 |
| Moonlight, Nicholas Roerich |
Midnight sleepwalking angels,
this breeze has you afloat.
Glide in dreams of the hill.
Your eyes are gleaming,
the magic of this night
Remember the love you’ve had.
The makings of a fine story.
Kiss them good night
and whisper in their ears
those who sleep tonight
must rise in magnificence.
Caress them with the secrets
of knowledge and compassion
dandle them forever in your arms
and bring to them all grace
to sustain and nurture our Queen.
 |
| Himalayas, Nicholas Roerich |
*
The weeping refrain had barely come to a gradual halt, when it was picked up by the pack at Jhoolaghar. All of them burst out into loud barks with a more rigorous build-up. All kinds of voices were audible: from hoarse rubbles and screechy riffs to handsome barks and agitated uproars. They were not the regular rock misfits of the sixties. They were the post-rock formalists of the early 1990s. They outran the previous pack with their lengthy spells and the variety of multi-layered compositions. Now, all the others receded, giving way to perhaps the shaman of their tribe, whose voice bellowed heavy like a shepherd’s horn into the emptiness of The Mall Road. The Jhoolaghar tribe was now done with their performance and instead of travelling further up to State Bank Square, as one would reckon, it was picked up by a recognisable howl near the new Ambedkar Chowk. She hollered as if responding to the shaman of Jhoolaghar tribe in her profound adoration. Everyone, who has noticed her, knows the Bhotia female roaming around the intersection of Camel’s Back Road and The Mall. Her tribe was fairly gentle and did not much disturb the family dogs out on walks. Like a lone ranger, she would want to pick her fights well but would bark almost at every family dog. However incredible it might sound, no one from her tribe joined her in response of this midnight call. The wolf-like elder of this tribe gazed at the Bhotia female and went back to sleep. Jealous love?
The howls continued, following no linear trajectory. Distant echoes could be heard, and one can only ascribe locations like Picture Palace and Library Chowk to them or even further up to the Clock Tower. It is absolutely outrageous to render these tales of communication between dogs, because they would be passed off as figments of an author’s dubious imagination. Up in the hills, voices do travel unfathomable distances. For the landscape is wide and the air is thinner. Echoes are best heard at night. But, please don’t go out shouting on the streets here. For everyone deserves their quiet and is probably fast asleep now. Do not wake them up. Let these echoes of the midnight be the terrain of dogs alone, for they have mastered the art of blending their voices into silence.
*
 |
| Higher Than The Mountains, Nicholas Roerich |
Magic must have been brewing in Landour cemetery, where Prince walks being unfamiliar with the present. Deodars in Landour are busy contemplating the smoke that seems to rise up from the town. Intolerable whiffs of burnt clutch plates accompanies this smoke. It brings to mind the ancient doctrine of Eastern Thought: ‘where there’s smoke, there is fire.’ Well, a figurative fire for sure, one that feeds on the firewood of ambition and aggression, giving off black smoke. Prince awaits his beloved, who whispers among trees in the plenitude of her whiteness. He is often disturbed by these black fumes from the town. Dedicated historians would not confirm Prince’s existence, nor the presence of this black smoke. For they are too busy perfecting products for the ongoing nostalgia industry. Sure, Fredrick Young and his associates, all soaked in nostalgia of their home, recreated Mussoorie to the likes of Edinburgh, by planting their own flowers and trees, naming buildings with British suffixes like ‘-burn’ and ‘- glen’, and setting up convents… That is the colonial history as one knows it. But, does Mussoorie not have a history of its own, that the nostalgia industry has won itself a monopoly in literature and otherwise? But again, what is a history of one’s own? A room with a view or a room of one’s own?
 |
| Mist Before Dawn, Nicholas Roerich |
(from Dreams Break)
Wish you were perfume.
A sweet yellow gloom
our mouths would resume
the tale that once lapsed
into rivers most forgotten
gentle reminders touch.
The heart is weary again.
Wish you were green.
Your seasoned smile of gold
in thickets would assume
silent joys that shine
no tears, but drops of dew
upon the skin
that would remain
the freshest of romances.
Wish you were the sky.
Eyes with endless shine
would pour clouded
shimmer through the day
and be starry in the night.
Never again entwined
Like an eye with the shy.
Nevertheless, writing does not merely record your dreams or realities. Worlds are made; words spin on the spindle of your experience and weave fine fabrics. True, all experience fades back into non-existence, but the inertia remains frozen in the silence of these woods. It does not depart on daybreak, but perpetuates throughout the day and only thickens under the blanket of stars. Perhaps this has been continuing forever, like an ever-young fable writing itself through centuries. There are many a voices, countless from everywhere, but they only reiterate the silence. Nobody wants to be heard here. Unconcealment, the elusive art!
Voices in his mind express themselves being unaware of a form. Yet, he writes informed by them. Once in a blue moon, writing is suspended to revel in routines. Cast in the formidable landscapes of aging, voices recede under their breaths. Thus, he knew that the silence was never mute. Yet, there are no yearnings for a discussion. The voices are silent and compassionate. Much like a forest that provides for when needed and accommodates despite the reason. Not surprisingly, he felt the most connected in a forest. Well, he did desire to find a moment for himself alone. And, like all unrestrained desires, his desire too never bred pestilence. Yet, he would always come back to them as if they never departed. Only sleep had his keep, but most obviously, he was not in there as well. He was dead asleep. The only way he knew to keep track of days: sleep marks the change of Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday and so on. It is enough that a day changed for him, so there was no need to remember the names of all the days. Well, the world would tell him that anyway.
*
 |
| Language of Bird, Nicholas Roerich |
Yet, the Himalayan Woodpecker was the loudest here at the bridge, which connects the flolti and Mussoorie ridges over the perennial flolti Gad. Fixated onto the Rhododendron trunk, his continuous pecks reached the ears before the sight. The pied master’s beak is the nail and the hammer in one, but he is not after a burrow this time. He has rather tapped numerous holes around the trunk — together they look nothing less than a necklace of beads. He seemed to have measured the length already, for he jumped from one hole to the next as if polishing his meticulous touch. Occasionally he would jump into the liminality of sun rays sieved fine through a thicket of the canopy above. It was only then that his red crown and crimson vent would glow. This entire plumage is reveale centred on his radiant eyes and then it purposely folds back to where in shades, he first appeared. Springing back and forth, he continued perfecting those holes. No hunger or signs of fatigue. A branch somewhere among those undifferentiated leaves behaved oddly, and he did not waste a split second spotting and jumping on to it. She sat there folded onto her claws looking at the naked sky above, also with her beak risen. Pressing against her neck with his claws, he flapped his wings. She looked around for who knows what and before any comprehensive endeavours, she fell with him from the branch. But, they are birds! They cannot fall, and they did not. She disappeared and he was back on the branch, pecking sporadically and walking forward. The eyes had lost some radiance, but it was all well concealed with frivolous chirps, which also blended seamlessly with other twitters around.
Walk, as you aspire,
hidden treasures often appear
still not to those who seek.
Footprints dissolve
as best kept secrets.
Lend your ears, oh Storyteller!
This forest full of nothing,
creeps up behind the age
where shepherds repose.
Write, as you walk
one step at a time.
Miss Tree shall reveal
among breezes and mists,
her lips
as the barks you kiss.
*
 |
| Song Of The Morning, Nicholas Roerich |
‘Hello! I have never connected online with people from Mussoorie. Who are you?’
‘Hi! Me neither. You had but liked one of the poems I had posted…’
‘Okay. You are a poet!’
‘I write and I am written.’
‘Well, about what?’
‘Fallen trees, those realised dreams, broken every evening.’
‘Is melancholy your home?
‘It pains when dreams break.’
‘Really? What about nightmares?’
‘They are painful as well.’
‘But if you write in pain, your readers will feel the same…’
‘I don’t write! For readers, all the more.’
‘Then?’
‘A poem happens through me — an occurrence that I do not initiate.’
‘Ah! So you are the romantic kind!’
‘But forests and trees do talk!’
‘Yes, Yes! All romantics claim that. We are the ones that project our desires into nature, hear their echoes, and claim that the mountains speak!’
‘And spirits?’
‘Have you ever experienced one?’
‘As a kid. A man walked me through a pack of dogs and disappeared when I turned to thank him…’
‘Haha! There are spirits under my bed also.’
‘Well, these spirits are muses that catalyse poetry.’
‘All poetry?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. Only romantic Poetry.’
‘But all poetry is romantic!’
‘If you insist. How was your day?’
‘A lot happened…’
‘Well, start from the most recent.’
‘A fallen tree on the Chakkar,’
‘Oh you live in Landour?’
‘No. I spent last night in flolti and now I’m back on my way to The Mall.’
‘flolti? What is that?’
‘It is the village you see when you peep down through the deodars on the Chakkar. From the Parsonage and Oakland Getters you can see it clearly.’
‘Okay. You have family there?’
‘No, I was on a two-day hike.’
‘Don’t you like it in town?’
‘I do, but the daze gets to me. It is difficult to stay motivated. One has to climb a hill every day to sustain a rhythm.’
‘Well, I live in Landour; it is becoming noisy here by the day as well.’
‘Yes, I see jams every week when I walk up to Landour and beyond to the cemetery.’
‘But who are we to complain? We have no right! I left Mussoorie after school and I suspect you did the same as well.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Mussoorie has always seen tourists. Business people complain on declining trends and residents of Landour on ascending noise levels.’
‘Landour is the new destination. Nobody wants to bathe in flempty anymore.’
‘Haha! You sound homely!’
‘Don’t know that, but Landour definitely is the theatre of nostalgia industry.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, there are old buildings here; some of them have been turned into heritage hotels and cafes. The general air reeks of nostalgia from the colonial intoxication and this is restated in products ranging from hotel suites to literature. As if, nostalgia was the apt sepia perfume to wear in our age’
‘And how is that a problem?’
‘All values die with time. What was sacred becomes economical. No heritage can be preserved from perpetual decay. Why is there an adamant insistence on reliving those days of bloodshed and slavery again by wearing them to the tune of a status symbol in touristy delights?’
‘It sells well.’
‘Precisely. That is the problem. All myths and stories of those days have become fast food. Soon it will all be gone.’
‘Do you hear yourself? You want to preserve it too.’
‘All I want is silence here to remain intact.’
‘As you said, values die with time. Do you think silence will die as well?’
‘Definitely, trees keep falling…’
‘When the last tree is cut, nobody would want to come up to Mussoorie. Hence, silence will return.’
‘What do you suggest? One should not be concerned?’
‘I cannot tell you what to do. What would you do?’
‘Poetry’
‘And if you keep weeping, nobody would like to read.’
‘As I said, I do not write.’
 |
| Snow Maiden and Lel, Nicholas Roerich |
*
(from Powder Self)
They collected all the snow from the cleared-out paths in the buckets initially, but when they were full, they had to walk into the snow themselves. They did this very meticulously indeed. At the far end of the terrace, three dumps were organised side by side. These looked like any ordinary heaps of snow in the beginning, but when four pairs of hands started shaping them, they quickly transformed into three huge snowballs. These would have been ideal for making the snowman, but they decided on the contrary. These three balls would be rolled down on the slope if there were any disturbances. A meter or two away from the big snowballs, the children started bringing snow together on the ground while one of them watched over the slope for any potential threats. Possibly, only a mere amount of snow was collected firmly together. Then they started rolling the amorphous but steady snow onwards to the sixty-metre length of Summer House. The rolls required very little effort in the beginning, but after the first few metres, every roll kept getting heavier and so required more effort. It is marvellous to behold, how a small lump transforms itself to a huge barrel of snow. Well, it requires effort and concentration. Roll too fast, you will not pick up enough snow. Hold too soft, you will crumble everything in the next roll. Moreover, one has to wait for the snow to be moist or wet because powder snow is too brittle to compose a structure. Fortunately, powder snow had already transformed into a moist mass on the ground, so the children need not worry about that. The children seemed seasoned, for not once did the barrels break. Each of the three barrels left behind a consistent and an almost straight trail. The barrels reached their designated snowman spot and with them, the most difficult task arrived. The barrels had to be stacked on top of each other and quickly, otherwise they would gel themselves with the snow on the ground. This, in turn, would then make it extremely difficult to lift them up without breaking. So, they were tilted and placed sideways on the flatter ends of the barrels. The biggest and the sturdiest barrel would form the base. It was an easy choice; the one in the centre is selected. Then all four of them got together to pick up the bigger of the remaining barrels. Between all the tussle and angry shouting, it was placed accurately. The next one followed, but before it could be placed, it crumbled to powder all over the place. One of the boys had spotted an unrecognised figure near the three big snowballs and thus had made a hasty run to defend the territory.
*
 |
| Language of the Forest, Nicholas Roerich |
(from Existence Slips)
In this world of innocent desires and lonesome sorrows, seldom do expectations meet the state of the world. For the world is so full of itself that most often you can not act in accordance with your desires. Such circumstances have made it impossible to determine a content life. No matter how complicated or challenging a situation, the struggle must go on, fulfilling wishes day by day so that you continue to go on newer dreams. True, you must nonetheless confront a feeling of not fitting-in, but new avenues for accommodating wildest desires show up in imagination every single day. It could be said that the days of misfits have passed decades ago, for hardly ever nowadays is one left alone. After all the world is shaped in acknowledgement of loneliness — engagement keeps you afloat throughout your lifetime. Yet the forlorn desires are lived anew; in group conversations, in the stillness of the mountain, against hostilities of governments, in conflicts between friends, in suspended relationships, and in the weariness of the long road. Skies surely then come falling down on the night’s bed. Lonelier than ever! Sleep is a rarity here because thoughts confound throughout the night and leave behind irresolute faces at daybreak. She was one of this kind and often crept out of her bed in the night. Solitary though in thought, deliberate always in action.
‘Who is to say yours is the only way? I keep to myself the steps I take, and the ways I make. Between mirages and daydreams, I have often found myself resolute. Whose streams of consciousness do you steal and deliver in your own musings? My life is not a life of scars, but one dedicated to the acknowledgement of feelings I greet. I have nothing against them, nor am I for them. A feeling is welcome; makes you dance to its rhythm. The poetry of romance or sitting by the fire for the sake of it — at best unsaid, the time for myself. I wander in the nights, yes all alone, but not lonely. You should know the difference! And, when the day breaks, I have hardly slept. Yes, it pains. Not from loneliness though. But, from the heavy eyelids laden with the woozy sleep. Like potent whiskey that lolls quarter-full in a glass and makes you grow lethargic with every sip, sleep dwindles my wakefulness in the morning. Needless to say, you stay awake with me throughout the night, like an endless discourse transmitted from a radio tower. I might be tuning in to your frequency, but do not mistake it as surrender. I would be most delighted to see you go with that burden of centuries in your words.’
Among relentless waves of cultural insolvency, Mussoorie has maintained a character of stillness in an unbroken flair. Silence abounds and dreams have been broken repeatedly. Invested in distant echoes of breezes, even this night is still. Stars have lit up the firmament of darkness, but the earth must be contoured along the seams of streetlights.
*
 |
| Mist, Nicholas Roerich |
Then, as it became the most silent hour, she gathered herself up. A gentle movement of the hands overturns the quilt to free her body from the warmth. Legs first, she slides out from the bed to fill in the awaiting slippers with her feet. A cardigan was suitably collected from the backrest of the chair and she was standing in the centre of her room in pitch darkness. Next was to open the window and climb out without a noise, lest her parents would wake up. But she could have just gone through! Why the consideration? Nonetheless, her adept fingers from playing the keyboard knew highs and lows of tunes. She would spend time here tuning the window latch to the snoring rhythm of her dad in the background of the night’s silence. Before one could even see what her fingers did, the window was opened and the entire room was filled with the perfume of cool summer breeze. Magic is the art of consuming the unnoticed. Climbing out was not much of a task and she had made sure to remove the slippers before jumping. With stealth and determination, she made her way to the famous slope of The Mall. Dogs were sleeping or chasing one another around as she walked down the slope. None of them bothered to engage her. Only Snow, a white handsome dog of the neighbourhood, accompanied her as a duty to his routine. Snow had had a rough adolescence, with constant troubles from both humans and dogs. Forcibly fed alcohol had damaged his intestines when he was a pup and four Bhotias, in the heat of the breeding season, tore him apart. Nonetheless, he matured into an adult and was able to communicate his playful nature to other dogs and humans of the town. As a result, no one messes with him anymore; they either play with him or let him be. So, even though she knew that territories were marked along the way she was taking, she did not mind his company. A proof of his adulthood became known when after a few bark and growl exchanges, other strays let him pass at Picture Palace. She took a left from there and began climbing the slope up to Landour. The garbage heap territory next to the Union Church was a similar case of growl exchanges as well. Such late-night barks and growls were a given in the nights. They never disturbed a sleeping human. The way up to the clock tower was done rather swiftly and walking through the Landour Bazar would not be much of an issue as well. The Bazar still features many houses with family-run stores making the ground floor, surely drastically different from The Mall. She sees the flohinoor skirted by metal sheets, which confirms the age- old rumour of it being sold. Would Landour become unrecognisable without its presence? But, she smiled to herself looking at the conical minarets on the Mullingar slope. This was the most difficult slope for tourists, she reckoned. Countless clutch plates burnt while cars made up their way here. Luckily, no cars were here at this hour. Everything in Landour smelt pristine from the Mussoorie breeze. From the diversion at Mullingar, she took another left and continued climbing the empty slope. She now had a bird’s eye perspective on Mussoorie. She could see the Stupa at Mullingar, Woodstock’s rounded building, the ghastly looking Survey Field, Wynberg-Allen ridge, St. Georges yonder, and beyond was Dehradun gleaming in all sorts of lights. As she continued her way up, more and more details appeared into the scene, all infinite in their scatter. She did remember to take the short cut below Ruskin Bond’s home and just as she prepared for the steepest of climbs, she looked at the sky above here spread out with stars up to the horizon over Dehradun. Magnificence appears in the darkest of hours.
***
Sarvesh Wahie is a writer, poet, and philospher based in Berlin. He is also the Poetry Editor at The Sunflower Collective.
Mussoorie Daze is published by Red River. https://redriverpress.in/product/mussoorie-daze/
All paintings by Nicholas Roerich courtesy wikiart.
