Himalaya Bound Read online

  During one of those laid-back afternoons camped on the roadside along the Yamuna, Jamila told me that she and Dhumman were never supposed to be married. When they met, she was nineteen or twenty and betrothed to someone else. Dhumman was in his early twenties and had been married, but his wife had died. According to Jamila, she and Dhumman fell for each other instantly. Knowing that she would never be voluntarily released from her engagement, Dhumman secretly pursued her, then convinced her to run off with him and elope before her scheduled wedding day. When they returned to their families as a married couple, they had to sort out the mess of the broken arrangement, but it seemed a small price to pay to spend the rest of their lives together. They were a true love match.

  Listening to the women, I learned that most of the family’s marriages were in some form of upheaval—not only Appa’s. Akloo had only recently returned to her husband, Gamee, and to Yusuf and Roshni’s family, after spending nearly a year back with her own family. Gamee was a nice guy who I came to like a lot, but theirs was not a love match. She was in her mid-twenties and he was ten or twelve years older. He’d been married before, but his first wife and their children had died—I didn’t ask how. Sometime after that, his marriage to Akloo was arranged.

  Her biggest complaint was a common one among Van Gujjar women—indeed, among women everywhere: she said her mother-in-law had been unbearable to live with. Akloo felt like the servant of a short-tempered employer who demanded unrealistic levels of perfection. Roshni was impossible to please, she said, and was constantly berating her. As she told me her story, I imagined Akloo as a forest-dwelling Cinderella with no fairy godmother. She said she’d seriously considered divorce, but couldn’t risk the possibility of losing her two kids in the process. Instead, she brought the situation to the lambardars for mediation.

  After reviewing her case, the lambardars decided that Akloo should return to Gamee, but that they should move out from under Yusuf and Roshni’s roof and into their own hut—if only a few yards away—where they could live and raise their children with more independence. They also ruled that Roshni had to treat Akloo with more respect, and that she’d have to pay a fine of 50,000 rupees to Akloo’s family of origin if any kind of abuse persisted. I was impressed that an all-male council would support a young wife’s rights with such clarity.

  Things had improved since then, Akloo said, though it was clear that her relationship with Roshni was a bit frosty—which was another reason why she liked to spend time at Jamila’s tent.

  When I asked Sharafat if he knew when he would get married, he said he was engaged, but no wedding date had been set. He’d met his fiancée and she had seemed nice and was pretty enough; but she was from one of the families that had been settled in a village, so he wasn’t sure how well she’d adjust to life in the forest. He was neither excited about nor resistant to the arrangements; getting married seemed like something that would just happen to him one day, like growing a beard.

  As easy I usually found it to accept Van Gujjar ways on their own terms, their marriage system was the one aspect of their culture that confused me, simply because it was the one thing that didn’t seem to work very well. I understood the rationale behind arranging marriages, and setting up boy-girl exchanges between families, since no parent wanted any of their children to be left without a spouse. But with all of the problems that these marriages seemed to have—which snowballed into larger problems, as the separation of one couple led to the separations of other couples—I couldn’t help wondering if there might be a better way. But I couldn’t think of one.

  If they relied on unions rooted in romance, too many people could be left on the sidelines, with no spouse—and love marriages don’t always lead to “happily ever after,” anyway; between thirty and forty percent of marriages in the United States end in divorce. If, to consider the opposite solution, divorce was forbidden, that would only make couples more miserable, as there would be no way out, no hope for anything better. Maybe the problems weren’t with the Van Gujjars’ marriage practices as much as with the nature of long-term relationships between men and women, regardless of the cultural systems they exist within: a certain number of them are simply not going to work. The big difference between the nuptial world of the Van Gujjars and that of my own country is that it’s virtually impossible for Van Gujjars to live independently without a spouse, raising the pressure to be married to existential heights.

  For people for whom marriage is such a fundamental part of life, they were remarkably accepting when I told them that my girlfriend and I lived together like husband and wife, and had a child together, but had never actually wed. I didn’t feel for a moment like they judged us negatively, or even like it struck them as being all that strange. They were far more surprised when I told them that we lived well over a thousand miles away from our parents, brothers or sisters; they couldn’t conceive of living so far from family, or understand why anyone would choose to do so.

  Each day’s trek along the Yamuna brought us closer to Naugaon—the fork in the road where an epic choice had to be made, which, for all of the complicated factors involved in the decision, boiled down to: left or right. A tangible aura of suspense enveloped the family, growing more and more intense as we moved up the canyon. It felt like a time bomb was tick-tick-ticking in the background, and none of us knew whether it would be diffused or explode.

  Even worse than the possibility that they might have to spend the summer somewhere other than their traditional meadow was what that possibility implied: if they were banned from the park this year, they would probably be banned the next year, and the next. And once they were pushed out of their ancestral pastures, who was to say that they wouldn’t get pushed out of the forests of Uttarakhand altogether? The pillars that supported their world were shaking and seemed in danger of crumbling, bringing their future crashing down around them.

  Dhumman tried to get daily updates on negotiations with the forest department, regularly calling other Van Gujjars and the SOPHIA office on his cellphone to see if anyone had any news. He was visibly distracted, keeping one eye on events in Dehradun and the other on the progress of his friend Firoz, whose family was also heading to Govind National Park and was nearly a week further ahead on the road. Firoz’s family would be the first to reach the gates of the park and truly test the forest department’s resolve to keep them out.

  Five days after we had left Kalsi and two days before we would hit Naugaon, as we camped near the village of Chmui, the signals were mixed. We knew that the chief minister of Uttarakhand had visited the town of Mori, not far from Govind National Park, and had met with Firoz and some other Van Gujjars who were already nearing the park boundary; at the meeting, local villagers voiced their support for the nomads, saying that they’d been coming to the area longer than anyone could remember, never caused trouble, and should be allowed to go to their meadows. It seemed like the chief minister had listened, but he’d made no promises.

  From Dehradun, SOPHIA had alerted the national tribal welfare department, which wrote a letter to the forest department insisting that it respect the Forest Rights Act. Director Rasaily not only refused, but took out advertisements in newspapers saying that he would never allow the Van Gujjars into Uttarakhand’s parks. The advertisement depicted the tribe as outsiders who were coming in to threaten the state’s resources, and seemed to portray the forest department as the victim of the Van Gujjars. The people of Uttarakhand, however, as well as journalists, remained generally sympathetic to the plight of the nomads.

  We stopped about a half-mile past Chmui, a small village perched on the side of the valley, with a handful of shops lining the road. Our camp was just off the pavement, on a lumpy patch of land, which was barely big enough for our two tents and all of the animals—but was much better than being stuck on the shoulder of the highway. Behind us rose a slope of loose rock, covered with trees and giant cacti; in front of us, on the other side of the road, a hotel/restaurant that was under construction
sat atop a series of terraced fields that staggered steeply down to the river, about a hundred yards below.

  The migration seemed like it was beginning to take a toll on the family. Goku was walking around wearing only her left shoe, since an infection on her right foot had begun to swell and abscess; it hurt her more when hard plastic rubbed against the wound than it did to walk barefoot on asphalt. Mariam struggled with a fever and a deep chest cough. Roshni was in quite a bit of pain from her arthritis, and most of the kids had green goo smeared around their nostrils. The tiny infant, Halima, who had been taken to the holy man to be cured when we were at the Asan River, was still sick.

  Halima’s mother, Fatima, asked me for some medication to stop her baby’s fever. She knew that I’d given Roshni and Mariam Paracetamol or ibuprofen, so she was surprised when I said no. “I don’t have anything for babies,” I said. “All my medicine is for adults. It could kill her.” Without missing a beat, she then asked if I’d give her some medicine for herself instead. “No way,” I said, but I’m sure my facial expression said, “Do you think I’m stupid?” She laughed sheepishly and gave up. I don’t blame her for trying—I think she didn’t understand how dangerous it could have been to give Halima the medicine, and that there was no way to cut the dose for an infant.

  There was no rest for the sick. Everyone had to work, regardless of how poorly they felt. I helped Mariam bring the horses and bullocks to drink at the nearest water pump, which was in the village of Chmui and had a cement trough. It was rather inconvenient to lead a few animals that far, I thought, and I wasn’t looking forward to our next job: returning to the pump with the empty water jugs, then carrying them back to camp full. But as we neared our tents and were steering the pack animals off the highway, I noticed something at the building site directly across the road: a hose.

  I walked over, and in the unfinished hotel dining room, which would one day have glass in the windows that looked out over the dramatic river canyon, I found the supervisor. Luckily, he spoke English. I introduced myself and made some small talk, inquiring about his building project, and he was happy to chat. After getting a quick tour of the place, I asked if the Van Gujjars I was camped with across the road could come and use his hose, since the water pump was a long way away. He smiled and said, “Why not? You are welcome,” and showed me where the valve was.

  I explained to Jamila that the people across the road invited us to use their hose. She seemed skeptical, but gave one jug to me and another to Goku. The four-man work crew was friendly and didn’t seem to mind at all when we took some water. But later, when we needed more, no one from the family would go over without me. They didn’t think the supervisor would be so welcoming if I wasn’t with them.

  I thought it was unnecessary, but went over with Jamila, Sharafat, and Khatoon anyway. Jamila was so uncomfortable, felt so much like she had stepped over an invisible line and into a place where she didn’t belong, that as soon as one jug was full she took it and rushed quickly back to camp. Sharafat and Khatoon were more at ease, waiting patiently while the rest of the containers were filled, when we all left together. I thanked the supervisor and he shook my hand and said it had been no trouble.

  Back at camp, Jamila explained that if someone from her family had asked to use the hose, the supervisor would have said no. She was sure that my white skin—dirty as it was—had won us a privilege that they would never have received on their own.

  My automatic reaction was to wonder if she might have been mistaken, if she had misjudged the supervisor. After all, he seemed like a nice person, and he hadn’t hesitated to extend a hospitable hand. But I also trusted Jamila. She intuitively understood the social contours, the relational topography, of her world, which was filled with subtleties and subtexts of which I was hardly aware. She was certain that, being Angrez, I was included in the category of people for whom it was perfectly appropriate to ask for and receive such a favor—while Van Gujjars were most definitely not.

  Assuming she was right, I reasoned, if my white skin could somehow make this trip a little easier for them even in some small way, I didn’t mind using it to their advantage. So far, it obviously hadn’t helped at all with the only thing that really mattered: the permission.

  After spending the day down by the river, Dhumman, Yusuf, and the herding crew brought the buffaloes into camp late in the afternoon. Mustooq and Mir Hamza scurried around the area where the buffaloes would eat and sleep, clearing stones from the ground so the herd would have a comfortable place to lie down. One of the calves, which spent the day separated from the adult buffaloes, slipped past Bashi, who was watching them. It ran over to its mother and starting suckling. After letting it drink for a minute, a squad of young kids was sent to steer the youngster back to its place with its age-mates. With all of her five-year-old strength, Salma whacked the calf with a lathi. With his inaccurate six-year-old aim, Rustem threw small rocks at it. With his two-year-old weight, Yasin grabbed its tail and pulled back. That seemed like a good idea, and soon all three kids were trying to physically drag the calf away from its mother’s udders, with no success. Rustem then picked up the lathi and gave it a smack, without effect. As nothing seemed to be working, the children swarmed the young buffalo, pulling and prodding, shouting to each other and practically falling over themselves in their ridiculous efforts to move it. It was like a live slapstick comedy show, and their older brothers and sisters laughed at their performance until Mir Hamza eventually stepped in and easily chased the calf off.

  I was watching all of this while I guarded a pile of grass, keeping the bullocks from eating the buffaloes’ dinner. In one hand I held a lathi, in the other I cradled Hasina, the eighteen-month-old daughter of Akloo and Gamee. I swayed back and forth, singing quietly to her. I liked her a lot—she had a sweet little personality and an adorable round face with huge round eyes. She was content in my arms, listening to my song. Mustooq came over and stood beside me. He asked if I missed my own son, who was about a year older than Hasina. I told him I did, a lot. He said he missed his two kids too. Normally they would have been with us, and his wife, too—but they’d stayed back to take care of his father. Mustooq said he couldn’t wait until he could return to them, though he wasn’t looking forward to spending summer in the Shivaliks.

  Brushing aside our moment of emotional tenderness, Mustooq changed the subject, challenging me to lift the bundle of grasses that I’d been guarding. It was still tied up as one giant bale, the way it had been carried from the fodder dealer down the road. I poked at it with my lathi. I tugged on the rope that bound it. “Okay,” I said, and got in position, putting my back to the pile as other members of the family crowded around to watch. Most, I could tell, were already stifling their laughter. Mustooq put a cloth on top of my head to cushion the bite of the rope. The goal was to shift from a crouching position to a stand, lifting the grass off the ground and onto my back.

  The smiles momentarily left the faces of my friends as anticipation took over. Might I actually lift it? They looked on as though I was about to attempt a task equal to a young King Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone, or Arjuna shooting an arrow through the eye of the golden fish. None believed I could do it, but maybe, just maybe . . . A hush of suspense fell over them as Mustooq stepped away once the bale was properly positioned. I took a breath and strained against the rope. It was heavier than I’d expected, so I recalibrated my resolve and focused every muscle in my body on my effort to stand. I had faith in my strength, especially after the couple of weeks I’d just spent on the trail. My thighs tightened like torqued steel cables, my calves felt like compressed springs ready to pop. But try as I might, I simply couldn’t straighten my legs. I wasn’t even able to raise the bale an inch off the ground. At last, I pushed the rope off my head, and shrugged in defeat. Everyone burst out laughing, including me.

  Thus, life went on despite the anxieties swirling powerfully beneath the surface of every moment. We worked. We played. Though everyone felt the pressu
re of the decision that would soon have to be made, it weighed most obviously on Dhumman, who was often so consumed in thought that it looked like a mouse might have crawled into his ear and was gnawing away at his brain. He hoped, hour by hour, for news that the forest department had finally relented and would allow his family to proceed without worry to their traditional meadow. But he knew there wasn’t much time left before we would reach Naugaon, and he struggled with what we should do once we got there if nothing had changed by then.

  The next morning, as always, we loaded up and headed out before daybreak. A few other families also happened to be on the move, and for about an hour, as night faded into the vague luminescence that is dawn at the bottom of a canyon, multiple herds merged together, turning the road into a living river of buffalo horns and hides and hooves. When we pulled out of the flow just past the village of Bornigad, we were joined by Dhumman’s cousin, Alfa, and his family. From here on, I learned, they would travel with us for the rest of the migration, regardless of which way we turned at Naugaon. And, I was told, that choice would have to be made in a matter of hours, as our next camp, along either route, would lie beyond the fork in the road.