich flora lay down a canopy of trees covering the road in a dreamy shade for almost the entire stretch. Beyond Kangan, you start climbing up towards Sonamarg, which lies at about 8,900 ft. above MSL – the climb isn't like a standard circular road going up towards a mountain peak; here, the Himalayas have spread themselves lazily, but authoritatively, across a span as wide as eyes can see, and numerous mountain peaks stand side-by-side, in their own introverted pride. You drive through multiple mountains, and it seems like you do this without reaching anywhere in particular – this world consisting of mountains as high as 5000 meters doesn't seem to know words like competition, stature, winning, and outlasting. The only fitting words here would probably be discovery, seeking, sharing, and happiness.

The river Sindh, which later becomes a tributary of the Jhelum, originates at one of the glaciers in these mountains, and accompanies you with its sweet chirpy music of water sliding and crashing on rocks all through the 60 Kms stretch between Ganderbal and Sonamarg. Numerous streams from different mountains come and join Sindh, and you can trace the path of these thin streams all the way from the glacier at the top, down to the river flowing besides you. Surprisingly, none of these things surprise you – after spending only a little time in this world, such incredible ensemble of beauty just seems natural. Nature here is almost generously infectious; it takes no time in making you an extension of itself.

My stay at Sonamarg was very brief – the onwards journey was a little too tardy, given the local buses I had to take and vehicles I had to change at a couple of places after J&KSRTC had disappointed me once again in the morning. At Sonamarg, there are ponies which can take you to the top and show you glaciers up close – I didn't have enough time to do that, but it didn't matter at all; this place is like an abundance all around, and the concepts of 'more' or 'less' of something had already ceased.

After a return journey equally affluent, the mind was still lingering on with the valley's aftertaste, and I let myself float once again in one of the shikaras at Dal. 

Tomorrow, I am leaving Kashmir, and this aftertaste is strong enough to last for a lifetime.