When beauty is skin deep?

Beauty is often synonymous with being fair and having an unblemished skin. An increasing number of fairness creams in the market and their overture of solving problems in people’s lives have often shrouded the “dark is beautiful” bandwagon in India. Look into any matrimonial section in a newspaper; the number of times you encounter the word “fair” is perhaps far more than the times you will encounter the word “educated”. We often fail to realize that our notions of beauty somehow find their way to the subsequent generation, unless there’s a conscious effort to instill that beauty is in more than just the skin or the shape of your body.

My daughter (Kuhu) has vitiligo and it was detected when she was 3 years old. Its initiation with just pink patches under her eye gradually became white, and within a period of nine months other patches appeared in certain places on her body. A visit to a pediatric dermatologist confirmed this auto-immune condition, characterized by the patchy loss of skin colour. To think of it, vitiligo is perhaps the most benign of all the auto-immune disorders that have been known to occur. Many of them such as multiple sclerosis, lupus etc can be life threatening. But perhaps what is more threatening is the stigma associated with vitiligo that is repeatedly reinforced by insensitive remarks!

While boarding a flight home, I was at the airport security check with my daughter and the lady who was scanning us looked at my daughter and remarked (mind you in front of her) “You seem to have a normal skin then why does your daughter have patches like these?” I replied in the curtest demeanor “Was this statement necessary in front of her?” Over the last three years, hearing similar comments in public places have seasoned me to an extent so I did not waste a single minute in giving it back to her. But I must confess that this was not the situation three years ago. I am a single parent and a painful separation five years ago left me with several wounds which are still healing. My daughter’s condition made me guilt-ridden and broken. The only thoughts that would come back was “why her” and “how will this impact her”? While I wallowed with these thoughts, I had to simultaneously buffer her from my thoughts so that she has no insecurities. My psychological space was getting cluttered with my guilt and the incessant thoughts of how her future may be, while at the same time trying to safeguard my daughter’s mental space. However a train journey from Kolkata to Bangalore became a life-changing moment and helped me declutter.

I was on the Duronto Express and my co-passengers in the first class compartment were a family of three. The daughter perhaps about 19 years old was brought in a stretcher and the parents looked hassled while trying to settle her in. My daughter kept observing but was quiet, perhaps trying to assimilate the situation. The girl looked at Kuhu and gave her a wide smile. Kuhu smiled back and I realized that an instant connection was made. As the train chugged along, we all got comfortable and started conversing. I got to know that the 19 year old was paralyzed waist down caused by a cancer in her spinal area. This was detected a month before her 10th board exams and the last four years have been a harrowing experience of moving in and out of hospitals from all corners in India. This time they were on their way to CMC Vellore. Being a paraplegic, she was dependent on her parents for everything but what really amazed me was her indomitable spirit! She and Kuhu spent the whole journey chatting up and watching stuff on a tablet. As we parted ways in Renigunta, the sudden realization that their pain was far more than mine stirred me. I promised to myself that not only am I going to be a shield for the insensitive remarks but will also help her fight it out.

We have had our share of such remarks in bus stops, metro stations, airports and passport offices! A walk would garner up curious faces and scrutinizing stares. Many a times, people have refused to sit next to her thinking that it is contagious. I have had random people come and tell me on the road as to what I should be doing to cure it. It is perhaps them who need to cure themselves as none of them, even for a fraction of a second thought how their words would impact her. While Ayurvedic medicines helped reduce some of the patches, the innumerable food restrictions made it difficult. In a birthday party where other kids would be gulping down their favourite savouries, Kuhu had to figure out what she could eat! After a year of treatment, I decided to take a break and just maintain her immunity levels with a healthy diet. But more than what she should eat, it was more important to sensitize her to the fact that “you are more than just what you look”. An internet search opened up a range of articles on vitiligo and personal stories of many individuals. Several names, known and unknown started popping up; Winnie Harlow (Chantelle Brown-Young), a model who embraced vitiligo, Rina Mitra, a senior IPS officer, Ninu Galot, an entrepreneur and fitness expert, Raka Chaki, a writer and Niyati Shah, working in the corporate sector to name a few. Each of them had their own stories to share that helped me fortify my spirit.

However amid innumerable insensitive remarks from strangers, is a barricade of support from my friends and colleagues, my immediate family, Kuhu’s peer group and teachers in school. Perhaps this has helped strengthen her to a large extent along with my constant conversations. Her friends love and adore her for who she is, oblivious of the patches on her skin. The last couple of months, she has been pestering me to buy her shorts for the summer. I was a bit apprehensive and will not deny that this prospect got me a tad conscious and kept putting it off for later. Finally she said “If you are thinking that by wearing shorts, people would be staring at the patches on my legs, then let me tell you that I do not care. Now can you buy them for me please?” “Yes” I said with tears at the corner of my eyes. I realized that for now, a part of the battle is won.

Vitiligo is still a huge stigma in India and the quantum of harrowing experiences is far more than the positive ones that people may face. Social acceptance is a continuous struggle particularly when trying to uproot our notions of “beauty”. Every year the 25th of June is celebrated as the World Vitiligo Day, an initiative aimed to increase global awareness. In fact the conference in Houston this year is supposed to highlight the mental health impact of vitiligo.

I do not know how things will pan out for her in the future, since technically there is no cure for vitiligo. Medicines can keep it under control but the patches can come and go. But as a mother I know that my job does not end here! In my everyday life, I make a conscious effort to sensitize her about the diversity of peers that she may encounter in her life, each having their own set of battles to fight. She has a lot to learn from them- their coping mechanisms, their pain but more importantly their strength. Only when we are empathetic enough, will our kids learn to be one.

My Khasi (In)heritance

The fact that I never took up music as a profession has been my mother’s unflinching regret. Coming from a family where music runs in my blood (my mother and my paternal grandfather have been connoisseurs of music), it was but natural to assume that with my decent voice, considerable training and a bit of persistence, I could be a professional with great potential. But the “wildlife bug” was perhaps far more powerful than the “musical bug”! My grand uncle (my paternal grandfather's brother) was an ornithologist and had accompanied the “Bird man of India”, the renowned Salim Ali for many trips. He was the first to write a bird guide for Bengal (Banglar Pakhi and Chena Achena Pakhi) which is popular even today despite the presence of Grimitt & Inskipp and Kazmierczak. While having an ornithologist in the family did not ensure that I have similar skills in identifying birds, it definitely inculcated a curiosity for the wild.

The books written by my granduncle Ajoy Home

However if there was anyone who sustained my love for the natural world and led me to pursue a career in ecology, it was my Khasi grand uncle Bishwa Ketu Ray or fondly remembered as “Ketu mamadadu” (mama = uncle from the maternal side; dadu = grandfather). Born to a Khasi family in 1918, he was adopted by my great grandfather (paternal grandmother’s father). My earliest memories of him was when he used to accompany me in my pretend walks from Ghum Chilling plant to Sukhiapokhri. I had just got back to Kolkata from North Bengal and was thoroughly missing the wayward life of a three year old. Kolkata was stifling and the only way I could relive my memories of the hills were these imaginary walks from one room to the other where he gave me company. Having lived in the place like Meghalaya, he perhaps found his peace in my imaginary walks. Before he moved to Kolkata, he had his farm in Umran where he grew his own food. Unable to maintain the farm, he was forced to leave and finally set foot in Kolkata and in our family. The fact that the potatoes you get in Kolkata were far inferior compared to the ones he used to eat in the hills would be a common topic of discussion at lunch!

From left to right: Ketu mamadadu, my paternal grandmother, my aunt, my cousin Malobee, my elder sister Malasree, my mother, my grand aunt (grandmother's elder sister) and me sitting on her lap.

Ketu mamadadu was a vivid storyteller. He talked about the lives of Khasis and especially about their association with nature. While he did hunt animals, he was equally empathetic towards them. My usual routine once I got back from school would be to spend the whole afternoon listening to his stories almost on a rewind mode. His stories of how the village boys would be waiting to fill their muslin bags with termites after rain would intrigue me. These termites were dry roasted at home and sieved to remove the wings. Considered a delicacy with rice, this would be the perfect meal loaded with fats and proteins. In the monsoon months, the sight of cattle leeches on livestock would test the patience of children as they waited for the blood gorged leeches to fall in the fields. As soon the leeches fell, they would be picked up and their ends tied up with grass. The blood gorged leeches would be put in a boiling pot and later cooked as a meal with rice. His hunting stories would be equally engaging. A wild boar chasing him into a thicket of nettles, a face to face encounter with a leopard and abandoning a hunt when he saw a fawn with the mother have adhered to my memories. However an incident during a pursuit actually made him quit hunting forever. He had laid snares for a hunt and happened to catch something called “Bonrui”. Once the animal was caught, he killed it with a short spear and when he was inspecting it he realized that the animal had no teeth. He mentioned that he went in to a paroxysm of tears. He cursed himself for killing an animal that did not even have teeth as a means of self-defense. I was unsure what this creature was and all that he could say was the animal had scales like a fish! I got hold of an animal encyclopedia and flipped through the pages in front of him and his finger pointed to an illustration of a pangolin. That was his last hunt!

The Khasis are largely animistic and believe in spirits that guard their resources. They also have queer stories about their association with animals. “When a cat rubs itself on a human, it takes away a part of the soul”, something that the Khasis believe, he would say. Even dogs are considered important animals and unlike in some parts of the north-east India where people do consume dog meat, the Khasis do not touch dog flesh. Ketu mamadadu once told me a story of how his pet dog Sancho Panza saved his life during a travel. He was drugged by the gypsies and after stealing his belongings, left him unconscious in the forests. Sancho Panza had licked his face for nearly four hours to bring him back to consciousness. Throughout the years he stayed in Shillong and Umran, he always had a company of a pet; mostly dogs and cats but occasionally hares (one of them had chewed off my grand aunt’s hair). In fact he was so good in handling animals that I felt he had an innate power to communicate and calm an animal whenever it was in his hands.

One of my vivid memories was the rescue of a black kite chick. The chick landed up on our rooftop with a broken wing and was being mobbed by crows. As it dug its talons on Ketu mamadadu’s hands, when he rescued it, I saw that with a couple of strokes, it loosened its grip and calmed down. The chick was our guest for almost one and a half month. I remember that the first thing I would do back home from school would be to rush to see our guest. He did not want the bird to get used to human touch so in order to feed it, he made a feeding stick (a wooden stick with a hook fitted at the end). Every day he would get animal intestines from the market, wash and clean them and then feed the chick with this stick. Many a times, I fed it too. The only time he touched the bird was when he used a stinking fish oil (that he used to massage his joints) to heal the broken wing. In a month and a half, the chick (now almost resembling an adult) flew as though it never had a broken wing! For many a days it used to fly back to our home and give a shrill call as if in gratitude.

Me (an eleven year old) and Ketu mamadadu

Although he lived in Kolkata, his heart would always be in Shillong. He was perhaps the happiest man on earth when my sister painted a scenery of the Khasi hills on a jute panel that he had put up for the kitchen on the terrace. In 1994 we went for a family trip to Shillong and Cherrapunji. He knew that this would be the last time he would be back here as old age was catching up but the excitement that he had for this trip was tremendous. He wanted me and my sister to experience every part of the life he lived there. We visited all the places where my grandparents lived (both my parents have lineages in Shillong) and met their friends. In fact it was the first time I was introduced to a matriarchal society! I remember questioning my grandmother as to why the groom was there in the bride’s home. Don’t we see the other way around always?

The trip was nostalgic for both Ketu mamadadu and my paternal grandmother. Shillong had transformed and hardly resembled to what they left years ago. Ketu mamadadu travelled to Dawki to visit his own sister. I remember him telling me that he was meeting her perhaps after 40 years and had no clue how she looked now! In fact this was the last time he saw her. After many years, his nephew had written a letter informing him of her death and though he did drop a tear in her memory, he always knew that we were his family. When I left home to pursue my Masters in Wildlife Institute of India, he would eagerly wait for my return, this time to hear the stories of the forests that he had never roamed! For every field trip that I went, I made sure that I sent him photographs. Back home, I would be telling him stories about my experiences in Koluchaur or Kedarnath, the walks in the Aravalli and along the Rushikulya beach. He would listen with keen interest with a smile on his lips.

On a family trip to Betla, Palamau: Ketu mamadadu, my elder sister and my paternal grandmother

Ketu mamadadu passed away in October 2008 at the age of 90. His presence for 23 years in my life have been rewarding in numerous ways. He taught me that you need not be related in blood to be a part of a family. He taught me to be empathetic and stimulated by curiosity for the natural world. He believed that each animal had its own space and people should learn to respect it. Many a times, I have been questioned as to what motivated me to take up a career in ecology and the answer has always been; I owe this to my Khasi granduncle, my Ketu mamadadu 😊

Atharo Bhatir Desh

Atharo Bhatir Desh or the Land of the eighteen ebb tides evokes the quintessential essence of the world’s largest mangrove forests or Sundarbans. The story narrates this essence through the eyes of a tiger as it interacts with people within the landscape. It captures different facets of the experiences that the animal encounters (using masks by the locals to prevent attacks, interaction with people, interactions with researchers through camera trapping and lastly radio-collaring). The story provides a vivid description of the life of both the tiger and the people who share this sinking space. 

*********************************************************************************

The eyes staring back were devoid of expression. Neither did they blink nor did they show any fear, which would be the norm before they surrendered to death! I felt unnerved. Something was different, but I was unable to gauge what it was. Before I could apprehend, the dinghy sailed off carrying away the group of men only to realize that I have been thoroughly duped. The men had deceived me with a false face! Perhaps they were blessed by the Bonbibi and I, the animal incarnate of Dakshin Ray, resigned to my fate- an empty stomach for the time being!

These forests have been my home since I was born. To the world, these forests are known as “Sundarban” (the beautiful forest), a name they got from the Sundari trees in the forest. Five years ago, when I first set my foot as a cub, I was enthralled by the denseness of the place, though it took a while maneuvering the deep mud and occasional jabs from the aerial roots. But over time, as I grew, the walks on the mud banks followed by a swim through the channels turned out to be extremely calming. But these forests, beautiful as they are, are equally unforgiving! I was one when I lost my mother. After a couple of unsuccessful hunts, she paid a visit to the Rajat Jubilee village in search of a goat. My mother’s presence was caught in a whiff by the neighborhood dogs (such morons!) waking up the whole village. The next thing I saw was a sea of people engulfing her and a din of sounds. I never saw her back again in the forest nor did I get her scent.

The month of Chaitra is one of the busiest times of the year and also a time when I get lucky with easy prey! Moule (honey collectors) come into these forests in search of the golden liquid. Sometimes when I do not feel the pang to hunt, I sit and observe their ritual. They are usually so engrossed that they rarely notice my presence! The dinghies line up along the bank and the men move in groups. These guys are expert in tracking these tiny insects and sometimes occasionally follow the macaques in the forest. But I cannot bear when they smoke up the Khalsi or the Geona tree to drive away the bees for collecting honey! The smoke irritates me and it is time for me to move out. As I walk away, in some ways I give a new lease of life to the Moule who come to the forest with an unwritten summon of death.

The people who reside here live a harsh life just like me. The Moule, fishermen and the Meendharas (prawn seed collectors) tread this landscape every day with a prayer to safeguard themselves and their family. Their womenfolk offer their prayers to Bonbibi who is the protector of all inmates, particularly when their men venture into the forests. Unlike the chital which makes a hunt extremely tiresome in the sweltering heat, these guys are far easier to handle! One slap of my paw and they lie lifeless!  In the last five years, I have killed three men; two honey collectors and a fisherman. While one of the kill was out of sheer hunger, the other two was more in retaliation when I was taken by surprise. After an unsuccessful chital hunt and a measly meal of crabs, I was getting impatient. A honey collector was getting back to the boat to join his group and it would be foolish to miss this golden opportunity of getting easy food. The last thing I could remember was the fear-stricken faces of the men in the group when I dragged their mate into the deep forest.

Although I am revered and feared, I soon realized that I am not the only reason for their death. Occasionally people do fall prey to the saltwater crocodiles that come out to bask on the banks. Though they may look quite docile when they are relaxing, one realizes the power of their jaws when they lunge forward to snap. I was lucky to have escaped once (of course I was much younger then!) but over time, I have learnt to maintain my distances. Once I overheard a conversation between two fishermen waiting in the boat about how a large fish (shark like creature) maimed his friend’s wife while she was collecting prawn seed along the creeks.

A few days back, when I crossed a channel and entered the forest on the other side, the sound of a boat propeller slowing down caught my attention. As I peered through the maze of mangroves, I could see the boat lodged at the bank and a group of people scrutinizing the trail I just walked. One of them was curiously bending down with a device that went on clicking incessantly. The people were having an animated discussion and though I had a strong urge to eavesdrop on their conversation, the prospect of stalking an unmindful deer fawn ahead seemed more wholesome than anything else! A couple of days later while strolling in the same place, I encountered the leg of a goat hooked on a stick. As I pounced to grab a morsel (since it would be completely insane to let go of this free food!), from the corner of my eye I could see another pole on which a device was mounted. However this device looked queer. This was certainly not what I had seen with the person on the boat! I decided to finish my snack first and then inspect this half-foot long entity that looked really fancy. I peered, sniffed, licked it with my rasping tongue and even tried to take it off with my canines but that thing was just like a stone-lifeless! What I found even more amusing was that when I crossed the channel to the next island, I found the same device but instead of a goat leg dangling, there was some sweet water in a pot! It suddenly dawned that whenever I encountered this half-foot device, there would be these goodies. To be frank I was not bothered with the device at all, it did me no harm anyways. Instead these freebies provided an occasional grub and I would look forward to them during my strolls.

It is really hot and musty in most times of the year here, but there a few months which offer great relief from the heat. During this time, I love to warm myself in the morning sun and watch the birds gliding over me in a frenzy. However, this is also the time when the noisier bigger boats operate in the wider channels carrying people who traverse these waterscapes apparently with an immense optimism to see me! And believe me, in my heart of hearts, I love to prick that bubble of optimism with full vigour by moving deeper into the forests. At times I am gracious enough to give them a glimpse but there are times when I get annoyed with the way they react! They would scream in excitement and their devices would be snapping away ceaselessly. That’s when I feel a strong urge to jump onto their boat, slap the loudest of them all and run back into the forests! It is as simple as this- just the way you maintain certain etiquette while eating, you should know that there is a decorum that needs to be upheld while visiting a forest.

I and my tribe have an unusual equation with the people living here. We are a symbol of both awe and terror. For many years, my tribe have been able to maintain this fear and reverence. I have even heard of villages where no menfolk are alive and there are many who bear the scars, a signature that I have etched not just on their frail bodies but also on their minds. But their agony of loss or the reminiscences have not been able to take away their faith on Bonbibi or even Dakshin Ray. Many a times we win, but there are times when tables are turned and our fates are decided by the same people whose fate we decided when they ventured in to our territory!

 I was an unusually hot summer and I was feeling exhausted and frustrated after missing a prized chital catch. After some contemplation, I decided to pay a visit to the nearby village to chance upon some easy food; maybe a cow or even a mid-sized goat would suffice for the time being. It’s a risky business but I had already done it four times. It was the middle of the night and there was not a stir. Even the air was still which was good as it would be difficult for the dogs to smell my presence. I had already eyed a nice rotund cow in the shed and was waiting for the right moment to strike. Just when I was about to pounce, the bleating of a goat alerted the members in the house. In a flash I had to decide what I should do. I leapt and ran but the channel was still a distance away. Suddenly a pack of dogs crossed my path and started chasing me. It took me a while to realize that I was running in the opposite direction and finally jumped into an empty torn-down shed. I was in panic and completely disoriented. The dogs kept circling the shed and in a short time there was a large crowd around armed with sticks and fire torches. I was trapped! This time when I looked in their eyes, it was not devoid of expression, in fact it was mixed with fear and a sense of victory; perhaps a certain degree of vengeance! The last thing I could remember was a sharp pain in my thigh after which I passed out. I had a faint sensation that I was being carried but could not gather an aorta of strength to move. Mentally I had succumbed to my fate that this was the end of me and my tenure in the forests.

I woke up groggy inside a cage surrounded by mangroves. My head was strangely heavy and I could feel something around my neck. Though felt a little heavy I could not believe that I was alive! I licked my paws to see whether this was a dream or a reality. I tried to get the feel of the “thing” around my neck with my paws. It resembled a necklace with a small locket, something which I have often seen around the neck of the womenfolk here. In my dazed stupor, I tried once to break open this new jewel around my neck but in vain. At a distance, a group of people on a boat were peering at me. Suddenly with a creaking noise, I sensed that the gate was opening up and without any further delay, I disappeared into the forest in three leaps and the din of the boat faded away.

Over a period of time I learnt to realize that the choices others make determine our destinies. When a Moule enters the forest, it is the choice I make which determines his fate. In the same way my fate is determined by the people when I set my foot in a village. This time they made a choice for me to live! There are two words that aptly describe our lives in the Sundarbans; agony and ecstasy. Within the ecstasy of these magical forests lies the agony. The agony of loss; of people and livelihoods and for denizens like me who are losing an inch of this forest every day to new misfortunes; both natural and man-made. As we both scrounge for space in a sinking world all I hope is that my tribe and I are able to survive these odds and make it to the future.

******************************************************************

The Therapy called "Baking"

“The measuring and mixing always smoothed out her thinking processes - nothing was as calming as creaming butter - and when the kitchen was warm from the oven overheating and the smell of baking chocolate, she took final stock of where she'd been and where she was going. Everything was fine.” ― Jennifer Crusie, Maybe This Time

The kitchen has always been the most important space in my home. It started when I was seven. Here I would concentrate to make the perfect round roti while my sister would be re-living her geography classes in school by making “continental” flatbreads! (She is an amazing cook though and would prefer to have a roti maker to ease her off the distress of making them round!). My love for the kitchen as a space to innovate started under the auspices of my paternal grandmother. Though a dominating personality when it comes to handling the day to day life in a Bengali kitchen (or the “he(n)shel”), my paternal grandmother had an amazing flair for creating the perfect recipe; be it making the round, white luchi (deep-fried flatbread made out of refined flour) with kosha mangsho (spicy Bengali mutton curry), an orange sponge cake for our birthdays or patishapta (Bengali sweet recipe where flour-semolina pancakes are stuffed with coconut or kheer). I saw her completely transformed when she was in the kitchen, a space where she spent a large part of her time due to her husband’s (my paternal grandfather) immense appetite. It is from her that I imbibed a love for this space.

Little did I know that this space with a 40 liter oven (OTG) would help me overcome one of the most difficult times of my life! An 11 year relationship came to an end leaving me to be a single parent to my one and half year old daughter! Professionally I had just started my PhD research and had no clue about how to juggle between my daughter and work. I lost support at a time when I needed it the most. I moved out of the house full of memories to start afresh. But a lot more had to be done to sort out my life both personally and professionally. A 9 to 5 crèche for my daughter helped me get back to work and I completely immersed myself into this routine. But the past always has its way of lingering within our lives. The emotional turmoil within me found peace in the warmth of my kitchen and I would eventually calm down making a roast capsicum and basil pasta sauce or a shepherd’s pie for dinner! 

I soon realized that I could release the intense pain into something easily digestible-say a green apple, honey, cinnamon cake or a set of orange mocha muffins or a caramel custard. And with this started my rendezvous with baking. When memories started sneaking in, I moved to the kitchen and spent all the energy to whip up a perfect recipe for a bake. Baking became an addiction and many a times I would end up baking every single day in a week! Thus started the saga of carrot cakes, beetroot cakes, cinnamon pumpkin muffins, apple crumble, peanut butter and chocolate chip oats cookies, apple pie, chocolate ganache cake, banana walnut cake, Earl-Grey tea cake (my sister’s recipe), cinnamon chocolate brownies, baked custard and many more. Sometimes a hung-curd cheese cake or a no-bake chocolate-strawberry ganache tart would find its way in special occasions. My addiction led me to slowly accumulate some of the baking essentials over a period of time. Silicone moulds of different shapes (some bought and some gifted by my sister) poured in along with piping bags, cookie cutters and basting brushes. But one of the best buys I’ve had till now is a Bodum Bistro Mix and Bake set from TESCO for an incredible discounted price of eight pounds! A Pinterest account opened up a whole range of baking recipes and ample scope for improvisation.

Kuhu's birthday cake: Chocolate cinnamon whole wheat and ragi cake topped with butter-cream frosting, chocolate vermicelli and  colourful sprinklers

Earl Grey tea cake baked for a birthday

Chocolate-strawberry ganache tart

Cheese capsicum and black pepper muffins with Italian seasoning

Cinnamon choco-chip muffins

Mini apple pies

After a daylong work, baking was extremely therapeutic and I eagerly awaited for this mesmerizing experience back home. As the cake rose in the oven releasing the aroma, I felt as if all my agony vanished into thin air making me feel lighter and at peace! In the last two years, my OTG has been a constant companion and baking has been the most nourishing experience both for my heart and mind. Through the course, I have been able to realize one of the most important lesson in life: that nothing is permanent; and the sooner we accept this the better it is. Baking worked like a therapy for me, it helped me calm down and instilled the confidence back in me. Two years down the line, I see myself as a person who is more self-reliant and accepting of life the way it is. And somewhere through the whole experience, I realized that one has to find their own path to being happy and baking surely helped find my way :) 

How I missed my first snow leopard!

It was a windy October day in Kibber. An unusual chill in the wind felt to me, like a premonition. But I put that thought aside telling myself that I may be thinking too hard. Maybe the anticipation of spending two hard winter months with Kuhu in Kibber was making me anxious. Or maybe my worry was more immediate the nerve-wracking ride to Chicham village in the local “helicopter” later that day.  

Two and half months earlier, I arrived in this quaint little village at 4200m for my PhD fieldwork. After a year of internal battles and phases of confusion and emotional surges that often accompany motherhood, I decided to get back to my PhD and take my year-old daughter along with me to the field. I was apprehensive but decided I will take things as they come. I was there to study free-roaming dogs, to assess the threats on the wildlife and the local communities in the Upper Spiti Landscape. My work often took me away from the village, which meant that Kuhu had to get used to me being away for long periods of time. Luckily for me, she did not take long to adjust to the high-altitude climate and all the new people around her. 

A snow clad Kibber village at 4200m. PC: Chandrima Home

Overlooking Chicham village from Kibber on a clear day. PC: Chandrima Home

The plan was to camp in Chicham for three days to carry out a winter dog count and conduct interviews of the people in the village. Fighting my nervousness, I finally decided to go ahead with my plans. The Kibber-Chicham “helicopter” is in fact a ropeway with a carrier which was earlier used for towing cement across to build a bridge between the two villages. A bridge, which is supposed to come up there, has been 'under construction' for the last 11 years as a result of shifting political power and bureaucratic priorities. Instead, people make do with this ropeway, to ferry themselves and cargo across the river. Sometimes the carrier will have as many as 8-10 people on board. LPG cylinders and even an occasional motor bike and cycle are carried across in the all-purpose carrier. The only maintenance carried out is an occasional change of ropes. There has been one accident till now but luckily the person got away with only a broken arm and leg.

 The Kibber-Chicham "helicopter". PC: Chandrima Home

I decided to go across with Kuhu because I was reassured by the people who accompanied me. I swallowed nervously a couple of times, sat inside the carrier with Kuhu on my lap and in a fraction of a second we had gone midway. Kuhu was unexpectedly quiet while I sat there mesmerized by the gorge. The water in the stream danced over the sedimentary rocks and the interplay of sun and shadow created a beautiful spectacle. I remembered my geography class in school about the colours of rocks. But I have to admit that I was relieved when we reached the other side! To get to Chicham we still had to climb for half an hour. The chill in the wind persisted and in spite of many layers of warm clothing, Kuhu was uncomfortable and cried continuously. Only when she was covered by an extra blanket and tucked inside Lamaji’s jacket did she stop. And to think it was only end October! The only consolation on that walk were the lammergeiers that circled above us. 

Our journey to Chicham. PC: Tanzin Thuktan

Kuhu tucked inside Lamaji's jacket. PC: Kesang Chunit

Sherpaji’s house was large and spacious but since winter was approaching the tandoor (a locally made metal oven used as a room heater as well as to cook) was shifted to the smaller kitchen adjoining the room. After a simple meal of dal and rice, I decided to go around the village and conduct some interviews, leaving Kuhu under Champa ji’s (Sherpa ji’s wife) care. By the time I got back, it was 4:30pm and Kuhu had not slept at all in my absence. The heat from the tandoor and cups of namkeen chai (butter tea) warmed us up. My serious efforts of putting Kuhu to sleep ended up futile and she kept tossing and turning on my lap. She sat up and suddenly within a split second she swooned over the tandoor and banged her forehead. Though I immediately moved her away, I knew that the 350-400°C of heat would have had serious impact! Kuhu was in tears and I in panic. 

For a short while, I went completely blank, but luckily I recovered quickly to take stock of the situation. Her forehead was swollen, her nose and lips scalded and she was in terrible pain. None of the local remedies applied (toothpaste, honey) would calm her and I realized that I need to head to Kaza for immediate medical assistance. An SOS was sent to Kibber. With great horror I realized that I would have to cross the ropeway again and now in the dark!  My field assistants had gone back to Kibber and I had to request somebody from Chicham village to tow me over. With a prayer on my lips, I sat in the “helicopter” while it moved slowly on the rails. But the trip from Chicham to Kibber is a climb and the ropes have to be pulled harder to move. At one point we were stuck in the middle of the ropeway and the carrier was swaying to and fro. I closed my eyes to calm myself and promised that this would be the first and the last time I would get Kuhu to Chicham! If only we could make it through this time somehow. Those ten minutes seemed like ten hours and only when Kalzang and Lamaji arrived on the other side with a vehicle did I feel relieved. Strangely, Kuhu who was crying incessantly earlier, stopped as soon as we got into the 'helicopter'. The Community Health Center in Kaza had a 24 hr emergency unit where she was given immediate medication. Thankfully, the injuries were not severe and only required antiseptic dressing everyday till all the scalded areas healed.

 Kuhu sitting near the tandoor a few hours before her accident. PC: Kesang Chunit

A selfie with Shri (Kesang Chunit). PC: Kesang Chunit

By the time we left Kaza, it was already 10:00pm. It was dark with no moonlight and the mountains looked ominous in silhouette. Only the dim twinkling lights in the villages around brought some comfort. Just as we were entering Kee village, Kuhu started demanding for her feed and in the midst of the pandemonium Kalzang suddenly shouted in “Snow Leopard”! I tried desperately to gain a glimpse but Kuhu's bawling distracted me. The ghost had vanished into the mountains in three leaps. Kalzang initially thought that it was a dog but when the vehicle came closer, he saw the rosettes on the leopard's coat clearly. He thought it was a sub-adult. I felt numb. I have always felt I was jinxed when it comes to animal sightings in the wild and the latest incident reinforced that feeling. But I consoled myself saying that my daughter needed my attention more than the snow leopard! I do not regret it and if I am lucky the ghost of Spiti will definitely oblige me some day. Till then I will make do with the photos from the camera traps J

Camera trap image of the "ghost" of the Himalayas (Photo taken from www.snowleopard.org)

There are days in field when one just does not feel right. Maybe it is important to pay heed to these warnings. In hindsight, I feel I should have listened to the chill in the wind that day and abandoned that trip to Chicham. But these were lessons learnt, for both me and Kuhu. I learnt to heed these internal warnings and Kuhu definitely learnt to dread the fire!

Experiencing our first snow together. PC: Ajay Bijoor