Memories of a Bygone Age (contd.)

We Arrive .....

To get back to my first exposure to the hills - When we finally got to Kandaghat, after what seemed a lifetime on the road (actually it took ‘just’ 5 hours or so – including just over an hour maybe on cooling stops and tea/lunch stops), it was like stepping on solid ground after a gruelling ocean voyage. At least for me, it took a not too restful night’s sleep for the ground to stop rocking and for me to find my feet again. But the best part of finally setting foot on the ground was the laughter of welcoming relatives, the hugs of the cousins who had gotten there before us and the anticipation of exploring all the places that I had heard so much about from my sister. My cousin, Suneet, had come along with us from Delhi, but another cousin was already there. Veena was the local resource, as she lived with Papaji and Ammaji, and studied at Kandaghat, and it was she who knew all the interesting places we should visit. She was also the person to be scared of, for all our escapades were duly reported by her. Soon our mothers and aunts were down to their gossiping, cooking and cards, and we children were more or less on our own, free to explore the bazaar, the railway tracks, and the hills and dales. Many were the forays we made down to the Ashwini Khud and up to the Karol Tibba and many were the scrapes and scratches we suffered from the falls we undertook and the thorny bushes we forced our way through. By the time our summer vacations were over, our arms and legs were covered with scabs and coloured red or blue, depending upon whether mercurochrome or gentian violet had been applied to the wounds.

I distinctly remember that the barberry (Berberis aristata) and the wild raspberry (Rubus ellipticus) used to be in fruit at that time and, as we wandered along the village paths and trails, we, along with the other village children, would gorge ourselves on the succulent berries. I am told that the number of such bushes has vastly reduced now – partly because the barberry bushes have been overexploited for their medicinal roots, and also due to construction of roads where the village paths used to be. If this is so, it is not only a huge loss to the biodiversity of the hills, but also an end of a way of life for the children of the area. There is, though, a village in Rajgarh, where the wild raspberry is sold as a preserve and, I am told, has quite a market. Down by the Ashwini river (more of a rivulet really) one would be able to catch fish with a hook and line. On every trip we were able to hook a couple of fish, which we proudly carried home to be cooked. This feat of ours was not kindly looked upon, as the fish were not only small, but replete with fine bones, which made eating them a challenging task. Now, I am told, the Ashwini has become so polluted that there are no longer any fish surviving in its waters! When I think back on those times, fifty years ago, I realise what we have squandered away or destroyed is not just the natural resource but also the childhood experiences of our children. When, many years later, I asked my children to go into the valley and enjoy the same things that I had done as a child, I was told it is just not worth it. Village paths had been widened into motorable roads, the wild fruits and berries were all gone and the river was no longer fit to fish or even swim in! What a waste!

The Karol Tibba, as I have already mentioned, was another favourite haunt. We would ascend to the railway line, walk along it for about a kilometre and then take the footpath leading to the small village of Mai, where dwelt a retired Forest Ranger, one Shri Man Singh. His grand-daughter was Veena’s class fellow; hence Veena was ever forcing us to accompany her there. Now that I think of it, it was perhaps Man Singh’s stories that sowed the seed of desire in my mind to become a forester. Over some ‘Makki’ rotis and spinach, Man Singh used to narrate his experiences as a forester, sometimes thrilling us with his encounters with wild bears and leopards, and sometimes making our skins crawl when he talked about ghosts and ‘churails’ that abounded near the abandoned ‘baolies’ or village wells. The path to Mai was through dense forest of oak, beneath which hardly any sunlight penetrated. In fact it was quite moist and clammy underfoot, with rotting oak leaves strewn everywhere. At one point, just above Mai village, on the way to Karol temple, I was able to collect some calcium deposits with oak leaf impressions in the form of fossils, a treasure that I still retain. I am sorry to report, though, that the oak forests spreading all the way from Salogra to Kandaghat are today severely depleted partly due to the ever-increasing demand for fuel wood and green fodder, and partly due to the lack of regeneration, that is trampled over or grazed by the innumerable cattle that roam the hillsides. Ad-hoc policies of the government are also partly to blame. I remember that some twenty years ago, while the forest department was charged with the protection and regeneration of the oak forest, the sericulture department sanctioned a scheme for raising tussar silkworms on harvested oak leaves. There needs to be greater coordination between the various departments of the government to prevent such contradictory plans. A good thing, however, is that the treeless hills facing the south are today covered with thick patches of chir pine plantations.

To be Continued ..........