Uttarkhand Diary -- Birding at a Cantonment Town (2)

A dog named Bozo

Honestly, I don't know what his name was, though the soldiers at the base told me more than once, I failed to get it right. But then, if a dog is intelligent enough it will know when it is being called, whatever name you use to call him ( in this case, it was a "he"). Which meant that on more than one occasion when the mist draped the mountains all around and I wasn't looking at stirring out too far, I would call / cluck out to him and Bozo would accompany me looking as serious as a General on his inspection round (he was a barracks dog, after all) what with his propensity to sniff behind every bush and then regard the world with the lugubriousness of a Pahadi dog -- quivering muzzle, thick eyebrows and leonine head.

I have walked a lot with dogs -- especially, the two I grew up with -- through this field and that meadow and it is a different feeling altogether, the one that is borne out of this human-canine tendency to be footloose and fancy free, a companionship that is mostly silent with conversations that are monosyllabic or guttural (unless the dog is barking / yapping away to glory) or one that can be clownishly ebullient, as in when the man starts singing or reciting poetry or even if he just lets go and speaks his heart out.

Whatever it be, in this case, since I was unsure of Bozo's reactions to my singing or reciting poetry and anyway more intent on the birds in the mist-draped pines around, I mostly said "Come lets go there, Bozo" and every time our man (I was told he is around 4 years old, that's almost full grown  among dogs) would solemnly find the way on the wildflowers draped grassy hillside, with just a hint of a doggy smile to indicate his pleasure at having company along on what must be his daily beat.

I wouldn't know what Pahadi dogs are trained / bred to do (apart from being very intelligent and loyal, low maintenance, working guard dogs), but I am sure there is some kind of Pheasant hunting instinct in them (what with the Monal being found in this parts). Either that or Bozo was going around doing an inventory of the Tulip / Lilly and other bulbs, for our man would poke his nose into the mountainside, every metre or so as if he was a farmer prospecting for eggs laid by his free-ranging hens.

Mostly, Bozo did not flush any very exotic game and when you consider that I am a dog lover of a fairly unique breed, his propensity to go up and down the mountain in a way rivaling any self-respecting Ibex was pretty much of a distraction. But still he did manage to kind of spook a number of Blue Whistling Thrushes and Blue Tailed Jays to sit still long enough (out in the open where they were rooting around for grubs) for me to take some fairly decent pictures.

How I wish one of the birds he spooked into stillness was a Greater Flameback Woodpecker, totally out in the open!

Bozo also escorted me down to the "town" once (the first time we got acquainted) in a far from comforting way (he would be barely four or five body lengths away from me staring at me with doggy insolence and mutter-growling in his throat while marking his territory). How I survived that encounter without dropping my camera or wetting my pants or whatever is best described / shown in the field, I mean say, part of a Bird Photography Workshop called "How to survive mongrels and other inquisitive characters" but survive I did.

The rest as you have already read, is history.

Postscript -- Bozo also found me one evening when I was lugging my butt back up through the thick fog (and though I knew the way) feeling dead beat and very, very, very lost. He wasn't expressive at all, either, did not even wag his tail. But I knew he was pleased to see me and a bit concerned about if my plainsman legs were holding up in the hills. I could see it his eyes and I could even hear him chuckle to himself as he walked back with me to the mess.

Dogs, I tell you...

 
                    

Uttarkhand Diary -- Birding at a Cantonment Town

Surprisingly -- considering how footloose I am by philosophy and how much of free time I have on my hands -- I haven't been much into the hills and have been just once through the mountains. By hills I refer to the lower reaches of the Himalays and by mountain passes, of course I mean the high-altitude vistas and panoramic spread of Ladakh.

And yes, as many biker friends keep saying to me -- in a joshing, leg-pulling way -- that trip to Ladakh was a lifetime back, what with it being in 2005. You know, in a way that is no farther from the days of the Silk Route than we are from dirt track rallies on Mars.

I was not any more luckier when it comes to getting to the lower reaches of the Himalayas which most of the well traveled folks in Delhi refer to as the hills. Then, a one-day-long (read that as abysmally short and painfully hypenated) trip happened to a river valley a bit after the Kempty Falls (and oh-so-traffucked Mussoorie) this June.

Which is when I realised how wild and still pristine most of Uttarkhand is and how "full" of birds too! I made a promise to that river, that I will come back...and was on the lookout for another (far longer) trip into the hills.

That, thankfully happened mid July and I was technically "off to the hills" for a middling period of time (ten days involving train travel) and to top it all, a guest of the Indian Army too.

I could have pinched myself then, I still pinch myself more than a month after. And speaking of pinching, someone's convolutedly calculative thinking (and a dead-as-a-dodo's-shit data card) ensured that my pocket got pinched big, big, big time.

Prosaics (such as the preceding para and costs incurred apart), it was a stay out of a dream, a stay at a paradise of misty (and lonesome) heights almost six-thousand feet high. In a quaintly old (built in 1908, no less) bungalow that was rumored (by legend) to be directly in line to the flight of the angels to Badrinath.

In a town that probably has more trees (the amazingly deer antlered and lichen covered Baanjs and the equally lichen covered and ramrod straight Devdhars) than it does people, a strict "No Polythene" rule and has moss growing on almost every single embankment and wall.

In a town that reminded me of the quaint bungalows and spooky walks of places around Rourkela like Bondamunda and Birmitrapur where I had traipsed back in my childhood days.

In a town that is the raising area and headquarters to a regiment of some of India's hardiest fighting forces, no... not the Gurkhas, the Garhwalis.

Call me weird but (as I am not a travel blogger) the name of the place will go unmentioned as of now, at least till I chronicle it properly. Meanwhile a bit of a precis / overview of what I did (and hey, no I am not being facetious here, I do hope this precis / overview will help marshal my memory when I get down to chronicling this trip, and yes chronicle it, I will).

**************

An Officer and a Gentleman

I am self-confessed about the fact that I am scruffy, (mostly unshaven), artless and not too bothered by it, most of the times. Because it really doesn't seem to bother either the birds (or the butterflies) or the words that visit me or whom I need to chase. But then, one doesn't stay with the army (as a guest) and NOT look like an officer and gentleman, no? 

Yes, you guessed it right, I carried a shaving kit and used it daily too. Reminded me of my earliest "ambition" to be a Naval Officer, as I would shave daily (in a quaintly roomy bathroom as big as most bedrooms) and head out to the mess attached to the bungalow for my victuals (and the occasional drink). And need I say that I was treated like royalty, as befits an officer (or at least a gentleman, in my case; one who may have been a bit not that well turned out...).

Made me feel any number of times what most of us who bypass careers in the Armed Forces miss when it comes to access to places such as these, the quality of life and the prestige of being officers and gentlemen.

***************

Six days and no sight of the Himalayas, clouds, mist and then, rain...

The bungalow where I stayed was wreathed in clouds or mist or some other kind of precipitation for some or the other amount of time daily, starting the very first day. And then (after all -- I had delayed my trip due to "work" -- end July meant rains up in the hills, in fact normally I would have arrived there soaking wet) just when I had perfectly got into the groove of early morning wake-ups and lonesome walks, it started pouring, more or less leading to a washout of two days.

All in all, this also meant that I couldn't get a dekko of the majesty of the Himalayas, neither from the bungalow where I stayed (at the lip of a valley) or other more famous viewpoints all around. But yes, it was a novel joy all the same to see a hint of sunrise on the mountain peaks as early as 5.30 in the morning.

As befits a cantonment town (with a steep, not-much-wider-than-a-jeep road linking it to the plains) this one used to close pretty early. Which is when I had to hike my way up (from the town proper) from the cybercafe (remember that mention of the dysfunctional data card?) back to my lodgings over almost three to four kilometres (or so it seemed to me, if not more) of inclines that seemed thirty and forty-five degrees.

After a day mostly spent afoot birding, mind.

And oh yes, through fog / mist that meant I couldn't see beyond my birding shoes.

I don't smoke these days, have always been fit (though a bit rotund) and am used to long, long walks because of my birding trips, but yes I was dead beat everyday!  

And to think that there are people who run up even more steep inclines as children, day in and day out. No wonder the hill tribes make such tough and indomitable fighters.

***************

A bird in the bush is worth two in the hand

Well, so I twisted the adage, as you can see.

Thing is there aren't that many birds which come to the hand the moment one gets out a camera and starts shooting. A lot of such "birds" are out of focus or even empty air. All that is of course old hat for me since I am certainly a bit better than an amateur when it comes to bird photography. But then, these were birds of the hills, as swiftly dexterous as the lovely people who live amongst them and as moody and mercurial as its weather. Which meant that I collected more heartbreaks in those six days than I have in all of my birding trips put together.

But yes, there were any number of birds in any number of bushes -- especially Woodpeckers (both lesser and greater), Oriental White-eyes, Minivets, Blue Whistling Thrushes, Blue Tailed Jays (as common as crows down in the plains) Verditer Flycatchers...

Yes, I will chronicle all the sightings (and the heart-breaks) too and very soon, its just that I have gigapixels of birds to shoot before I sleep.

For now, two stories of heartbreak.

************

One sighting of a Lammergeier and two of a Himalayan Pied Kingfisher.

The Lammergeier is the dominant raptor for most of this region, which I surprisingly found bereft of Shikras, Kestrels and other smaller raptors (though I did see and photograph Owls more than once). The Lammergeier is also not very easily seen and certainly doesn't speck the skies as do the Black Kites. So, I am still a bit confused as to should I be happy that I saw one or should I kick myself that I lost it somewhere ( and then really lost it) while I managed to get my backpack off and camera out and was fiddling with the controls.  The bird was gliding along unhurriedly, some two or three minutes must have passed, I nearly went apoplectic with excitement, all to no avail.

Oh eFF, yes.

And that was the only sighting I managed, the only one.                    

This was up on the lip of the valley, then while walking besides a river that gurgled along in a carefree way that most of us have long forgotten, cradling my camera (rather the lens) I came across yet another Oriental White-eye doing what Prinias, Tailorbirds and other Warblers do down in the plains.

Emerge from bush in a swish-swoop.

Perch tightly with both legs on some twiggy extremity, as light as a leaf, and dart neck and body girth this side and that, almost precariously and dart up and down in the bush as if searching for something without a search warrant.

Swish-swoop away into another bush.

Which means, unless you can think like a Prinia, Tailor Warbler or other one of these little fellas, there is no way you can aim, focus and shoot them in the less than two minutes window of opportunity that opens for you.

And, mind I have said "yet another" up above. Hence, I was almost goggle eyed and walking as if on black ice expecting another Oriental White-eye to emerge (in this instance from besides the river) and do its vanish into another bush (on the other side of the road, at the hill's side).

It did work, a little fella emerged and I managed to focus on him / her and even fire off a couple of shots. But then, I got distracted.

Because, just below me, a bird bigger than the Pied Kingfishers (I am so used to photographing in the Deccan) flew, in a ponderous and very deliberate straight line over the meandering river. On hindsight, I should have become a Wild West Sheriff (or unbeatable outlaw) turned ninety degrees in a quick swivel, rapidly changed the camera settings and reeled off half a dozen shots.

At the very least.  

But then, I don't know of any Sheriff (or outlaw) who did all that quick swiveling and shooting with something as heavy as a cannon (or Buffalo gun) or a bird lens which is technically not even expected to be used hand-held.

So I did not try any heroics and took no photos of the "bigger than the Pied Kingfisher" bird watching it vanish while the Oriental White-eye did its swish-swoop and disappeared into the haven of some hillside bush.

That then, was the first sighting of the Himalayan Pied Kingfisher. And as with the Lammergeier, I really don't know, should I be happy to have seen it or should I kick myself for missing it?

And yes, I saw the same bird (maybe the same individual) on my walk besides the river on the way back. Only this time I had the 18-55 lens fixed onto the camera for snapping up some vistas that were heart-stoppingly wild, when the setting sun lit up one side of the valley with its golden rays.

Time to carry two cameras?

Time to buy a mule?

Oh well...

********

To be continued :-)       
                

Untitled

In the cobwebbed
dimness and silence
of a desolate temple of my faith

A flower drops
onto the petrified floor
from atop the ear of an idol

With no more sound
than two omens brushing against

each other, telling

Me nothing.
My God stays
a stony presence

All knowing.

Tum Aa Gaye Ho...

तुम आ गए हो...नूर आ गयी है
तुम आ गए हो... नूर आ गया है

नहीं तो चरागों से लौ जा रही थी
जीने की तुमसे वजह मिल गयी है
बड़ी बेवजह जिंदगी जा रही थी

तुम आ गए हो...
नूर आ गया है

कहाँ से चलें कहाँ के लिए
ये खबर नहीं थी मगर
कोई भी सिरा जहाँ जा मिला
वहीँ तुम मिलोगे
के हम तक तुम्हारी दुआ आ रही थी

तुम आ गए हो...
नूर आ गया है
नहीं तो चरागों से लौ जा रही थी
तुम आ गए हो...
नूर आ गया है

दिन डूबा नहीं
रात डूबी नहीं
जाने कैसा है सफ़र
ख्वाबों के दिए
आँखों में लिए
वहीँ आ रहे थे
जहाँ से तुम्हारी सदा आ रही थी

तुम आ गए हो...
नूर आ गया है
नहीं तो चरागों से लौ जा रही थी
तुम आ गए हो...
नूर आ गया है


Lyrics of a lovely, evocative, inspirational and lively song from the Hindi movie Aandhi. Priceless in its meaning and innate rythm!

Don't Let It Bring You Down

Old man lying
by the side of the road
With the lorries rolling by,
Blue moon sinking
from the weight of the load
And the buildings scrape the sky,
Cold wind ripping
down the alley at dawn
And the morning paper flies,
Dead man lying
by the side of the road
With the daylight in his eyes.

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning,
Find someone who's turning
And you will come around.

Blind man running
through the light
of the night
With an answer in his hand,
Come on down
to the river of sight
And you can really understand,
Red lights flashing
through the window
in the rain,
Can you hear the sirens moan?
White cane lying
in a gutter in the lane,
If you're walking home alone.

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning,
Just find someone who's turning
And you will come around.

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning,
Just find someone who's turning
And you will come around.

-- Neil Young

Thanks for sharing this Vamsee :-)

A game of tigers and sheep

Who has the tigers and who the sheep

never seems to make any difference.

The result is always the same:

She wins,

I lose.

But sometimes when her tigers

are on the rampage,

and I've lost half my herd of sheep,

help comes from unexpected quarters:

Above.

The Rusty Shield Bearer,

neutral till then,

para-drops a winning flower —

yellow

and irrelevant —

on the checkerboard

drawn on the pavement in charcoal,

cutting off the retreat

of one tiger,

and giving a check to the other;

and quickly follows it up

with another flower —

just as yellow

and just as irrelevant — except

that it comes down even more slowly;

a flower without a search warrant

that brushes past her earlobe,

grazes her cheek,

and disappears down the front

of her low-cut blouse —

where she usually keeps

her stash of hash —

to confuse her even further, with its mildly

narcotic

but very distracting fragrance.


-- Arun Kolatkar

Delhi, Delhi -- another diary entry

As I remember having ranted elsewhere on this blog and as should be evident, I don't travel much on work and at other times, as befits a "poor" poet, I rarely fly.

In fact, truth be told, I have flied on no more than a hand full of occasions, so naturally I still find airports to be places that are unfamiliar, strange and beguiling -- what with the elaborately made up, mannequin-thin-and-unreal, garishly uniformed air-hostesses, the varied cornucopias of affluence -- coffee shops, gift shops, et al -- a virtual orgy of stainless-steel-and-polished-glass eye candy, that is just that -- eye candy. Good looking, contemporaneous, stylish and utterly lacking in soul.

Or maybe it is the people, the people, the people. Not the air-hostesses (many are in all probability acting out a role after all -- from the time they put on make-up to the time they remove it) or the flight attendants, or the other "premier" airport personnel. But rather the large number of passengers, clothed in an affluence and sporting a casual nonchalance that indicates (or rather seems to have been practised to perfection to scream out) that they have been here and done this all before, that they have been born to be here. That they belong here, in this soulless construction of polished glass and steel, however alien they and their mannerisms may seem to me.

Then again, I think -- evidently I am the alien here; shocked at the simplest of Coffee costing close to Rs.100 and a Sandwich costing almost Rs. 200 and (please don't snicker) no sight of the equivalent of Samosas or Janta Khaana / Jan Aahaar.

But I survive the airport's soullessness and even chuckle at how fake and put-on this sense of naturalness and "I-am-as-used-to-flying-as-I-am-to-the-metro" look that most of my fellow passengers sport. Or it is that I get diverted by the welcome presence of those who look more normal, the CISF (Airport Security) staff, the baggage handlers, the housekeeping staff and so on.

And then, I chuckle again (inwardly of course), wondering -- isn't this entire airport alien?

Traffic lights

Fifty phantom motorcyclists
all in black
crash-helmeted outriders
faceless behind tinted visors
come thundering from one end of the road
and go roaring down the other
shattering the petrified silence of the night
like a delirium of rock-drills
preceded by a wailing cherry-top
and followed by a faceless president
in a deathly white Mercedes
coming from the airport and going downtown
raising a storm of protest in its wake
from angry scraps of paper and dry leaves
but unobserved by traffic lights
that seem to have eyes only for each other
and who like ill-starved lovers
fated never to meet
but condemned to live forever and ever
in each other's sight
continue to send signals to each other
throughout the night
and burn with the cold passion of rubies
separated by an empty street.

Arun Kolatkar


P.S. -- Among other things, I have a pile of (work and other) writing to do and yet words won't come easy. On days such as these, the best solace I get is in poetry; like the poem here -- composed, crafted and "ciphered" in the way only Arun Kolatkar can :-) Reading this poem with an intimate eye, trying to picturise that thundering motorcade and visualizing myself sitting besides Arun Kolatkar (I do meet him a lot in my thoughts and dreams, but we rarely talk, both are equally taciturn) as he selects and fits in the "just-right" and "descriptive" word to accentuate, strengthen or delineate (deathly white, delirium, ill-starved) the lines of what he is shaping into a poem, deciphering what he "says" and leaves "unsaid" is just priceless as a release.

P.P.S. --

At my Oxford Bookstores event, a gentleman had wanted to know my opinion on "how much of poetry eludes logic" and left me totally nonplussed. Does poetry even exist on the same plane as (lay) logic? 

Can any of the instruments / tools (I am not sure if the word is right) of poetry -- allegory, imagery, metaphor, irony (to name just a few) be considered "logical" in the literal sense of the word -- do they appeal to / mesh with our own natural progression of thoughts and sense of logic? Or, is it that poetry has got its own sense of logic and unless one sees a poem with that sense of logic one sees nothing? What do you see in this poem?