An year in Mussoorie- winter to spring

I started writing the first draft of my Phd synopsis around the same time last year (September, 2016). Having recovered from a short operation (non-life threatening), I was gearing to complete this draft, and start preparing for our move to Mussoorie. While my husband had left a month earlier, I was in our home in Calcutta, battling my reluctance towards this move and completing this draft. Why, I thought, must I move from place to place so often? My victimisation complex roared its head coming up with all the reasons that supported my viewpoint. Home was a short flight away from Calcutta, the institution I loved was also a short flight away, I had just fallen in love with Calcutta, I had begun to call Calcutta home, we had friends here! So I grumbled, submitted the first draft, shut out my negative emotions, got busy with packing and moved.

A panoramic view of the peaks visible from Mussoorie taken in October 2016.

The first month in Mussoorie was like any other new place. New landscape, new people, new shops, new roads, new protocols, new gym, new running track and so on. And the absolute new experience of a draft that was not to be. By this time, a house was allotted to us, we moved in, and I started to feel dark. Was it the unaccepted draft? Was it this new place with nothing familiar? Was it me? Thus began a downward spiral. From battling one health issue after another, to trying to setting up another home, I felt I was diagonally parked in a parallel universe. I understood nothing. Not even when those darned monkeys tore up my longtime partner-in-laze, Comfy the Beanbag. I did not understand the act, but I saw the ruthlessness in the careless way they had spread Comfy’s beans all over the garden.

Jokes apart, as an uphill battle with my weirdly small but many health issues began, I slowly started to relax around the quiet and beauty that Mussoorie offered. But this change began only after my parents visit. One day they forced me out of the house and through winsome conversations, I was suddenly struck by the cadence of the landscape. Perhaps, sometimes we cannot, until and unless abled by someone, observe the obvious side of beauty. And sometimes, we are not even able. Either ways, as time went on, Mussoorie’s quaint beauty began to consume us. Staying still and watching the birds was step one. Our garden was a window into the life of several birds. It started with the sighting of Blue-fronted redstart (Phoenicurus frontalis) on our lawn. For the longest time, the redstart was the lone occupant of our garden. Flitting from one branch to another, gathering the seeds falling from the deodars around us, unintimidated by our presence. Occasionally, the female made her appearance. While their presence was pleasing, nothing made for greater observation than to watch the competition or territoriality between the redstart and the Himalayan bluetail (Tarsiger rufilatus). Ofcourse, the fact that seeds and other berries in the garden was a preferred food base for both these passerines was not lost on me. Yet, their behaviour was nothing short of comical. The redstart would be sitting on a wire somewhere, and the moment the bluetail would come to the garden, he would be chased out. Men!

The Blue-fronted Redstart, male (Phoenicurus frontalis) on a snowy day in December ’16.

The arch-nemesis, a Himalayan bluetail, male (Tarsiger rufilatus).

By now, its mid-December and the settling in phase is near complete. We’re social again, taking long walks, birding, visiting places in and around Mussoorie, but I’m still bereft of a good draft and good health.

The sightings in the garden steadily began to climb. The most exciting time was early morn (between 6 AM-8 AM) when the “hunting party” visited. Mixed-species foraging flock, also known as a hunting party, is a flock comprising of several species of birds, animals. But in the specific case of visitors to our garden, it was a flock of small-sized passerine birds, comprising mainly of- Bar-tailed treecreeper (Certhia himalayana), Black-throated bushtit (Aegithalos coccinus), Yellow-browed leaf warbler (Phylloscopus inornatus), Grey hooded warbler (Phylloscopus xanthoschistos), Green backed tit (Parus monticolus) and Whiskered Tuhina (Yuhina flavicollis). A noisy flock, their visitations to the garden continued well into December. Even when it snowed.

A snow-clad garden in Mussoorie.

It snowed on three to four occasions. Watching snowfall was like poetry in motion. The gentle flakes following no fixed pattern make their way to the ground. On the ground, the canvas becomes devoid of colour to become white. Glistening white with a glow of a many many diamonds. Come daylight, the effect is mesmerising, indescribable. Throughout this time, the interspecific competition between our resident bluetail and redstart continued. But around January, our brushes with thrushes began. Blue-whistling thrush (Myophonus caeruleus) and White-throated laughing thrush (Garrulax albogularis) became regulars in the garden. Endemic to this region, both these thrushes engaged us with different calls. Never alone, always in large groups, the calls of White-throated laughingthrush is unmistakable. It’ll be the sound of a garrulous gathering of teenagers. Full of life, their call makes one burst out laughing. The call of Blue-whistling thrush, on the other hand, is melodious and meditative. Mostly heard during the wee hours of the day, it is a great way to start any day. So when a pair began nesting in one of the ledges in the house that we live in, it gave me a glimpse into their nesting and feeding behaviour. The nest was made with moss, roots and soft twigs bunched together in a strong clutch. This nest had close to 2-3 eggs from what I surmised, and was closely guarded by the pair. Once the eggs hatched, fledging happened close to a month and a half later. Yes, sometime in spring. But not before I witnessed the brutal foraging behaviour of the said birds. I was watching a skink move around a rock in the garden, while I sunbathed, and out of nowhere (in sight) the bird lands on the skink, picks it up, smashes it against a rock and devours it. Such pretty birds, with such a pretty voice and a not so pretty foraging behaviour.

Blue-whistling thrush (Myophonus caeruleus).

Spring is here, the plants have started to shrug off the winter look. There’s fresh flush in the plants, the browns have started to green, the green has started to bear small leaves and the thought of snow seemed distant. By now, I had started to write the next draft of my synopsis. Why did writing inspiration present itself now? I figured it had a lot to do with my surroundings. Everything about the mountains and the life that dwells within it suggests evolution, resilience and strength. Its people, too, are made of strength, and weaknesses are treated as a way of life. The calm of my surroundings won me over, at more than one level. So, what excuse did I have to feel debilitated with a few rejections, and a few health issues? None at all. We must allow ourselves to evolve, grow into resilient people and show strength even during times of vulnerabilities. For now, spring was here and there were changes in the landscape to be observed, while a draft and health awaited.

Ofcourse, on closer examination the mountains are home to several socio-ecological complexities, developmental issues and hurdles, deforestation, invasions by non-native species and so on. But that is an account for another day.

The start of Spring 2017. Fresh flush on the Indian Willow (Salix tetrasperma)

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Further resources:

For understanding “hunting parties”-https://web.stanford.edu/group/stanfordbirds/text/essays/Mixed-Species_Flocking.html 

For the Blue-whistling thrush call- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQ9S6ykhUyE

For a wonderful account of the birds found in Mussoorie- http://aloksheel.com/images/birds%20around%20mussoorie.pdf

For a guide to birds of Doon valley – https://www.amazon.in/BIRDING-DOON-VALLEY/dp/8184658796/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1504333912&sr=1-1-fkmr1&keywords=birds+of+Doon+valley

For stories about Mussoorie – https://www.amazon.in/Mussoorie-Landour-Footprints-Virgil-Miedema/dp/8129124343/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1504333816&sr=8-1&keywords=mussoorie+and+landour

 

Writing, Phase 2

I thought of my blog multiple times over the last three years. The thought would disappear  as quickly as it came. It lay forgotten, like an old favorite book in our home library, under several new books. And just like something from the present that instantly takes us back to some happening in the past, that is how the blog came back to me. I opened the blog and found that it has been three years since my last entry. The last being about my grandmother’s passing, who had more than a profound impact on my life. Fiercely independent herself, funnily she mothered me so much that she made me incredibly independent as an aversion to her mothering! But my family is full of such examples, women who are strong willed, beautiful inside out and stunningly simple. In these three years, a lot has changed. I write a lot more now, but for my Phd. I’m in my 30s, and happily married. I have a beautifully complicated life, with many layers and many identities, each as demanding as the other. I sometimes forget who I am, amidst all the din. I have to take time out from people to remind myself who I am and where I want to be. I no more call Bangalore or Hyderabad, home. I call Calcutta home, although we’ve just moved to Mussoorie, and perhaps this is now home.

It was during my first evening at Mussoorie when I remembered this blog. My husband and I were traveling with a friend, when he said, “Aah, Mussoorie will be great for you, Ramya. Perfect place to read and write! The hills will be great for your scholarly pursuits, it has proved beneficial for many a people.” I wanted to bring him up to speed about my life back in Calcutta. We live in the IIM C campus, located at the peripheral of the city, campus life is serene and usually uneventful. I’m surrounded by many more academics and the closest distraction is a mere twenty kilometers away. It is safe to say, that as an aspiring scientist, life in Calcutta is conducive to my aspirations. But my husband, who is an avid traveler too, gives my life a lot more direction. He brings in a lot more laughter and joy, where there would have been only seriousness. Balance. He brings in balance. Avidity of my husband’s travels, now brings us to Mussoorie, Uttarakhand. Home in another academic institution. Again, surrounded by academics, steeped in serenity and the nearest distraction is a long walk away in the cold. And so, for this academic, the aspirations continue.

In these three years, writing and research has been continuous and decisive. A Phd student at Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and Environment (ATREE), I’ve spent the last three years learning (and continuing to) the inner trappings of interdisciplinary research. This process has been the most demanding- emotionally, mentally and physically. But I will not complain, if I had the time for an out-body-experience, I would know how much I have evolved and I would be grateful for those specific changes. Since, I have neither the time, nor, I suppose, the inclination to introspect deeply, it is suffice to say that I am on a path to self-discovery. It is incredible to be a part of the research process. It is perhaps the most honest effort, one that is deeply centered on our own normative positions. One can be objective, subjective or both, as the situation demands.The situation itself will be located inside a complex socio-ecological system, with intricate social, ecological and economic relations. Located within these relations will be cultural and identity narratives that provide deeper insights into material engagements with natural resources. So while the earlier parts of my blogs focused on wildlife, wherein lie my early interests, I have with time discovered that socio-ecological systems, demand and command my commitment. I have spent these last three years, being a scientist-in-training (and will be one for the next few years, and of course for the rest of my life) learning or struggling to learn the skills required for it. While, I have happily, and sometimes grumpily, drowned myself in this world, I have for most part felt like I have nothing to share or write about. Perhaps that is about to change overall.

At the Lit Fest in Mussoorie, I heard B.N. Goswamy, an Indian art critic, say- “These paintings I am about to show you, are probably ones that you have seen before, but let me bring some insight into that sight”. That line blew me away. Suddenly, I felt like I could define myself as a Phd scholar, be at peace. All I have to do is bring more insight into the sights that I am seeing. In other words, my research world is a little more manageable.  For that I have to observe keenly, read more, internalize deeply, discuss widely and write fearlessly. The beauty of it all is that both my formal writings and informal writings, can help hone and develop insights into sights. So that is what “Writings, Phase 2” is about, learning to comprehend and elucidate. Having a question is good enough, than pretending to have answers. And so with my world, ever so simplified, I humbly begin phase 2.

 

 

Epistemic Ambivalence. In that instant.

Letting go isn’t the problem,

It’s the empty space they’ve left behind.

These people who’re so full of life,

the way they fill up your life..

And suddenly they’re not there.

In some cases, it’s not been a surprise. In other cases, it has.

Our lil’ brother came with us to the cemetery.

exactly 2 months ago he was in the cemetery…for his mom.

He’s seen quite a bit by now.

After a while, when the flames got higher,

We all broke up into smaller groups

Akka in one corner
Dad and Peddanana in another.
Abhishek and I in huddled in another.
Abhishek is 17.
Raj babai and Krishna babai in another corner.
Our brother Pratyush in another.

Suddenly it was like..
What’s the point.
Of fighting with people
criticizing.
arguing.
All the negativity
What’s the point really

If it all anyway comes down to this?

What matters is what you do with the time you’re given
Be good
Do good.

Be more than u can do.
No regrets.
Peace.
Nothing else matters.

**

I took some pictures today.

At the ghat.
Of Ammamma’s.

In a matka.
And others. Of other things. Of things at the same time.

Then we went in a padhava..towards the deeper end of River Krishna.

Peddanana utters ‘Narayana Narayana’ Narayana’

and throws the matka over his shoulder.

Around the same place,
there’s pond fishing happening, boating and jaunting too.

Typical Indian life.

Life in an instant means so many different things to so many people.
That one instant, we’re crying.
That one instant a fisherman is upset that there’s no fish where he is.
The other fisherman is bagging the big ones.

Some are begging, saying “Only if you give, will we survive”.
Others can’t wait to dip in for the heck of it.

Too much contradiction.
And too real.
And too unreal
And too suffocating.
And liberating too.

I told my friend Akhil about this. How an instant means so many different things, he said,

“It’s a life experience.

Life is just passing by

The randomness of the universe bared in front of you.

At this very moment

So many might be experiencing such losses.”

 

I agree with him. So many came in while we were at the funeral pyre.

To me our grief is more than theirs.

Yet in that we are so inconsequential,

So are the ones that are gone.

And yet……not really.

Akhil again offers, “The illusion a mind builds for you. That’s what keeps us going despite the inconsequence of our existence to the universe”

I felt, to be forever in the state of epistemic ambivalence, is perhaps the best way forward. You love enough for an eternity. Consequential or not.

Butterfly..

My cocoon tightens, colors tease,

I’m feeling for the air; 

A dim capacity for wings,

degrades the dress I wear.

A power of butterfly must be,

The aptitude to fly.

Meadows of majesty concede,

And easy sweeps of skies.

So I must baffle at the hint. 

And cipher at the sign.

And make much blunder, if at last

I take the clew divine.

a poem by Emily Dickinson