mist and mountain tops
Trekking through Adirondack Mountains dotted with pristine lakes innocuously named; round lake, long lake, I am one of those visitors who sparsely people these mountains along with researchers, fishermen, bikers, campers, deer and moose antler hunters. The gadgets that get us to the mountaintop and on our persons could fund small businesses in cost. Each and every one of us know the laws; natural and human, and none will trespass or need reminders, we are in sync with nature here, in awe we tip toe. Should an accident happen, a rescue team would fly in with a response time of a few minutes to save life and limb! We are all insured!
And my mind is filled with thoughts and visions of my life long love affair with the Western Ghats, except Gujarat, I have trekked in forests trails in every state that the Ghats guard. The columns of women in Kotagiri nipping tea leaves, misty morning run-in’s with families picking eucalyptus leaves in Coonoor, young girls selling peanut chikis in Lonavla, hearing the sound of woodcutters axes in Karwar, men weeding coffee plantations in Mercara, the lambhadi women from whom I bought multicolored bead chains in Katraj, and so much more fills my heart.
Misty heights with
Round, long, blue
Placid and Mirror
Lakes.
Earth’s own story
Chiseled in mysterious depths
A mammoth come and gone
Known only in bones
A sanguine note
Here ‘the forest never dies’
Over there,
Muddy rivulets for parched
Throats and roots,
Hastening
The undressing of mountains.
Slipping memories of Ghatis.
Bundled upon their dark heads
Twigs, barks, gums, tubers and
Leaves stitched with sticks.
No buyers.
Yet. A silent cry
‘This forest is ours’
Ghatis: a derogatory term in Marathi that refers to ‘uncultured’ mountain people of Western Ghats.
How does one reconcile conservation of nature over here and over there? At what cost does the civilized world protect nature’s beauty and wealth? The remnants of the original inhabitants of the Adirondacks are now visible in a few name placards; Iroquois lane, Pale face mountain, a fraudulent treaty in 1797, is supposed to have robbed the Iroquois of 60,000,000 acres, that now form a conserved park. Even this courtesy of name placards will not be accorded over there, should the fight for forests in all the developing countries be finally lost to ‘cultured’ people over there and here.
These thoughts apart, breathing the clean mountain air remains the most exhilarating experience ever and makes me homesick to the core, I am going to grab a song that I used to play in my hostel room – borrowed from a friend with a lovely voice, it would be better still if I could find the thumri she used to sing for me on rainy days, while we sat on the doorstep with our feet in the pouring rain, dreaming of treks and camps and waiting for the rain to give just a little, so we could walk over to the outdoor canteen for some hot chai and dream some more.
