The Forsaken Wilderness, page 17
The sadhu sat silently all this while on the floor by the fireplace, his eyes closed shut and his forehead smooth and untroubled.
Pratyusha and I both simultaneously looked at each other as Sankalp spoke—‘The first to click a sighting is the first to sell it off to a magazine and earn a bundle of money for it. Not a bad deal!’ he rolled his lower lip up in admiration. ‘And so they fight. Wildlife photographers. Scheme and cheat to keep their colleagues misdirected, send diversionary reports on the walky-talky, so that they can lay their eyes on the real goods.’
Parshuram started slurping somewhat impolitely at his bowl of daal, and buried his head into the rice before he was through with it.
‘Don’t mind him!’ Sankalp smiled. ‘He has his peculiar eating habits! Isn’t exactly a master of dining room etiquette. Something the Swaami Ji tried to school him in even!’ He suddenly smacked the bowl off the table with the back of his left hand, leaving Parshuram gaping into the table mat, stunned. ‘Now go and pick it up!’ He instructed the no doubt considerably younger, Parshuram.
Parshuram slowly arose and did what he was told to do.
‘The animals keep track of who makes money off of their hides. Exploiting their appearance and cuddly facades. Don’t think for a moment that the animals aren’t clicking pictures of our guests. In the mind’s eye. They all say animals do not possess the capability for abstract thought. But who knows?’ he pondered. ‘Who really knows what goes on inside of their furry little heads. They remember everything, they especially never forget a face! They can see everything, even in the dark, at night, in the deadening silence, they can even hear everything. They can hear us right now, talking about them. What we cannot perceive, they can hear. What is not visible to our naked eye, they can see clearly with both their eyes. Day and night. Watching us like ghosts!’
It was only then, at this rambling change of direction in the conversation, that Pratyusha made the mistake of inquiring into Swaami Atal-Anivaarya’s supposed newfound technique of communicating with birds and certain animals.
chapter six
This revelation was greeted with astonished eyes, and a slightly bewildered silence. It failed to endear us any further into our hosts’ confidence and only ignited their suspicions.
‘It is not impossible to communicate in any form the mind may wish to.’ Seemed to be the party line. It was the only explanation we received for the startling claim put forth by Pratyusha Negi. It, however, only increased his enthusiasm to provide for a plug point should we require the services of the camera on our way out.
‘You should take back a souvenir,’ Sankalp insisted, guiding us out the backway of the bungalow, down the cobbled path, past the well and up eventually to the boundary wall where a small laterite block squatted among the lychee trees and newly planted Gulmohar saplings.
A single 40-watt bulb with a one-armed filament hung from the ceiling. Sankalp, with the aid of his torch, pumped on the motor with a few windings of its wheel till it provided all the dim illumination available in the dingy room. And rusting amid the cracked and splintered walls, was a small three-point triangular socket that looked not like it had been used in over a century.
A squirrel wound its way along the edges of the floor and disappeared into the cracks of the night. The soft squeal of a rat sounded somewhere from amid the corners of the cavernous cabin. The three holes of the plug point stared on at us in a kind of statuesque frown. The shadows emanating from the dangling bulb obscured the insides of its cylindrical apertures. As Pratyusha neared it, charger in hand, she recoiled momentarily from it in fear of an electric-shock—but when assured by Sankalp that it was safe for her—injected the three pins slowly into the wall with the little finger on her left hand pressed gently at the switch that lay beside it. We watched as the little red light on the camera came on, detecting a current.
‘You got some choice goods in there?’ Sankalp grinned, pointing at the uncovered camera with its lens cap still on.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I intervened.
‘You storing anything you wish to hide?’ he smirked.
‘I don’t see what you mean,’ I shook my head in forced bafflement.
‘Look, Mister!’ Pratyusha finally snapped. ‘I’ve had enough with your nosing around. Why don’t you just mind your own goddamned business for god’s sake.’
‘You don’t seem to have a mighty high opinion of God, Madam.’ His smiled vanished. ‘Referring to him in vain the way you do. We’re a God-fearing lot out here and do better than to use the almighty’s name to settle our own personal scores. God doesn’t have time for that! He has to see to more important things.’
She pulled the plug of the charger out in an instant, and began bundling up the wires to stuff them into the camera case.
‘You don’t have to get upset, Madam. You can still use our electricity. Please. By all means. Be my guest. The Swaami Ji has given us strict instructions, to see to the ultimate welfare and care of our guests. We do whatever we can to provide you with a pleasant stay!’
Just then, as we were about to exit the cabin, we were at once arrested by the rumbling of some motions from within the plug point. The rotations of the motor grew more vigorous, the bulb wobbled to a spark, the walls began a tremble and before we could even detect the violent shriek of rats rising steadily from inaudibility—OUT SPRANG a profusion of crawling caterpillars and centipedes, growing longer and more lurid as they poured out of the holes of the plug point! They scattered about the floor as they fell and began to encircle our footsteps. Pratyusha stamped at them maniacally. Sankalp shone his torch beam at the floor, spinning back the wheel of the motor into silence and darkness. Once the generator went off, we leapt out of the cabin covered in earthworms and leeches, reaching frantically for a pair of matches stolen away somewhere in the multiple compartments of Sankalp’s cargo trousers.
We managed to light a few and ward off the writhing vermin from our bodies, burning our own skins in the process. The application of a lit matchstick to the human forearm can produce the most bewildering results. At once, the sensation of a burn prolongs itself into insensibility, and strikes like a snakebite when the senses are alert for even a fraction of a millisecond. The absence of a strong wind allowed for the burning of multiple matches and their easy waving to and fro in the darkness to scare out the insects from our person. We ran our arms vigorously through our bodies, clearing off every speck of dirt or dust that felt like an insect. Their snake-like motions poked at the soles of my feet. I rubbed my calves, felt the inside of my socks, and dusted my shoes for any trace of vermin.
Scratching furiously, we made our way back up the cobbled path in a dizzying flight from the cabin. Thankfully, the camera case had been strapped along to Pratyusha’s shoulders. But the charger had been left inside in the panic, and was probably by now being devoured by the insects. Pratyusha contemplated whether or not to turn back and retrieve it. We had about thirty-two per cent battery left in the device, and an entire night and drive back to the city to wait out.
chapter seven
None of us slept that night. We sat by the semi-enclosed canteen area at the dinner table, occasionally waltzing off to the verandah for a brief stroll. But none us, the sadhu included, thought it fit to leave the confines of the bungalow, at least on that particular night.
‘If only we could have grabbed some photographs of those things.’ Pratyusha thought out aloud before smacking her own head clean of such an unwarranted consideration.
The four caretakers had by now called it a night and retreated to their quarters at the back of the house. Even Sankalp, who perhaps exhausted from all his talk, refrained from staying on in our company any longer.
The three of us were now alone around the dinner table, and spoke whisperingly with one eye slanted in the direction of the reception.
‘Are you coming with us?’ she asked Baba Somdev.
He simply bowed his head in reply, and then wondered—‘Where?’
‘Ranibaug!’ she said.
‘Do you wish to go back, my child?’ A ripple of concern spread upon his eyes.
‘That’s where we’re going after we’ve rightfully deposited those photographs.’ She looked at me, clutching tightly at the camera case, not letting it out of her sight for even an instant.
‘If that’s what you wish, I shall accompany you!’ he murmured.
‘What about the Swaami Ji?’ I asked.
‘That can be saved for later…’ he decided. ‘I will meet him when I so desire. In the near future. When he graces this Guest House with his presence.’
‘Can you get us past that tree?’ I wondered.
‘Ahh…’ the wrinkles on his face all collectively came together as if to join in a smile. ‘The tree…’ he mused. ‘I know a way around that tree…’ he pointed a finger to the sky with professorial aplomb. ‘I even happen to know what that tree is…’
The dawn hesitated to oblige us with its arrival, it broke instead into a streak of red, unnoticeable amid the distant clouds. As the three of us gathered around the rear of the jeep to load up our luggage, one of the roaming dogs nearly threatened to tear loose on old Baba Somdev. On hearing the deafening howls of the Doberman, Sankalp hopped out of his shack looking considerably dishevelled in his torn and tattered vest as he put on his camouflage t-shirt and denim jacket. He buttoned up his trousers, slipping on a pair of Caterpillar boots without socks and rushed up to answer to the summons of the dog.
‘Brunooo! Shhhh!’ He rubbed the dog’s neck, catching hold of him by the collar. ‘Noooo!’
We had done our last checks on our respective rooms; all that was left in mine was a tissue paper, a tooth pick, some plastic wrappers, and a couple of used batteries with a half empty bottle of whisky. Both of us left our room doors open as we were certain we had not left anything of value inside, and after having freshened up, strolled up towards the reception, taking in the scenery before preparing to bid it goodbye. Baba Somdev did the odd Surya Namaskar here and there to welcome the sun, one of the caretakers was gargling furiously by an outdoor washbasin, the dogs had been tied back to their kennels, and the jeep stood loaded by the gravelled driveway, ready to depart after we had paid the bill.
At the reception behind the cash counter, Sankalp began handling the transaction with Pratyusha, who tried her level best to smile back at him, expressing our gratitude for their kind and thoughtful hospitality. While going over our bill, he noticed he had charged us with an additional sixth meal as breakfast time was approaching, and since neither of us had breakfasted as yet, he insisted we join the staff for a plate of bun-omelets Rakesh had painstakingly prepared for our delectation.
I was a bit puzzled at his intentions for doing so, for surely it seemed to me that we were the kind of company the Resort could do without.
‘That’s very kind of you, Sankalp!’ bowed Pratyusha. ‘But I am afraid we must be on our way if we are to make the highway before sunrise, and we have already packed and loaded our jeep.’
‘That’s perfectly alright,’ said Sankalp. ‘I can easily get Rakesh or Anshuman to mind your belongings while you eat. I’m sure you must be famished and weary from all your travels and excursions. You have a long drive ahead of you. A tiresome one too, through those rugged mountain roads. It is better to get some strength in you before you proceed. And I hope you haven’t placed any objects of value in the bags, say cameras, for instance. Although none of our staff including Parshuram are known to steal, it is better to avoid providing temptation.’
‘That’s quite alright, Sankalp,’ Pratyusha assured him, losing the last thread of patience. ‘I’m afraid we will have to be on our way!’ she stressed.
‘But we have made breakfast for all of your party. If you don’t eat, then it will go to waste.’
‘I am sure the four of you accompanied by those fine Dobermans will do justice to the spread you seem to have prepared.’
‘How about you, Babaji?’ all of a sudden he turned to Somdev who came in to check if he had left his flute in the dining room. ‘Didn’t you say you were going to wait till Swaami Ji’s arrival?’
‘I have some work in Ponta Saahib,’ he said.
‘In Ponta Saahib?’ Sankalp smiled.
‘That’s right!’ he nodded. ‘I shall be back later.’
‘How? You won’t be able to hitch a ride with the water tanker that brought you here day before yesterday. Babaji, you are beyond where the buses go!’ he laughed.
‘Water tanker?’ I thought to myself. ‘What for?’
I glanced out through the window to the river trickling away into the low horizon illuminated in the distance. The water level had definitely risen since the last time I had strolled about its shores with Swaami Ji.
Sankalp went off towards the dining verandah, barking out orders to Parshuram—who was doing a lousy job of mopping up the wooden flooring—and took a right turn to enter the kitchen.
The two of us just stood alone at the reception desk while the sadhu went out to guard our belongings by the jeep. Pratyusha was visibly apprehensive of Sankalp’s intentions. From inside the kitchen, we could hear him yelling out instructions to Anshuman to lay the table for breakfast.
‘Let’s just finish our breakfast and be on our way!’ I suggested. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
chapter eight
It was about a quarter to seven when we set off from the Guest House, shuffling hurriedly past its unlocked entrance, not even deigning to shut the gate once we had successfully exited it. The watchman who was supposed have been minding the gate was again nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was on leave.
With some nourishment in us, the drive proved effortless. The sadhu had had his customary cup of tea and that seemed to suffice. The two of them dozed off as we touched the highway, and awoke with the blare of traffic that greeted us on the old Hrishikesh Bypass route. While stuck in the congested tollway, I searched my phone for network, the internet had returned. I immediately awoke Pratyusha and told her to get to work on transferring the data at once with the aid of her laptop resting in the storage compartment at the back of the jeep which the sadhu soon passed over.
The pictures took some time to load. The battery was dropping down to an anemic thirty per cent. The cable to connect the camera to the computer was a part of its charging device that was now no longer with us. She had inserted the memory card right into a slim rectangular port on the side of the laptop, and was depending solely on the force of the internet from our phones for their courier. On nearing Dehradun, we thankfully chanced upon a roadside Cyber Café and Xerox Centre, where we immediately pulled up. From outside in the car, I could see Pratyusha arguing agitatedly with the Sardaarji behind the counter, convincing him of the urgency of her situation. The computers were all occupied, and as a timid college student exited she leaped over to one of the desktops and settled her camera case on the mousepad.
I waited with the sadhu outside in the car, trying to strike up some conversation. ‘The pictures will be printed the following week.’ I informed him. ‘In the next issue. If there is any monetary reward to be gained from this, I assure you we will split it three ways! You can rest assured you will have your full share before this is over.’
‘How much did you get for the tree?’ he asked in a sudden shift of tone.
‘How do you know about that?’ I said.
‘Everyone does,’ he shrugged, reaching for his flute. ‘At least anyone who has anything to do with Ranibaug. And is aware of it. And knows of its unique characteristics. They printed that story a few weeks ago, didn’t they?’
‘Who told you?’ I turned to look into the cyber café. Pratyusha was typing furiously away into a keyboard tray.
‘Just because I roam the forests, doesn’t mean I can’t read or write,’ the sadhu laughed. ‘We’re not illiterate. On the contrary. Some of us are quite well read. More so than even you city-folk that boast fancy college degrees. We happen to know things of which you have no knowledge. Like take the tree for instance,’ he supposed. ‘You printed the story, brought it to light before the whole world, revealed it, are supposedly an authority on it, but what can you tell the world about it that your photographs already can’t tell us.’
‘As in?’
‘Same goes for the animal you captured photographic evidence of. What do you know about it?’ he said. ‘What special information have you to offer on it? What makes you an authority on what you have witnessed?’
‘The fact of my witnessing it!’ I said.
‘Hah!’ He leaned back in his seat and stared outside his window at the sun beating down on the dotted line at the centre of the road. ‘I will show you a way around that tree,’ he said.
Pratyusha stepped back into the passenger seat with a pronounced ‘THUD’, gathering the camera case onto her lap. ‘Move!’ she snapped her fingers at the steering wheel.
‘Did they go through?’ I asked.
‘They have been duly received,’ she adjusted her head in the affirmative.
‘Any response as yet?’
‘We’ll be hearing from them soon. Take it to a petrol pump. We better fill up. We have a long drive ahead to Taluka.’
chapter nine
‘In the year 1975,’ the sadhu began, on our long and winding drive up the spiralling roadways, and vertiginous passes beyond Uttarkashi. ‘One day upon a small hillock in the glaciers of Gaumukh, an old ascetic decided to set his feet in the ground, and settle there for the rest of his days. He tied his hair into a long pigtail, his white beard glistening in the sunlight, naked without a scrap of clothing on, he stood there! He set his roots into the earth, and raised his right hand up into the air. Like this!’ he demonstrated with a similar action. ‘He’s been standing in that position ever since. He hasn’t moved till today. Some say that he gradually began to turn into a tree. Grass began to grow from his weathered skin, and his bones began to protrude from beneath his sinews like wood, wound up by a network of veins and arteries that appeared as if embedded in stone. His entire anatomy resembled that of a skeleton. He began to rot like an old banyan tree. He is still alive in some state of consciousness hovering halfway between life and death. These days he’s even presented in various fairs and carnivals like a sideshow freak or like some mutant. In the numaaishes of Bastar in Chattisgarh, in Madhya Pradesh, even once in the state of Uttarakhand. He was presented to the public in an act that was known in some quarters as the “Silence of the Tree”. Like the two-headed chicken or the three-legged man who crawls along the floor like a spider in front of everyone. Our tree is the wellspring of life. It is there to provide us with infinite support and shelter. For eternity. Nature’s own artificial intelligence, that can supersede both the human and animal kind and outlive and outwit both!’
