What follows this week is the second and last post on  my Barot trip

          Read/share it please lest yours truly’s spirits this wet season, sink and dip

      It is indeed a matter of joy for me to find the ‘page-views’ steadily soar

      With readership far and wide, even if at times I might be a terrible bore

Barot revisited (2)

A view of Barot

                                    

We had to leave next morning. But before departing we went for an early morning walk towards Multhan. Multhan is a sort of shopping hub of the valley situated next to Barot on the road to Kothikorh/Bara Banghal after crossing a bridge over the gushing Lambadugh khud that joins the Uhl at Barot.  I looked down at the Government Trout Farm - a prized Barot feature - as we strode past it. It was to this fish farm that I had been dispatched by my bosses to conduct (phony) research trials on rainbow trout in the 3x2 water-deficient raceways under a project intended for mid-hills. The PWD’s log-hut – another iconic and beautiful facility for stay - looked its good old self. But an additional building that had come up adjoining it was nothing but an eye sore. Wish the authorities had taken pains to build it in keeping with the aesthetics of the log-hut and the green surroundings of the place. Again, as we walked on, the view was hardly elevating. There were private guesthouses galore flanking the road looking so clumsy and jarring to the eye. Multhan too had changed and changed for the worse with dhabas, eateries of all sorts, home stays and guest houses dominating the scene.  In short, and sad to say, city culture had invaded and destroyed this valley. We returned to the guest house in not a very happy frame of mind, got ready, had parantha-dahi-achaar breakfast and were ready to say goodbye. But before that we had to meet Ram Singh, and an old family too.

In the late 80’s, Ram Singh owned a dhaba - a tiny wood and tin shack - and the only one in Barot. To dear Ram Singh I owe gratitude for keeping me tummyful by serving me most delicious daal tadka, a sabzj and hot chapatis fresh from the tawa in those difficult days. I had the privilege of acting as a photographer at his behest on his wedding in a nearby village. Now Ram Singh’s dhaba has moved into a bigger space beside the kuchha road just opposite the government hospital, competing with a few others. But that old charm, personal touch and flavour is missing…in keeping with the times.  He was happy to meet us and insisted on a breakfast. But we had tea served by his wife looking very pleased when told about old history.

Then we went to see the family: a widow and her two daughters. They were my neighbours when on my transfer in 1986, I had found a small 2-room wooden hut to lodge in, doubling as an office! They lived close by in a twin-roomed structure too.  The old, wizened lady – ‘Amma’ for me – was a very kind-hearted woman and treated me like her own son. She tended a cow and grew potatoes and rajmah on a tiny piece of land;  my milk supplies came from her. Her daughters were adult and charming. The elder one was tall and of a robust build. Endowed with typical Banghalan features, she looked ravishing in fact. She worked (and still does) in a government department. The younger one was frail but pretty, and besides lending a helping hand to her mother in domestic/farming chores, specialized in sewing. With time I grew very fond of the family. Humble and simple, yet they lived a life of utmost dignity- happy, proud and content in their small little world: this is what had endeared me to the family. Their stone-mud, slate-roofed home though small, was always squeaky clean. On the eve of my end of ‘exile’, the trio invited me along with my two school teacher friends to a kichhdi dinner…laced with crackling hot desi ghee and homemade dahi. It was the most delicious kichhdi I ever had, served with so much love and warmth. The taste still lingers!

When we met them on the morning this time, we returned with mixed feelings. The elder daughter looked weary and had aged rather prematurely. She had been married to a local fellow owning a small shop, and now partially incapacitated by a paralytic stroke. They were issueless. The younger one had not married and looked haggard suffering from an ailment or two. Amma looked very frail as well. She recognized me at once, beamed with joy and gave me a tight hug. They had now moved to their respective new concrete homes- rather less inviting than their old dwelling. Overall, theirs seemed like not a very happy story. But the warmth in the hearts was still intact. They packed us with bagfuls of self-grown potatoes, rajmah, garlic and lungdu-achaar as gifts before we said goodbyes and clicked some pictures with them.

 This family’s struggle for survival, their ‘chin-up’, and ‘keep-grinning-no-matter-what’ attitude against all odds, was uppermost in the mind during our return journey and even afterwards. It is these doughty, resilient, underprivileged, simple, hardworking, generous, nature-friendly, pure-hearted, ordinary but proud people amongst us ( the ‘producers’) who hold the country together and keep it ticking…not the self-serving, venal ‘lawmaker’ (the top rung and the most voracious  ‘consumer’) fattening by illicit means on taxpayer’s money, I thought...and keep thinking. 
                                                                                                      (Concluded)

                                  

Yours truly with 'Amma'

                                                                       ***