IN THE WAKE OF DOOM

“You are very new to this… I don’t know if you can do justice to this subject”, said Mr. Ghosh. He was right about my lack of experience but I thought I had done enough to bury my naivete under mounds of hurried but what I hoped was adequate research.

I really wanted to help, as too would perhaps you and many others who you and I might know. But like you, I didn’t know what I should do. Yes I could send money to the Prime Minister’s Relief Fund but what if I wanted to do more? Could I send food, clothes? Could I go over to the ravaged valleys and help in some way, or would I get in the way?

I had these questions and many more and I thought it best that I find out from the man who might know such things better than most.

Dr. Chandan Ghosh, professor and Head of the Geo-Hazard Risk Management Division with the National Institute of Disaster Management (NIDM) is a man who has been as vocal as a man in his capacity can be about pinning the rights and responsibilities of the calamitous tragedy on the high slopes in Uttarakhand. I thought he might be the one I could take my questions to but I wondered if he would have the time. Fortunately enough, Dr. Ghosh came on the line soon as I asked for him and I was asked to come in that afternoon if I could. These days he is usually in office all morning, noon and night, till about 10 pm, I was told. Rather heartening, I he thought, given the circumstances.

I spent a few hours trying to understand the scale of disaster that had struck the sacred mountains. But through the montage of crashing rocks and wrathful rivers, the carnage and corpses, the inconsolable agony of the bereaved and relieved survivors, the selfless Samaritans and those ubiquitous heroes in olive-greens, I still found it difficult to fathom the scale of the loss. I recently lost one of the most important people in my life, someone without whom I wouldn’t be, and yet I found my loss, howsoever great and insurmountable in this lifetime, pale in front of the burning tears of an old man who went to bed with a happy family, wife, daughter and grand-child, and woke up to a deafening roar to find himself all alone, his every reason to live swept away in the deluge. I prayed for the man to find strength, and for his family to find peace.

I went through articles that decried the near-illegal and unsanctioned hydel projects that were killing the rivers and ravaging the mountains. There were those that said that unplanned construction had destroyed the fragile mountains and this was a disaster that was waiting to happen. I wanted to know why no one could say ‘fix it now!’, instead of waiting to say, ‘See, I told you so…’

And so I went over to Dr. Ghosh’s office and entered a room where one could tell that the files don’t just sit around. He looked like a man who took his work seriously. And that was fine, for these were serious times. Matters began smoothly enough and he started off with orienting me about the NIDM and its inception. The whole story is a microcosm of our collective attitude towards disaster management. Mind you, I’m not blaming ‘our government’s attitude’ alone here, because though succeeding governments should bear the weight of yet another unfulfilled promise, we are the ones who have peopled these governments and also failed to demand this of the powers that be often o enough and consistently enough to effect a change.

Anyway, I could tell you more about it but you can read it all on the NIDM website. We moved on to the issue at hand. Dr. Ghosh wasn’t pulling punches. He laid out the predicament of an academic institution ‘entrusted with the responsibility for human resource development, capacity building, training, research, documentation and policy advocacy in the field of disaster management.’

NIDM’s role, he railed, had practically been reduced to filing reports. Building bylaws all across the country, be they government buildings or private, whether up in Kedarnath, or here in Central Delhi, are flouted with impunity, he said. Dr. Ghosh should know. He is a civil engineer and he specializes in earthquake geo-technology, having cut his teeth on doctorate programs in India as well as in that land that has forged and honed its disaster management skills on the anvil of recurring earthquakes, tsunamis and nuclear holocausts – Japan.

“Deforestation (on the mountain slopes) isn’t really the problem (for landslides). It is the manner in which a mountain is cut to build roads… and there’s a simple solution if you want to stop the landslides. All you have to do is grow vetiver on the slopes.”

I must’ve seemed a little muddled and so Dr. Ghosh explained “….you know this grass called khus?” I nodded. “This grass can bind the soil and prevent soil erosion.” A little post interview research revealed that the Vetiver System is used around the world to prevent erosion and soil degradation on mountain slopes etc. I wondered aloud as to why then aren’t we using this grass to safeguard our roads, mountain villages and above all, our people who travel through or call this region their home...?

Dr. Ghosh just smiled a wry smile and shook his head. “No one likes this solution. It is too cheap and inexpensive.” I was shocked beyond words. Like the rest of my generation, I have come to expect corruption across the socio-political system, but to see such blatant callousness and disregard for life and property driven by greed still seemed difficult to digest. Yet again, it is our fault as a community that we choose to put up with this.

Here I must interrupt my account of our conversation and leave you with a simple list of things you could do if you want to help those whose lives have been scarred forever in this valley of the gods… •

You could donate money to the Chief Minister’s Disaster Management Relief Fund. (SBI a/c no. – 10587398235 FC code SBI N 0010164)•

If the above doesn’t make a lot of sense you could reach a very helpful volunteer – Mr. Sushil Nautiyal at 9410198367. He or his colleagues will guide you through all you could do to help.

Besides money, you could also send clothes, blankets, umbrellas, stoves, dry foods and masala.

Dr. Chandan Ghosh also mentioned religious organizations like Shanti Kunj, based in Haridwar, helping out relatives of those who are stranded or have died on the mountains. These organizations need volunteers to help with communicating with concerned friends and relatives.

You could also reach the Garhwal Mandal and volunteer your services.

Please Note That The Roads Beyond Haridwar Have Been Closed Due To Incessant Rain And All Who Want To Volunteer Their Services Must Wait Till The 29th-30th Of June, Register And Check With Local Authorities And Agencies And Only Then Head Out To Help.

I will be back next week with the rest of our conversation. Until then, let’s do our bit for those who are suffering untold agonies on the slopes. Wishing them and those heroes who are risking their lives to save them an abundance of peace and strength…

THE LAST OF THEIR KIND

By all accounts, Dilip was a man of skill and patience. That afternoon must have been an afternoon like every other. The slanting rays of a benign sun had lit up the shimmering leaves and warmed the wild waters just right for their daily dip. Dilip must have been looking forward to spending the afternoon with Shankar who had been his constant companion for nearly a year now.

Dilip must have playfully goaded Shankar a little on their walk to the water that day. Who knows what dark thoughts were triggered in that moment. Shankar’s crazed mind had been smouldering all day. All it needed was a little prodding from Dilip for all that passionate fury to explode. Shankar pulled Dilip from his shoulder and flung him to the ground. Shocked and startled, Dilip must have screamed out Shankar’s name in fear and hope. But Shankar was too far gone. All he knew was his bloodlust. His aching head and throbbing loins had driven him to the edge. He needed to bury his frustrations, either in an act of passionate love or reckless, mindless violence.

Dilip’s cries fell on ears deafened by the madness. His life-breath burst out of him as his organs collapsed and his once robust form was crushed as Shankar trampled the man who had cared for his every need during his time in Chandaka. Dilip’s heart rending scream pierced the darkening sky, setting the stage for a haunting silence that followed. But the dull thunk-thunk-thunk of a relentless Shankar flailing away at Dilip’s crumpled body went on for a while. Once he realized that the man was no more, Shankar stopped and stared balefully at the mangled corpse. One couldn’t tell if it was remorse or unquenched anger that still clouded Shankar’s beady eyes. As horrified onlookers who were too scared to intervene finally mustered enough courage to try and take Dilip away, Shankar threatened to dismember anybody who dared to come close.

The gigantic tusker stood over the mahout’s body, guarding it for hours, until forest officials managed to tranquilize the elephant and retrieve what remained of Dilip.

Shankar had a reputation as a mahout killer. `Dilip was his third victim. Training and riding elephants is a one of the world’s most hazardous professions. The very scale of the dynamics between puny human beings and the world’s largest land mammal, even with the elephants being as gentle as they can be makes fatal accidents nearly inevitable. Matters are compounded further when male captive elephants become ‘musth’, a seasonal state of extreme sexual arousal which when unrequited finds expression in testosterone charged violence and aggression. Usually male elephants secrete an oily liquid from their temporal glands and dribble urine constantly – signs that the mahouts should be wary and take extreme precautions…

Mahouts can go wrong with reading the signs. Dilip did, and paid for the oversight with his life last November.

I was worried about that while I drove towards the banks of the Yamuna. That’s where you would find Delhi’s haathiwallahs and I was due for a refresher course in elephant riding. I had had a few sessions in the art from a tiny master mahout with a big thick moustache. They called him Phool Singh. But Phool Singh and his elephant were out on ‘government duty’ I was told and so I had arranged for a few lessons with a neighbouring elephant camp.

To get to the camp, one had to drive off the road that bridged the banks of the once mighty Yamuna and onto a dirt track that led down a steep incline. The camp was basically a ramshackle shed with a pair of cots and dirty mouldy mattresses. Howdahs, elephant saddles, were stacked on top of each other. Charkatiyas, fodder cutters, and mahouts sat around a game of cards and the elephants, two tall females and one rather rotund juvenile swayed about like they were plugged into invisible ipods while in the distance, a massively muscled male with a domed head, chewed impassively on a stack of sugarcane. His creamy tusks were long and thick, sticking out like sabers from a phalanx. The tips had been sawed off and capped with rings. I wondered if it had been done because the behemoth had a penchant for sticking them into ‘soft targets’.

“kya chahiye babuji!’ Startled, I turned. I was so intent on taking in the sight of his immense magnificence that I didn’t notice the tall gaunt figure that had crept up behind me. Old worn leather sandals tied around veined feet and thick yellow toenails, a lungi draped around a pair of stork like legs, and a long loose kurta folded at the sleeves covered a lean but broad frame. A long henna dyed beard framed a wide mouth scattered with pop-corn like wobbly teeth, kohl lined eyes and a head shaved bald completed the picture of the man standing in front of me. I explained that I had called the previous day, given Phool Singh’s reference and mentioned that I wanted to learn how to ride and elephant. A slow realization dawned on the man. He nodded and he turned to his right to call out to one of the boys. But as he turned, I saw the left side of his head and I kid you not, a lesser man would have evacuated the contents of the day’s breakfast on the spot. It took a whole lot of choking back to hold things in. From a couple of inches behind his left temple, spanning the length of his skull ran an ugly gash. The skin had split open and I could see his skull, peeping out from behind. The wound had a yellowish hue, perhaps because of some turmeric based ointment or anti-biotic cream. He saw the involuntary grimace that try as I might, I couldn’t rub away and said “hathi ne mar diya… I was cleaning the area where the elephants are chained, sweeping with a broom while I had bent over, when the elephant just playfully knocked me over with its foot. The animal’s toe nail caught my head and ripped it open. There was so much blood and my head hurt so bad… didn’t think I would make it. Been two weeks now… It is ok now”

It’s an uneasy truce between man and elephant. Though revered by us for its association with the elephant headed god, Lord Ganesha, domestic elephants lead a rather wretched existence. Most might have enough to eat, but their feet catch infections in their confined quarters. The burning roads in summer, the noise and the pollution in our cities, the cramped living conditions and the cruel methods of catching and training these gentle giants drives these animals to the very edge of their sanity. The cruelest cut of all the isolation that these highly social and intelligent animals have to endure. Not only are they separated from their herd and family in captivity but even the primal instinct to roam is crushed under the weight of the heavy chains that constrict their freedom. Male elephants suffer even more when they are almost spread eagled with chains for days and weeks while they are in ‘musth’. Given the circumstances it is almost a miracle that many more mahouts don’t end up like Dilip.

One of the charkatiyas came up to me to lead me to the tusker, Bhola, who stood like a granite statue, with flapping ears. His mahout, Saif, a young lad barely out of his teens, was tying the howdah on his broad back. While the boy struggled with the ropes, the elephant ruffled his hair affectionately with his trunk. The boy pushed the trunk away, scolded the animal that towered over his frail frame and moved towards the tail. For a while the elephant played with a stick of cane and then as soon as the boy walked back towards the elephant’s flank, I could swear I saw an impish glint sparkle in the elephant’s eye as he dropped the cane and ruffled the boy’s hair again. The boy rebuked the elephant and pushed the trunk away but then softened, laughed and rubbed the big belly. The bull elephant let out a deep contented growl and curled his trunk around the boy’s wrist and got a few more pats for his effort.

I couldn’t imagine this pair ending up like Dilip and Shankar, and yet… and yet…

There were so many questions swirling in my head. How would I fit in with these two? What will happen to this boy when this elephant’s gone? It is illegal to buy and sell elephants now, so are these the last of their kind? The ancient art of training elephants is all but dead. Is that a good thing? So what happens to the mahouts? What happens to the domestic elephants? Where and how would Saif and Bhola, and why, even I, end up? As I clambered up the ropes on Bhola’s raised leg, I knew I was about to find more answers and a whole new point of view… Hut, hut… I felt slabs of muscle under Bhola’s pumice stone like skin move… The ground beneath starts flowing like a slow easy river... Hut! Hut! Will keep you posted… gotta go!