Life along a dusty trail: Thuds, shrieks and the occasional peehooo

The red-breasted coppersmith barbet is a persistent bird. Not as persistent as the lapwing perhaps, but persistent nevertheless. This morning it sits on the lowermost branch of the Siris (Albizia lebbeck) tree and begins its hammering metronomic call, which goes on for the better part of a minute, till it manages to bring back its mate that was busy scouting possible nesting options in the nearby branches.

The shikra, perched on one of the higher branches of the tamarind tree watches this relentless spurt of energy with the studied indifference that characterises similar birds of prey. A rat’s sudden squeak arrests its attention. Shifting its weight on its rufous belly, the muscular bird moves with the sun. An iridescent sunbird perched on the nearest cluster of flowers, its curved beak poised over a petal, is slightly taken aback by this sudden swoop of motion.

The green and yellow parakeets are not to be bothered. Every morning a large company descends on the nearest neem tree and creates a pandemonium that no other member of the avian family could possibly match. The important business of foraging and feeding takes a savage turn as squabbling birds rent the morning calm with their conflict-ridden shrieks. And then all of a sudden, as if seized by panic—much like a housewife who’s realised that she’s left her wallet back at the greengrocer’s—the group of birds take flight, creating an animated, viridescent arrow in the early morning sky.

The Spring Sonata

The wind picks up the leaves, creating swirls and eddies in the late afternoon sun. Butterflies flit through the garlic shoots, reflecting for a moment to stay. The crow, insistent on the tamarind branch, surveys the world with beady, supercilious eyes. Down below, cavorting squirrels lose themselves in an amorous game of loving and letting.

It's almost over—the slow, blurry days of winter. You can feel it: the season preparing reluctantly for its farewell, occasionally bringing in cold winds from the north, more as afterthought than rebound. Warm, dry days trumpet their arrival—the wind prodigiously shaking gnarled branches, littering red soil with tattered russet leaves.

And then there is the sky—the vast dome that stretches far and wide dipping gently into the horizon. As the afternoon sun completes its daily run and slowly fades out, smearing the western edge of the mountains with pastel hues, the sky above begins to put out its show. Hours pass, darkness envelopes the land. But above, constellations appear, one by one—their shimmering brilliance quietly drawing us away from ourselves, nudging us to reflect on life's provenance and inevitability.

The village is in the midst of harvesting the season's first crop. Days begin with men, women and children bundling themselves into any available transport that will drop them off to the fields. The soundscape crackles with improvised film songs and exuberance of children that promise to break the monotony. All through the day tractors ply back and forth carrying the day's labour to weighing stands, where produce and price will change hands. For many, it appears, this has been a bountiful year. 

Life along a dusty trail: Of russet tones and cattle-bell gossip

Another place, another existence. Here one finds the horizon layered with brilliant ochre tones, as  the line of vision slowly settles on the undulated mountain ranges. Rows of low mudwalled houses bounded by beige stones from the nearby river, cattle occupying the primary thoroughfare with nary a care in the world, air heavy with the scent of soil and its produce—all create snapshots in sepia of this ancient landmass.

It is a life primarily of sharing—sharing one’s space, one’s stories. The village gathers along the dusty path that brings in news and gossip, and the daily requirements of everyday life. Buses from the nearest city come in a few times during the day, bearing more noise and even more dust. To the fatigued city-bred ear, early morning tinkle of cattle bells is the only welcome note of harmony in this seemingly dissonant rural outpost.

When does a place start to feel like home? Will the itinerant soul ever pause here? Feel settled? Only time will tell.

The midway home

I

The leaves echo the sound of the falling rain, turning a monotonous afternoon into a soothing lullaby. Evenings descend unnoticed, and slowly dissolve into the darkening woods. Birds returning to their nests try to raise the occasional cheer but can merely manage something close to a cacophony. Nights bring lonely notes from the perching owl or a sudden reminder from the scurrying rat, when all has gone to sleep.

II

Sitting on a comfortable sofa on her last night in the house, she lets life slip through the unravelled weave of time. This house-with-a-garden luxury in the southernmost fringe of the city came to her quite unexpectedly, six months back, as she was preparing herself for another trying journey back home from office. Destiny, disguised as pseudo-benevolence, flung a chance; her impulse made the plunge.

The neat little dwelling with its beige exterior and red borders appealed to her the very moment she set foot in it. But, surprisingly, on the very first night after moving in, as she was looking at the neat mothballed shelves filled with essentials to start her new life, she experienced a deep feeling of abandonment gnawing inside her. Did she do the right thing, choosing this life at a sparsely-populated neighbourhood in a remote corner of the city in place of her warm and familiar dwelling in the suburbs? Would the new neighbourhood be kind enough to help her settle down?

However, by the time she woke up next morning, the cloud of niggling doubt had dissipated. The sight of groggy children boarding their school bus and carefree adolescents chattering their way to the tuition class were enough to bring in the easy sense of familiarity and soothe her frayed nerves.

III

Since then, each day she has woken up to mint-fresh mornings, filled with snatches of conversation between morning walkers or the thudding sound of footsteps of the lone jogger ambling past. Newspapers reach pretty late in this part of the city but the morning tea has never failed to arrive with the day's news, brought in by vegetable sellers and fishmongers who knocked daily with their wares.

Being on the fringe of a rural hinterland, the place enjoys benefits of a village life. She muses with regret that moving out from the house will deprive her from enjoying the experience of buying farm-fresh vegetables and poultry at incredibly low prices. She will surely miss the hamper of supplies that her next door neighbour has occasionally brought in to sell to generate some extra income. Over the months she has learnt to cherish these visits with almost child-like glee as they have also filled her in with local news.

IV

Through days and months, she has filled her spare time seeking vicarious pleasure watching people live their lives. The family that has amused her the most lives right next door. The man manages a jatra group, a roving play troupe, which mostly performs high-strung social plays with hilarious titles. Leading a peripatetic life and handling emotions of colourful characters in uncertain situations have given him a pacifist’s temperament. His wife, a polar opposite of the man, is a motor-mouth in her own right. As she barely gets to see him, she spends most of her time complaining about her relations, and life in general, in a high-pitched drone, while tending the flower pots and provides thorough entertainment to those who care to lend an ear.

Their son, a twenty-something know-it-all, sees no reason in attending college when he has found perfect pleasure in playing the street Romeo, roaming around on his two-wheeler. Secretly, he harbours the hope of inheriting his father's troupe one day and making plenty of money, banking on the acumen of trusted members, rather than on his own hard work.

Days, when the three of them get together, the house springs into sudden festivity — the wife makes special dishes and bemoans the tribulations that life has thrust on her, while the husband dodges the jabs with good humour, suggesting her to marry off her son and put an end to all her troubles. The boy on his part throbs with excitement to know that very soon he'll be able to abandon the uninteresting life of adolescents and play an active part in the world of grown-ups, and that too with a woman to call his own.

Just opposite her house stands an imposing two-storeyed building that remains locked most of the time, its stuccoed walls and tall columns reminiscent of the life of its owner, once spent in foreign shores. The husband-wife duo, built the house as a weekend retreat amidst sylvan surroundings, far from the din of the city. However, as both remain busy with their respective lives in two different parts of the globe, the house rarely gets to see its much-loved visitors. The sole occupant now is the caretaker-cum-gardener who makes sure that the dwelling never loses its splendour. Secretly, he longs for Lady Luck to shower her blessings, so that he can inherit the house, once the innings of the childless couple is over.

V

The things strewn all around the room bring back the moment. Six months after moving in, destiny has chosen to wield its caprice, yet another time. She’d have to leave the house and the job as well that brought her here. Preoccupied with packing her life back again into boxes and bags, she asks herself, how she feels. The answer comes with such razor-sharp clarity that, for a moment, it surprises her. For the first time she realises that in her effort to be a great voyeur, she has actually missed out on the opportunity of striking up any meaningful relationship with the place. Surely, the life here might have allowed her to weave her own stories, but these are stories where she will never feature. Being pathologically shy, she has always eschewed real contact with people, the kind of association that leaves lasting memories and makes parting painful. But the gloomy moment does not last long. Soon the restive wanderer in her feels the mad rush of excitement, as once again the prospect of exploring new pads, new windows and new lives beckons her. Reason enough to feel cheerful and get going!

Snapshots in sepia: Parts VI and VII

VI

Along, our next stop, greeted us with the familiar bustle of a busy town; and after the wilderness and desolation of Tuting, seemed like a much-needed relief. Our intial plan was to take the next available transport out of Along and head to another jaw-dropping destination --- Mehchuka. However, by then the election campaign was gearing up with full gusto, so much so that the hotel where we had checked into in Along was full beyond its gills, block-booked by election camapaigneers for the next month or so. With a possibility of being stranded in a remote place looming large, we dropped the idea of going to Mehchuka and decided to move towards Guwahati from where we were to take the flight back to Kolkata.

Being the district headquarters of the West Siang district, Along witnesses a lot of activity throughout the day, mostly centred around the town square, which is where all the government offices are located. A quick walk led us to an enclosed space, where people were celebrating Durga puja. As a banner revealed, the puja was started way back in 1953 by Bengalis who mostly had come here as government officials. Over the years, this has become an occasion for all the people of the neighbourhood to assemble and make merry, brushing aside feelings of animosity or grudge that otherwise cloud the relationship between the tribals and the settlers. Interestingly, here in Arunachal, the idol has slight Mongoloid features and resembles the famed beauties of Upper Assam.

VII

The broad sweep of the mighty Brahmaputra valley came into view and, immediately after, came the checkpost. This was the last time we had to

get our ILPs stamped, that would proclaim our departure from Arunachal. From here we were to cross over to Silapathar, the border town in Assam and take the night bus to Guwahati. As the mid-afternoon heat licked the jeep's windows, I realised with a sudden bout of longing that the trip had come to an end. Sure, it had its share of uncertainties, the trials and tribualtions. But long after the grudges go to rest and quotidian concerns colour life, memory will occasionally fiddle with the snapshots in sepia, evoking the awe-inspiring beauty of a land filled with mist and mystery and a diminishing tribe of ever-warm and hospitable people.

Give me another trip to Arunachal any day!

Fact of the matter

The itinerary

Kolkata (by flight) ----> Dibrugarh (by boat across the Brahmaputra and then a 3-hr bus ride) -----> Pasighat (shared Sumo) ----> Yinkiong (shared Sumo) -----> Tuting (shared Sumo) ----> Yinkiong (shared Sumo) ----> Along (shared Sumo) --------> Silapathar (night bus of Green Valley bus service, fabulous) ------> Guwahati (flight) ----> Kolkata

Accomodation (all mid-range, 2010 rates)

Dibrugarh --- Hotel Devika (Rs 850)

Pasighat ----- Hotel Aane (Rs 900)

Yinkiong ---- Hotel Libang (the only-available decent accommodation, Rs 350)

Tuting ---- Inspection Bungalow PWD

Along --- Hotel Aagam (Rs 400)

Snapshots in sepia: Part V

"Beware of dumdings, they are tiny but can really give you a very nasty itch," cautioned our jeep driver when we got down for lunch at a small wayside shack the next day. Lunch would mean rice, dal and desi chicken curry (broiler chicken is looked down upon here!), all pepped up by the famous chilly, bhoot jolokia. For a change, the rains had let up and the bright blue sky dazzled behind white wispy clouds. We were on our way to Tuting, the last destination on this leg of the journey. From there we had decided to go down to Along and follow the road to Mehchuka. Tuting is also the last roadhead on that route and if you are keen to visit Singa, a village some 80 km away from Tuting and home to the famed musk deer, you have to walk your way to it.

I've grown up with stories about the jungles along the eastern border of India. As our Sumo negotiated the mountain terrain, I now got to see them in their monsoon splendour. These jungles are home to exotic flora and fauna, a few of which are endemic to this part of the world. Apart from the view of an exquisite landscape, the road trip itself offers practical lessons on the lives of the local people, their habits, the things they use, for example, the wonderful bamboo baskets and the unique bamboo umbrella. On the whole, the journey can be educating as well as entertaining and will easily make you forget the little glitches and discomforts that are integral to a trip to most parts of Arunachal.

Tuting is one of the remotest towns in India (try Googling it and see what that yields!). The town has no electricty (the only turbine conked off and was yet to be repaired back then).

Most non-tribals are government officials who see their carrer in Tuting as punishment posting and find the merest excuse of seeking transfer. Even the Arunachalis that one meets at the BDO office are quite disillusioned and want to get back to their home terrain at the slightest pretext. "It's great to come for a short trip here but try staying for more than

a week and you're likely to lose your mind," was the sentiment echoed by most of the non-tribal residents whom we met here. The only accommodation available for tourists is the PWD inspection bungalow, for which a written permission from the PWD department / BDO office at Tuting is a must.

This being the election season in Arunachal, getting transport was extremely difficult, as most Sumos that are the lifeline of Arunachal's

transport system, were being pulled out and used for election campaign. We got panicky as we came to know that the next available Sumo would not leave before a week. Not knowing how to get out of the place, we began trying all possible modes of transport -- from supply trucks to helicopters. During one such frantic hunt we met a kind soul, who moved by our plight not only gave us a lift down to Yinkiong, but also offered his home for the night stay. Speak of Indian hospitality!

Snapshots in sepia: Parts III and IV

III

Pasighat is Arunachal's oldest town, established by the British in 1911, and is the headquarter of the East Siang district. It serves as a gateway to the rest of the state and it is from here that we were to board the shared jeep that would take us to our next destination -- Yinkiong, a town some 200 km from Pasighat.

A local transport strike forced us to stay in Pasighat for an extra day that I duly spent hiking through lush hill tracts and watching women in their colourful wraparounds and parasols go about their day's business.

On a day washed out by spells of moderate-to-heavy rains and made inactive by the bandh, these minor distractions provided the much-needed relief.

IV

My jaw dropped when I saw the driver of our jeep, a boy barely out of his teens. From my erstwhile trips to northern Himalayas, I was used to seeing hatta katta Punjabis/Jats behind the wheel, negotiating hairpin bends on difficult mountain terrains, and, hence was least expecting an adolescent to drive the jeep. Very soon, however, as we set out on our journey, all my doubts were put to rest; I realised we were in safe hands.

We were a motley bunch travelling to Yinkiong, all eight others in the group of ten were either officers in some government department or traders travelling on work. We, the only two "outsiders", were hence of immense interest to them. They just couldn't believe that anyone could come to Yinkyong just for a pleasure trip. All kinds of tales were traded as our co-passengers wished us luck and safety for our trip that, as we eventually came to know, happened to coincide with the election season in Arunachal.

By then my morale had touched rock bottom. The driving force that kept me going was the spectacular landscape and also the thought that we were now at the point of no return, and the only wise act would be to just move forward and cross bridges as they came. And bridges we surely did cross!

The monsoon season is not a good time to visit this part of the country, even if you love the rains.

There are chances of being held up due to mudslides or the hanging bridges being washed away by the rains. Sometimes it might be too risky just to travel in such weather. The brighter side is that you get to see the mighty Siang, that skirts the Pasighat-Yinkiong road, in all its elements and are able to freeze plenty of Kodak moments. "Beautiful" would be an understatement while describing this route, "mesmerising" would near-about qualify it.

Power supply in Arunachal is sporadic at best and non-existent at worst, which is an irony since Arunachal has the potential of being one of the largest hydel-power-producing states in India. Most places, if they are not too remote like Tuting, receive power for only a few hours in the evening. When we reached Yinkiong, the sleepy hill town was settling down to another evening of darkness and rain. Desolation was creeping in and for a moment I found myself asking, "What am I doing here?" Just then, the bright blue signboard of SBI Yinkyong came into view. Somehow in the remoteness of the situation that ubiquitous sign seem strangely re-assuring, making me feel that I was in "known territory".