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'

                                                                       ***

                                     Went to the hill resort Barot this mid-June for a  short, one-night stay

                                       I write on how from lovely green this little hamlet has turned ugly and grey

                                      To develop tourism in our pretty hill state this is hardly the way

                                      Preserve nature; promote green assets- that I feel is the only way

Barot revisited (1)

Barot: An overview

On the 16^th of June in the afternoon, accompanied by my wife, I was on my way to Barot. This trip, in fact, was long overdue. After having served a 4-year exile on punishment posting ending in June 1990, this was going to be my first night-long stay here. I had of course been here on a few occasions in between. But those were 1- to 2-hour-stay visits to the government trout farm with the students, stifled by the responsibilities and limitations of an official tour.

 I was whelmed by nostalgia as we drove along the narrow, serpentine uphill road after diverting from the NH at Ghatasani and turned towards Jhatingari. Jhatingari is an important stopover 5 Kms from Ghatasani on the 25 Km drive to Barot. The old, familiar stands of tall, erect deodars soon came into view, casting a magic spell with their quiet majesty, elegance and beauty. From the cacophony, heat and dust of my home town, it seemed like having suddenly entered into a different world altogether: a world of solitude, a world of ethereal bliss. But there was one stark difference. This time there was a long stream of vehicles of summer-oppressed tourists from the plains – mostly bearing Punjab, Haryana, UP, Rajasthan and Uttrakhand number plates - all heading towards Barot; and quite about the same numbers on their way back.

The deodars on the way: majestic, graceful...                                

...and divine

                                                      

                                                                       

Wending our way under the grey, misty skies welcoming us with occasional feeble showers of rain, and oaks and deodars adorning the hill slopes greeting us all along, we landed at our destination a little before dusk. Off and on we would come across a chubby-cheeked, round-eyed local lad or a couple of elderly Banghalan women dressed in traditional attire selling ‘lungdu’, garlic or Rajmah by the roadside. Such sights made me wistful about the days I had spent in the soothing lap of Barot. But for its serene ambience and meditative calm and a slow, gentle pace of life, hadn't the agony and angst of this senseless, vendetta-inspired banishment  been rather hard to bear, I reflected.

                                                        

On the prisitne banks of Uhl khud: litter burning and noxious fumes

 We headed straight to the Forest Rest House past the narrow bazaar, looked after well by a kindly, amiable and hospitable chowkidar Bhagi Ram, where we had booked our room. After some rest and tea we opted to go for a walk. The bazaar still had some old little shops intact. But many had given way to glass-fronted, city-like hotels, offices and other commercial structures. Walking along further, we found dhabas and kiosks catering to all tastes and palates flanking the road. A lot many guest houses had sprung up too. Another one, looking grotesque, ugly and so out of place with its grey façade of cement and concrete etched against the graceful deodars just behind, was under construction (see photo). Tourists were aplenty. With their vehicles parked in a random, shoddy manner all around, they could be seen either roaming about munching Lay's potato chips or busy taking selfies and making videos on the right flank of the Uhl khud. Their children were having fun too cycling along on this stretch of road: obviously cycles too had made inroads and were now available on hire even at such a remote place. This road, once forlorn and used mostly by the locals for their to-and-fro domestic errands was broken at places and had turned slushy and in disrepair due to overuse. In fact this kilometer long tarred road-stretch owes its existence to the Shanan power project on Uhl with a power house at Shanan (near Jogindernagar) producing 800 mw of energy. The project is the brainchild of an ingenious Briton, Colonel Betty of the Raj era. It is a brilliant showpiece of how to harness hydropower with minimal damage to the sacrosanct hills and their pristine flora. He, I am sure, would be turning in his grave at  the present high-tech power project technology destroying all that sustains life with utter disdain to ecology and the environment. Wish there were more Bettys around now for a wiser counsel!

A new (ugly) construction underway

                                                    And where there is a tourist from our plains, can plastic and litter be far behind? Just beside the Uhl, on is wide, grassy bank, a fellow was busy burning the collected garbage- the noxious fumes fouling the cool, crisp Barot air. We took a long stroll along this road which ends at the 'trolley-way' point. (This narrow rail track was originally designed to haul and transport material for the construction work from Jogindernagar and is yet another master stroke of innovation and ingenuity.) Taking in the entire scene with mixed feelings, we returned to the rest house when it was already dark. We sat on the upper veranda which afforded a wonderful view outside. The Shanan reservoir lay stretched right in front of us- a picture of tranquility and soothing calm. As gushes of air kissed wet and cool and crisp by its merry, playful waves  caressed us nursing our weary, jagged nerves to the best of health, I hummed the sweet Panjabi song: सिल्ली, सिल्ली, औंदी है हवा...! It felt divine to just sit there, sipping beer and reflecting on life untrammeled by worldly affairs. Later, Bhagi Ram served us simple but nice daal-sabzi-roti dinner and we retired to the room for a good night’s sleep.
                                                                                                                                                  (Concluding part next week)

Another view of the green Barot valley

                                   

                                         

                                         ***

                 The Neugal khud is not just  the Beas river’s important tributary

                 Though enfeebled now, it is our lifeline; rich in legend and history

                 This week a small little personal incident about it I recall

                 Read it as you hear the welcome sounds of season’s rainfall

The Neugal khud now, and then-when I nearly drowned

           

                                    Photo, courtesy: R G Sud

The Neugal khud nowadays is no more the khud of the 60’s and 70’s. Dammed near its origin ( for power generation), it is now a feeble and frail tributary snaking its way to join the Beas near Tira Sujanpur. Along its entire course, for sand and boulder, it has been mined and mined no end to render it almost comatose and gasping for dear life. The ever swelling crowds of summer tourists have fouled its banks and waters with plastic and litter. The growing and urbanizing towns have polluted it with waste of all descriptions.  That it still flows and gives the visiting tourist a dip of a lifetime in its icy cool waters is but a tribute to its innate resilience and the Dhauladhar’s eternal benevolence.

Half a century ago and before, it rippled with power and energy. It looked bubbly and youthful- full of joy and exuberance. I was then a young toddler in a village school. Summers there were hot…very hot indeed. Therefore (in summers) the schools started early and closed at 1.30. After the school, what better way could there be to cool parched bodies than to take a plunge in the Neugal’s sparkling, gurgling waters? Barely 2 kilometers away from our village, reached by a downhill trot on a cobbled track – its stones hot in the afternoon sun almost singeing our feet – it always seemed to beckon us  holding an irresistible attraction.

So while the elders retired for their siesta to stave off those lazy, drowsy, soporific hours under the sun’s unrelenting fury, I, in the company of neighbourhood lads, sneaked out to the khud. My friends were older than me and all of them expert swimmers- unlike me. We would frolic about on the Neugal’s sandy banks making little castles and homes or run around or play other silly little games. We would also try our hands at catching small little fish that lurked in the narrow crevices of boulders where water was shallow. Some of my pals had deft fingers and did catch some at times; I never could. Later, on our way back, we would drop anchor under the shade of a tree, make small fire with dry twigs, roast the fish and share the prized catch in small bits and pieces!

I never strayed into the Neugal’s deeper waters and just hung around the river’s edge, content with splashing water over the body or taking a short dip.  But my companions would, often one by one, stand on a high rock on the khud’s bank and in a daring sortie, plunge into its roaring waters. They would either swim across to the opposite bank with masterful strokes of hands and feet; or clenching their nostrils with the thumb and finger, go down into the watery depths to emerge moments later and then swim off to either shore. After a little rest on the rocky outcrops or over the sand, their swimming sprees and antics would resume. I felt very jealous and dearly wished to emulate them. To that end I began to learn swimming on my own. Gingerly, I began to venture a little deeper where water was about waist high. From there I would try to beat my arms and legs wildly about and make it back to the shore. After sustained efforts lasting some days, I got it into my head that I knew how to swim. I was now ready to try, qualify the test and join the swimmers’ elite band. So one day, I too stood on the rock, tensed my body up for the plunge and hit the waters. And to my horror, the mighty, gushing, sinewy waves swallowed me up like a hungry beast. As I was going down and drowning, one of the older fellows who happened to be swimming very close by, might have noticed this. Quickly, he got his arms under me, hoisted me up, made me buoyant again and then heaved me along to the safety of the bank. Thus was my life saved from meeting a watery grave. I never tried swimming seriously again and when I recall that incident, it sends shivers down my spine.

                                                                            ***

                            इस बार शिमला, सोलन जैसे शहरों में पानी ने बहुत तरसाया,
                            नहाना तो दूर रहा पीने को भी जल बेहद मुश्किल से मिल पाया.
                            अब आने वाले सालों में मित्रो गहराएगा जल संकट और भी ज्यादा,
                            किफ़ायत बरतें, प्रदूषण रोकें, पेड़ लगायें- आओ हम सब करें यह वादा.

      

     Palampurwalo: Are we using water responsibly?

                                 

Climate change is now well and truly upon us. It is impacting our lives with mounting severity with every change of season. Dust storms that invaded the plains of North India just last week not sparing even our cool and green Himachal, are being seen as a new ‘deadly’ normal. Forest fires this summer have been unprecedented. Never before in my life have I ever seen the Dhualadhar turned into such an inferno with plumes of smoke willowing up from its forested slopes at so many places. Never before such a chilling scare ran through the spine that at this rate the jungle fires might a day too soon extend their reach and engulf our dwellings, our streets and towns. Imagine: 3000 or more hectares of valuable forest area has been devastated by the fires this summer.

Speaking of civic amenities, Shimla remained parched and thirsty for more than 8 days. It took the full might of the government and the High Court’s active intervention -  the CJ had to wake and walk late in the nights - to put things in order. Though the water scarcity is partly man-made, in a wider perspective, it is our melting glaciers, shrinking green cover and depleting water bodies that are at the root of it. Unsustainable urbanization far beyond the carrying capacity of towns - Palampur is no exception – has compounded the misery even more. But for some welcome showers, neither the forest fires nor the water scarcities would have been combated fully by human efforts alone.

And now the foot falls of monsoon are approaching us fast. Normal monsoon as predicted for this season in fact translates into heavy rains for most parts of Himachal – our Kangra valley more particularly so. A couple of cloud bursts have already struck Chamba and other places. So dear friends, brace your good selves up for more such news:  landslides, tree falls, floods, deaths, destruction, horror and devastation. I know I am being boringly repetitious but I feel time has come now to call a halt to this massive plunder of our natural resources in the name of development. Time has come to seek nature-friendly, alternative, non-exploitative models of development.

Reverting to water scarcity, Shimla-like situation is waiting to hit Palampur. Have we drawn any lessons from Shimla? I think we can begin by using water responsibly. I have decided not to wash my car (which even otherwise I seldom wash at home) unless absolutely necessary and that too with minimal use of water: after all it is potable water we are using in the absence of any recycled water being made available for such purposes. No watering of lawn. I already do so very very sparingly but henceforth I leave it to the mercy of rain gods. As for kitchen gardening, our simian cousins (monkeys) have already seen to it that we don’t indulge in this activity any more. Flower pots?...yes. But let’s water them without spilling off water. Using bucket and a mug is more sensible than using an old, leaking water-can (फब्बारा). Then I don’t keep the tap running while brushing my teeth or when shaving. And post Shimla crisis, I no longer press the smaller flush button every time I visit the loo to pee. Instead, I use the hand jet for short, quick flushing which is quite effective and economical as well. As far a bath or a shower, recalling Shimla, I do so with utmost economy and care. Further, a disgusting sight of a public tap running full over an already overflowing bucket, or a water tank at a construction site, is not uncommon. When I bump into any, I mouth the juiciest Punjabi swearwords and make sure to turn off the tap. One thing more: whenever I find any water supply pipes leaking – quite often damaged by a passing truck – I get in touch with the IPH officials and ask them to repair it. I reported one such case of a badly leaking pipe on Wednesday, the 13^th of June, near the road diversion to Aima’s waste treatment plant, and to my joy, found the leaking pipe in order on my walk next morning.

                                     
Well, I know this is not going to solve Palampur’s impending water problem. But these small little ways make me feel like a responsible citizen and embue me with a sense of belonging to my town; I feel happy. And  being happy – in these small little ways - is what life (for me) is so much about!

                                                     ***

              My last week's post on 'Joy' evoked overwhelming response from far and near

              It seems 'Joy' dwells in many hearts- all its memories held so close and dear

              Here is more: my UK friend Peter Phillimore too goes down the memory lane

              And shares his old love for 'Joy's' in a warm little note with sweet nostalgic pain

 

                                     Nostalgia                    

                       On 'Joy' in Palampur

In the crisp clear days of November, back in 1976, we – two young visitors from the UK, Rachel and Peter – arrived in Palampur to find accommodation for some fifteen months while I was doing research for my PhD.  It was the time of PM Indira Gandhi’s Emergency, which still had a good few months to run.  The magnificent views of the Dhaula Dhar were an instant attraction.  But it wasn’t long before we discovered Joy’s…and after that we never went anywhere else.  For a start, Harinder and Hari Om were so welcoming to everyone.  And Joy’s also made excellent coffee, when that wasn’t always easy to find.  We developed a routine.  Getting down from the bus from Baijnath after several days away, we would make our way to the Post Office, to collect our mail sent Poste Restante.  There we would collect letters from the UK, and followed by a crowd of small children asking for the stamps we would head straight for Joy’s to read these letters.   What a treat! 

Peter and Rachel in 70's just before leaving India: more Palampuri than British!

                                                                               
Palampur bazaar life and sounds would mingle with stories and news from home in a strange and reassuring blend.  The past is another country it’s often said, and in a world of email and social media the delights of hand-written letters that have taken five or six days to arrive (pretty quick all things considered) seems now a rather exotic memory.  Anyway, one coffee would be followed by another, along with pakora or bhaji.  It meant that we spent quite a long time in Joy’s one way and another.  We soon thought of ourselves as regulars and were delighted to be treated as such by Harinder and Hari Om.  Other western travelers always seemed to find their way there, and Tibetans too, making it quite the hub for casual conversations.  Sometimes the cricket was on, another pleasure – was it on the radio or TV at that time, it’s hard to recall.  And so a pattern was set. 
                                                                                 

Peter enjoying a pillion ride through the old Palampur bazaar; 'Joy's' can be seen right behind us

Every subsequent visit has rekindled our joy at refinding Joy’s, even if the noise of the bazaar traffic more recently has become a bit of an assault on everyone’s ears.  Among later memories the one I most vividly recall was in September 1997.  It was the day of Princess Diana’s funeral.  Walking with my elder son through the bazaar in the hours before the actual funeral, I was amazed that almost every shop – and Joy’s of course also – had their TVs turned half towards the road, so that those inside and outside could watch the occasion.  We stopped awhile at Joy’s to watch and talk, and take in the slightly surreal experience of this event playing out against the background of daily life flowing through Palampur’s by then buzzing bazaar.  So thank you Harinder and Hari Om, for being such a delight all those years ago – and ever since when we have come back to Kangra.  Till next time, from Rachel and me, Peter Phillimore.

(10^th June 2018)

                                                                       ***
                                                               

               Joy it was to sit, chat and sip coffee in the 'Joy' restaurant, at leisure

                  Memories of those good, easy-paced 70's, I still greatly treasure

                  This week a short account of how it all felt, I write under my pen

                  As many thoughts crowd my mind of the time  spent at this lovely 'den'

                            Nostalgia

         When sipping coffee in ‘Joy’ was pure joy                

    

'Joy' in the late 80's. In the photo: Tim (Peter's friend), Hari Om and Surinder Vats

Way back in the 70’s, Palampur had a quiet, serene ambience. The pace of life was slow and easy. Vehicles were few and far between. Studded with plentiful deodars and pines, and the tea gardens all intact, it exuded the charm of a hill town uniquely its own. The Palampur bazaar was not so noisy, crowded and vehicle-choked as it is now. One could loiter around and shop at leisure without the fear and risk of being run over. And in this very bazaar there was – and still is – a nice and cosy hangout: Joy Restaurant manned by unassuming, polite and friendly Narang brothers: Harinder and the younger Hari Om.

Harinder Narang

Hari Om Narang

                                                         

                                                   

It used to be a favourite haunt for many of us Palampur-dwellers, and the visitors as well. After a round or two of the main bazaar, we would saunter into ‘Joy’. But before moving in, it was almost customary to first meet the ‘Joy’ brothers at the counter, shake hands, exchange greetings and share some quick town gossip. That would add an additional flavour to our ‘Joy experience’. Here then we would sit, sip coffee and give vent to our hopes, dreams and despairs. Being young and eligible bachelors, the topic that occupied center stage in our banter used to be the ‘suitable girls’ studying in local colleges and who was wooing whom! Vibrant music reverberated through the main sitting hall and a couple of small and dimly-lit ones at the rear. The resonant ABBA songs – then a big hit – still ring in my ears and send a pulse of excitement (‘Honey, Honey…I don’t wanna hurt you baby, I don’t wanna see you cry…’; ‘Mamma mia, here I go again’, still give me goose pimples of nostalgic delight). I loved Joy’s samosas, tikkis and chaat. The ras malai was another favourite of mine, as well as gulab jamuns and sizzling hot gajrela to counter the winter blues. And I am sure they still serve you the best and most delectable gajrela in town.

…And so much happened here for me. It was at the ‘Joy’ that I sat across my mentor and guide Dr Tony Gaston, a Canadian wildlife scientist of distinction to discuss about my participation in the proposed Himachal Wildlife Project, over sips of espresso coffee. And let me also make a confession. It was at the ‘Joy’ where I made a formal ‘proposal’ to my fiancée over coffee. It was here too that I came across a charming young couple: Peter Phillimore and Rachel from the UK.  Peter was then pursuing his doctorate and was in Palampur for his research work on Gaddis of Kanarthu- a small and remote village hamlet near Baijnath. They divided their time between stints at Kanarthu and a short stay in their hired accommodation at Palampur. ‘Joy’ – which they frequented often enough - brought us fortuitously together. And, since then, ours has been a rewarding, enduring friendship which is alive and vibrant even today. In fact it was Dr Peter Phillimore who suggested a week back that I write a post on ‘Joy’. And to lend a special flavour to my blog, he has, graciously enough, agreed to write his own  piece on his and Rachel’s tryst with ‘Joy’. Needless to say, they both still adore Palampur and worry about its degrading ecology.

                                            

Well, the Joy restaurant is still throbbing and thriving. The two brothers have of course greyed, as we all have- the young guys of the 70’s! But they are still their old charming selves. We now visit it but seldom. But the sweet old memories associated with this restaurant… memories of our loves and longings, meetings and rendezvousing, hopes and fears, aspirations and dreams and much else, are still vivid and alive.

PS: It seems that Dr Peter Phillimore's preoccupations have
prevented him to send his write-up for this post. I hope to receive
it soon and share it with you....maybe... next week.

                                                                      ***

                              Did you see forest fires on the Dhauladhar this  summer, or not?

                                            The scarcities of water in Shimla and our own villages dry and hot?

                                            I write to voice my lament and rage at the ongoing destruction of all that is green

                                           And urge you to read and share my post: be you young, old or even a bubbly teen

Can we still save Palampur?    

Lucky we are. While the plains sizzle with searing heat in these days of climate change, we, Palampurwallas, still have some few deodars and the pines left to keep the air cool. We have the Neugal, the Awa, the Binwa and the Baner khuds fed by the melting snows of the Dhauladhar for a refreshing dip in this insane heat. We have the beautiful Jacarandas with their dainty, purple blossoms to keep our spirits upbeat and happy. We have the tea-gardens canopied by shady trees to soothe our summer-weary eyes. We have the Neugal café to walk or drive up to for swigs of beer perched relaxingly on its breezy lawns for a refreshing evening with friends or family. And so on...  

                          

But for how long?

Reckless, unregulated, unplanned construction activity goes on at a frantic pace. Even pristine, pine-clad forest hills are being cut up right through the middle (see photo) to make way for link roads to provide access to swathes of land bought by the filthy rich where they would build colonies and sell them at hefty rates and get richer still. Big commercial buildings – which look like ghastly monstrosities in concrete – have come up, and more are coming up right on the banks of our khuds blocking view, defying law and regulations. The MC sleeps; so does the PWD; so does the CTP; so do the local administration and other government departments whose job it is to not let this happen. Have they been bribed or compromised by the powerful builders’ lobby that has strong ties with the politician? Or the politicians and/or their kin have their own stakes and shares in this money-raking construction activity? Is that why the law and regulation enforcing agencies are under pressure to keep mum, look the other way and stay impotent? …I leave these questions that trouble me for you too to mull over.  At times it seems that what to speak of good governance, there is no government at all. How else otherwise could Shimla, Kasauli, Manali and McLeodganj have become so ugly, eye-jarring jungles of concrete with thousands of illegal constructions?

Imagine the horror. Shimla has been without water for 8 days. (And finally, it is the High Court that had to step in and do what was essentially the government’s job. It acted tough, prevented the VIPs from enjoying special favour of assured water supply while the general public suffered and set an example by excluding the jugdes too from any undue favour in water supply. The Chief Justice was walking the streets late in the night calling up the officials and personally monitoring the situation. Why can’t our ministers, MLAs and secretaries act in such exemplary ways in public interest?)

Forest fires are raging everywhere causing immense loss of our invaluable green cover, our dwindling wildlife, our biodiversity. Almost all hill slopes of the Dhauladhar as we look around in the north present a depressing sight: plumes of smoke everywhere rising up and clouding the sky.  And as I woke up this last Wednesday morning, I could feel the stifling smoke and soot having drifted right inside my own home. At this rate, the day is not far off when such fires will spread right in our own neighbourhoods and homesteads as Palampur changes from green to grey. Loud announcements are made before every summer that all due arrangements have been made to control and fight forest fires. Yet every year all plans, all arrangements go kaput. Sadly, these wild fires have already claimed 8 lives including that of a forest official- all because of inadequate fire-fighting infrastructure.

The present government is new. I have faith and trust in our new CM. He needs time to come to grips with the nitty gritty of administration and bureaucratic tangles that clog good governance. But what the hell his predecessors have been doing about combating this massive destruction that visits our lovely forests every summer? Why have they not been able to put in place effective short and long-term measures  despite being in power for term after term? Why have they let thousands of illegal constructions come up and have been making amendments to regularize them- without shame, without regret, without fear of being held accountable?

Well, my worry is: Will Palampur go the way these cities/towns have gone?...Another congested town of concrete with Shimla/Solan-like scarcities of water and other essential civic amenities? It sure will. And sooner than we think. Therefore, dear friends heed the groans and cries of Mother Nature…our degrading local ecology and environment. Let’s ensure a cool, green, clean Palampur for our posterity. Let’s protest and prevent. Let’s call a halt to further erosion, destruction and loss. Days of paying obeisance to our lawmakers are now past. No need to garland them…no more colonial hangover please. They are public servants enjoying huge perks, privileges and life of luxury at our cost. Let’s hold them accountable. Let’s ask them tough questions. Let’s get together and join hands. Let’s do it now…otherwise it will be too late. Let’s save our beloved Palampur.

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