Reflections
My Tribal Being
Ever been to the hills? No, I am not asking about those tillas or hillocks that you see in the north-east or other parts of the country, lulling you into a false impression of heights. But somewhere far south, and far above, up in the mountains deep inside Chittagong? If so, then you know how it feels at the top.
Just imagine a day when you are out tracking into one such hilly range. You started amid early morning drizzles; then an hour of strolls through the suburb, the sky clearing as the sun peeped out, and you were at the foothills. Now you started climbing with the sun at your back and your lips tight; occasional slips, and your breaths heavier; but as you ascend, the air cleaner and lighter until you reached a cliff-top high above on the range. A little rest, and the dizziness gone from your head so that your vision clearer, and now you standing near the mossy edge of the cliff that overlooks the green valley and a small river which is just barely seen. Standing at such unfathomable heights when your thoughts are far away from the urban hassles, or after a while when you are treading softly down the tracks, or if you are back on another daybreak, and this time if it is winter and you a little forlorn, but no less eager to step up the Shorger Shiri ("Stairs to Heaven"-- that's what they call climbing in hills), you discover life so much in its unearthly form! In the vast silence of that serene landscape, you feel it easier than ever to indulge into elevated thoughts, whatever transitory, just because you are up there. Much to your wonder, your uplifted soul gets to be aware of things bigger than its own self, feels the presence of the massive blue sky overhead and bows to the sublime existence of the omnipotent all around its solitary being.
I remember sometime in my early youth we used to stay atop such mountains. To reach there you had to cross a windy river, and the boat took you to a bazaar which sat only twice a week to allow for the tribesmen to come down from their distant paras, some of them across a massive lake with crystal waters in between the mountains. Initially you had to walk by the foothill and move into a pass that took you to a small stream; you followed its sandy beds but left it after a while to catch up with a foot track rising almost from nowhere. You walked, bent already under the weight of your packs, and not much willing to leave the cool water of the stream. So your guide waves at you; he was an indigenous young fellow who came from a tribal village that looked up the grassy hill on top of which you were to camp yourself. Now tracks lead you to the mountainside, taking you up gradually; the path a little slippery and occasionally there were one or two brooks to cross until you found another pass between two dark hills. The sun was no more to be seen over your head because there were tall trees with big leaves overhead, and now you reached another stream; this one with stronger current and clearer water, and you stopped to rest for a while.
Moments later, you drinking, and leaning against a rock with your packs still on for you never had the energy to get those removed. Some snacks for you both, your bottles refilled and you started over. Again the trail followed the stream, but this one with bed full of pebbles, so you are careful not to slip over; a few stumbles though, and you reached the end where the waters suddenly dropped to a sad-looking valley. A little effort with the logs left by some kind tribesmen, and you crossed. Tracks now greener; occasionally one or two boulders lay jutting out from the hill at one side, then a gorge to pass and suddenly you had the sun over your head. Now you moved through the ridges; a few jums to pass by, and your guide stopped short of a forest full of bamboo-grooves. Trails were no more to be found easily, being hidden beneath a blanket of stinking bamboo leaves. The decayed leaves smelt strong at times, but you didn't care as much you did to avoid the small, green-coloured snakes, one or two of which you already stepped over while they were crawling across the indistinct tracks.
Deep inside the forest there were streams with clear waters, but your companion was not inclined to rest. You now had to follow the bed of a stream with rocks and pebbles of different sizes; and those with sharp edges pinching you through the rubber of your shoes. Occasionally you had to stop, though, as when the guide confused himself near a large crack that had torn apart a massive black hill. You stood waiting, until the quicker fellow located the mossy, long wooden plank a little away from the crack; it was cut across at several places so one could stop over and climb up into the defile immediately above. Tracks gradually became easier to find, but most of them were winding and often crisscrossing, and you were hardly sure if you had not crossed one such just minutes before. Occasionally you had to be annoyed with the guide who was not willing to talk much, and then you both stopped before a wooden culvert with broken planks which you are sure you had crossed half an hour before. You are angry, momentarily, for minutes later you are both grinning, still a little perplexed about the route, but never tensed, because you knew for sure that up above when you reached your camp on the peak that overlooked the village to which this guide himself belonged, life was pretty fine and charming, and so much in its purest forms.
Afterwards, when you did make it home to your camp, the sun was in decline. But the sky was yet clear and a soft breeze blew from the direction of the massive mountain range stretched on the other side of the border. In front of you, the mountainside sloped gently away, but further down it was steep and you could see the green, hedgy track winding through the pass. Occasionally, and especially if it was summer, there were lighter clouds above, and if the rains were due, you saw clouds even bellow, in groups and in tandem, obscuring your view of the village and beyond the pass to the next hills.
A hot cup of tea at last, and you are refreshed, your feet dried by then, the wet clothes still on and clouds below floating away; you could now watch the village kids playing in the small bare yard in front of the kiang ghar ( the house for worship), the cows and a few goats left free in the nearby grassy field. If it was still noon, you saw the short-dressed young girls tiptoeing themselves towards the small pond at the other end of the village. The apparently barren huts told you it was the pineapple harvesting season and that most of the men and women and even the children were still out in their jums. But you knew for sure that by the time it was afternoon, the village would be full of its inhabitants, the cows and goats herded off the field and the children in added strength. Later, when the sun was creeping down to the ranges in the west, there would be many of the young men, and a few of the elders playing football in the big field that stood in the centre of the village. Some of the elderly women and almost all the younger girls would be watching, and chanting in low voices with the infants cuddling their mothers.
These days, when you hear of fires and arson in the Hills, and of riots and skirmishes over issues which have been left to persist for decades, you feel somehow cheated, not sure why. At times you cannot resist an urge to scream, and to shout and protest, but you do not, because deep down your heart you bear memories of many rhetorical and false assurances of past times. Occasionally, an uncontrolled rage does declare its indomitable presence in manners both proper and improper, but ultimately loses itself in search of some 'appropriate moment which is sure not now'; and then you are a dead man again! Hiding in the solace of a Jehovah's Witness, you are not the one who dares to 'disturb the universe'. Like one Prufrock of Eliot, you are afraid to lead yourself to that overwhelming question, "Oh do not ask, 'What is it?' Let us go and make our visit".
That said, I know, the unsung melodies inside your heart still await a passionate singer; the hilly people also wait, with their habitual patience, for a true leader; and this nation, with its traditional impatience, for one great mentor. And you, troubled with your limbs too weak to represent the usual stronger build of a Jumma youth and your colour too dark for the common brightness of a Pahari, still adore and nurture, with holy waters of love and respect, your own tribal being.
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