Mountain baby

Having being born in the Queen of hills, I had an instant soul connect for the mountains. They became a part of who I am and will always be with me no matter where I go in life. I see myself part of the rare 12% of the worlds population that had a chance to live the rest of the world’s dream, one of having a cosy cottage in the hills overlooking the grand Himalayas 24 by 7, 365 days of a year.

As the sun would rise, I would watch the deep crimson glow of the Himalayan range turn scarlet, cascading into ornate gold, transcending into cream and then settling finally into the a pristine white that one can behold nowhere on our planet .

Each morning I would wake to the touch of cold hands of my Maa on my forehead. She would endeavor very hard, like accompany the touch with the call draped in the softest tone wrapped in utmost motherly love, but hands so cold! You got to be kidding!! I would instantly withdraw into into my quilt, much like a mutant turtle ,and from within my cocoon of warmth, a very muffled plea would emerge, ‘Maa, 5 more minutes, please!’ She would then patiently wait for me to finish my 5 minute power nap and with motherly love and then with a slightly warmer hand this time, she would attempt to wake the only Taurus-the bull in the house. Her hands would be cold after washing utensils used for cooking my tiffin early morn every day. The water wasn’t just cold after a winter night; it was more like slush, have a thin layer of ice on, stored in a rusty old bucket on the kitchen slab. After shattering the ice the first thing in the morning she used to put her hands in to wash the common utensils to make my tiffin. That to me and all my friends was always the most delicious in my class, generally finishing well before the tiffin even finished the first round, forget rounds! Sharing was one habit she inculcated in me from very young.

Finally the persistent voice giving way into sheer desperation and then, warning call, much lesser than what I may describe as a wake up,’let me get daddy to wake you up’, and with that the morning always broke,like the first dawn. Pouncing up in absolute fear of what would come along with Daddy. A man with a voice deeper than the world's best tenor or bass. A voice that used to get all his students to sit up straight and pay complete, undiverted attention to him whenever he taught . He had an aura of an Army officer of a very high rank, probably because his students turned out to become the Chief of the Indian Army and many top bureaucrats of the country,sons of the Chief of the Indian Air force among all his deeply loved and revered lot. He was a man of chivalry, élan, character, pride, humor and a charisma that made him the got him to be the cynosure of any gathering.

Getting off the bed on the hills is different for dwellers as is for all the tourists in terms of maybe enthusiasm.For the dwellers it mostly is a cold morning, washing up with water so cold that your hands and face numbs within 3 splashes. But you got to do what you got to do.

Breakfast was the only thing I looked up to in the wee hours and Maa made sure it was always sumptuous and a delightful always. With much improved moods I would then dash into loads and loads of high speed mountain-valley winds, but somehow never missed on feeling one with the plentitude of beauty all around, every day without fail. How I still don’t know, for magical it all seemed every day ,in every way.

My first task was to call-out Juliet. She was my best friend, almost since I was born! Our parents were great friends, and she was born just a month after me so we knew each other since then and have pictures dating back to our first months together. She was the talkative one for sure. She had lots and lots to share and tell all the walk to our school. And in between we always would take a moment to gasp at the wonders of the universe, beauty of nature in particular for that was the abundance we always felt a part of. Both of us shared a deep love for the hills. Even now being one of the most frequently touched topics whenever can steal a chat in this world that seems to be going ever apart.

A chapel built in the early 1900’s dotted our way to school. It had a garden right next to it and as we walked down the stairs,much towards the garden, we were always greeted by the majesty of the Great Himalayan range seeming to float amidst puffy clouds settled in the valley over the night. A live kaleidoscope would turn alive each day in Darjeeling and each morning through the day an array of surprises bestowed by Mother Nature on us,the deeply selfish and ungrateful form of life.

Distance was always measured by the number of hours it would take to reach anyplace place. My school was an hour of a trek away. So we would leave sharp at 7 to reach the school in time for assembly. The nuns waited at the gate of Loreto Convent to ensure the late comers were singled out and we dint want to be among one of them, that was always certain. Some of the girls who could not help their slow pace of learning would generally constitute the mostly crowd. We on the other hand found it extremely humiliating to be asked to,” fall out”. So like meek sheep we fell in line and prayed for the day to be flawless and full of sunshine. Pray to the lords for no rain while we head back home, please lord no rain!

During class we were the most active monkeys, honored to be loved by every teacher till date. Having scored the highest in the admission test, I was one of the favorite in the faculty room where teachers had to deal with kids like us prying into their tiffin after finishing their own! Their love showed in their smile and in the leeway they always gave to approach them so informally. While in class we were disciplined at times,and jumping jacks at most others, a bitter sweet relationship kept going always.

Post school is when reality would most often than not, six months out of nine almost.When?While heading back from school when the heavens would pour, ’showers of icicles’ on us while we trudged up the hill, all drenched and always fighting a losing battle with freezing wind and hail yearning for winter vacations to begin so we can see the dessert sunshine in the city of Ajmer, where my grandparents lived.

But now the hills are all we pray for.

HILLS TO CLIMB

Throughout my day let there be hills to climb,

There is scant zest in mastering the plains,

For loitering, for rest, there will be time.

When daylight wanes,

Let my horizon ever be a hill,

Which I must reach although the trail be steep;

Up, up to climb with energy and will before I sleep,

For when I reach the summit on a hill,

I’ll find my dreams guarding the topmost peak,

The sun will set, the air be calm and still,

And God will speak.

Not in a valley let me end my day;

I would have heights to gain a clearer view:

Therefore for hills I pray and strength to climb,

Dear God to you….