Mamta Kalia

They were refugees of permanent kind
living in the lower hills, since centuries.
For them uprooting was part of their
life. It had no different meaning. It was
part of their destiny and they had accepted
this as well.
He still recalls when they had called
him at an outer isolated place, he was
all alone. They were good in numbers.
Fifteen to twenty or may be even more.
The language which they spoke was
mixture of Hindi, Urdu and Garhwali.
There was not a single word of Tamil
or English. That was a deserted ground
under the crude shadow of once green
trees. Two elder persons were sitting
on a cot surrounded by others. Both
of them were enjoying hukka. A young
boy who appeared like a slave was filling
hukka with fire-coal and tobacco. It
appeared as if they had not taken bath
since years. The beard on their face
was like grass. Their heads were covered.
They wore pathan-suits although they
were not pathans. He was the only outsider
among them but he was not feeling scared.
Those were the months of December and
January of acute winter but they were
feeling hot.
“Oh, what a hot-wave?” — the man
sitting on the cot had said.
“Allah” — all others followed. Their
voice had echoed in the open jungle.
It was almost dark.
In the months of winter when there
is a snow-fall on the top hills of Himalayas
as it is snow all-over they come down
and spread over in the down-hill villages
of Chakrata and Biharigarh. They make
their huts and live for almost three
months. As soon as the winter is over
and the snow melts from the top hills
they climb back. Next year when they
come back they search for new locations
to live in. Like this every year they
slip down from snow for three months
and then take a re-birth to go back to
top hills. They do not know Sozen and
Thomas. They do not know even Jesus
Christ. But they die every year when
snow-falls on their heads and then as
soon as it melts they have a re-birth.
There is no Alfred Hospital for them.
That was a rare co-incidence. When
he had approached them for the first
time to purchase a piece of land, he
had eaten pakodas with a cup of tea.
That was a hut made with earthen-soil
and bamboos. He sat on a bamboo chair
which was shaky but even then had
enjoyed his tea. Then he had approached
them.
“I wish to purchase land.” — he had
asked the man sitting on the cot.
“How much?”
“Thirty bigha”
“What you will do with such a big
area?”
“I am not alone; I have my colleagues
with me.”
“Where are they?”
“They have assigned this work to
me.”
April-June 2010 :: 101