Monday Musings: Mountains & Mists: The words that matter!
Small hill stations have a unique heartbeat. The reactions to a visit there by a city dweller is equally fascinating in its ache and the momentariness of that ache.
The beginning: The curves and hairpin bends, the sudden drop in temperatures, the chill in the wind augurs the hill station. Habitation recedes, the traffic thins and so does the cacophony. As the vehicle weaves its way up through the cuts in the mountain, it dawns upon the traveller how tough it would have been to tame the impregnable monoliths that have stood their ground for thousands of years. The pace of the vehicle automatically slows down and that is in some ways the first thing that a hill station teaches you – the sheer joy of slowing down.
Road side eateries spring up in crazy bends – ramshackle places that serve the modern and the traditional. Tea/coffee stalls, Maggie stalls, fruit stalls, greasy Indian junk compete for space with the tetra packs and chip packets. There is no competition – there is only utility. Most houses are small, just about managing to perch from any little foothold that concrete could provide them along the slopes of a steep mountain. The sublime is traded for utility – come to think of it, utility is sublime. That is the second lesson most hill stations teach – the sheer power of utility and the futility of opulence.
The people, at least the original inhabitants are usually hard bred. There is always a look on them that speaks of having seen the vagaries of life. A tough terrain, a daily struggle for small things, the preciousness of even small things like water, electricity and accessibility has taught them the virtues of appreciating even small joys. Humility is a natural outcome. They recognise that they are constantly under the mercies of nature and its fury – and that it could be their turn to be at the receiving end of it any day just as it is someone else’s turn today. Hospitality is both a virtue as well as a survival strategy. They count their blessings one day at a time. That is the third lesson that the city dweller is taught – the ability to steal big joys in small things.
The sights are breath-taking. The mountains are egoistical – they care little for your 3 BHK- with a servant room-in an elite tower-in the posh part of the town. You still have come to the mountains. I hear them laughing at us – the naughty avuncular laugh of an old patriarch who has seen it all and understands your misery. A waterfall here or there is full of vigour. It passes you with complete disdain, almost poking fun at your meaningless titles or the mindless pursuit of it. It knows that you are bounded while it has had the freedom to flow for centuries – and long after you are completely smothered by the meaninglessness of your golden chains, it shall continue to flow free. The valleys are laid for hundreds of miles. They have been resting there for millennia and they look well rested. They know the truth about the quality of your sleep, but they are wise and hence keep quiet. The sights teach the fourth lesson – there are sights that give you pleasure is not the same thing as sights that uplift you.
A colleague heaved an extreme romanticised sigh as the sights overwhelmed the soul – “all I want is a book and a cup of coffee; I can live here forever”. I stopped myself from correcting an erring city dweller. “you won’t be able to stay here for more than a few weeks at best – the heavy burden of permanent solitude will kill you. You are too used to the fatuous but perpetual company of boring fellow humans eternally hopeful that it is worthwhile. Your soul has become accustomed to the constant hum of notifications mistaking it for something real. You have an overwhelming and compulsive need to talk to others so that you can avoid talking to yourself”. Obviously, I did not say all of this. The hill station is a place to briefly look at a life that should be – living it in reality is a courageous step not most of us are capable of.
A final word on the early morning mist on the huge lake. Mist was the poetry being sung from the heart of the lake. It arose like words and got lost as it rose up – like all words uttered that get lost eventually. All that was remembered that the lake had spoken and the next morning it shall speak again. The lake did not know or cared if the words mattered to anyone. It just spoke with all its heart. At the end of it all – isn’t that all that matters.!
www.gurucharangandhi.com
www.mondaymusingsbyguru.blogpsot.com
Small hill stations have a unique heartbeat. The reactions to a visit there by a city dweller is equally fascinating in its ache and the momentariness of that ache.
The beginning: The curves and hairpin bends, the sudden drop in temperatures, the chill in the wind augurs the hill station. Habitation recedes, the traffic thins and so does the cacophony. As the vehicle weaves its way up through the cuts in the mountain, it dawns upon the traveller how tough it would have been to tame the impregnable monoliths that have stood their ground for thousands of years. The pace of the vehicle automatically slows down and that is in some ways the first thing that a hill station teaches you – the sheer joy of slowing down.
Road side eateries spring up in crazy bends – ramshackle places that serve the modern and the traditional. Tea/coffee stalls, Maggie stalls, fruit stalls, greasy Indian junk compete for space with the tetra packs and chip packets. There is no competition – there is only utility. Most houses are small, just about managing to perch from any little foothold that concrete could provide them along the slopes of a steep mountain. The sublime is traded for utility – come to think of it, utility is sublime. That is the second lesson most hill stations teach – the sheer power of utility and the futility of opulence.
The people, at least the original inhabitants are usually hard bred. There is always a look on them that speaks of having seen the vagaries of life. A tough terrain, a daily struggle for small things, the preciousness of even small things like water, electricity and accessibility has taught them the virtues of appreciating even small joys. Humility is a natural outcome. They recognise that they are constantly under the mercies of nature and its fury – and that it could be their turn to be at the receiving end of it any day just as it is someone else’s turn today. Hospitality is both a virtue as well as a survival strategy. They count their blessings one day at a time. That is the third lesson that the city dweller is taught – the ability to steal big joys in small things.
The sights are breath-taking. The mountains are egoistical – they care little for your 3 BHK- with a servant room-in an elite tower-in the posh part of the town. You still have come to the mountains. I hear them laughing at us – the naughty avuncular laugh of an old patriarch who has seen it all and understands your misery. A waterfall here or there is full of vigour. It passes you with complete disdain, almost poking fun at your meaningless titles or the mindless pursuit of it. It knows that you are bounded while it has had the freedom to flow for centuries – and long after you are completely smothered by the meaninglessness of your golden chains, it shall continue to flow free. The valleys are laid for hundreds of miles. They have been resting there for millennia and they look well rested. They know the truth about the quality of your sleep, but they are wise and hence keep quiet. The sights teach the fourth lesson – there are sights that give you pleasure is not the same thing as sights that uplift you.
A colleague heaved an extreme romanticised sigh as the sights overwhelmed the soul – “all I want is a book and a cup of coffee; I can live here forever”. I stopped myself from correcting an erring city dweller. “you won’t be able to stay here for more than a few weeks at best – the heavy burden of permanent solitude will kill you. You are too used to the fatuous but perpetual company of boring fellow humans eternally hopeful that it is worthwhile. Your soul has become accustomed to the constant hum of notifications mistaking it for something real. You have an overwhelming and compulsive need to talk to others so that you can avoid talking to yourself”. Obviously, I did not say all of this. The hill station is a place to briefly look at a life that should be – living it in reality is a courageous step not most of us are capable of.
A final word on the early morning mist on the huge lake. Mist was the poetry being sung from the heart of the lake. It arose like words and got lost as it rose up – like all words uttered that get lost eventually. All that was remembered that the lake had spoken and the next morning it shall speak again. The lake did not know or cared if the words mattered to anyone. It just spoke with all its heart. At the end of it all – isn’t that all that matters.!
www.gurucharangandhi.com
www.mondaymusingsbyguru.blogpsot.com
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