MOUNTAIN WIND

MOUNTAIN WIND

Jasjit Mansingh

B L U E J AY BOOKS
An imprint of Srishti Publishers & Distributors
New Delhi & Calcutta
BLUEJAY BOOKS
An imprint of SRISHTI PUBLISHERS & DISTRIBUTORS
64-A, Adhchini
Sri Aurobindo Marg
New Delhi 110 017

First published in hard cover by BLUEJAY BOOKS 2001

Copyright © Jasjit Mansingh 2001

ISBN 81-87075-64-3 Rs. 495.00

Drawings by Oona

Cover & Book Design by

Arrt Creations
45 Nehru Apartments, Kalkaji, New Delhi 110 019
e-mail: [email protected]

Typeset in Bronte 13 pt.

Printed and bound in India by Saurabh Print-O-Pack, Noida

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and Nepal only
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 Dedication

The girl child

Raveena, a tribal girl from Bihar, now five years old
who asks why Oona and Ilya don’t come any more.

Maya, bom in America in November 1998,

who will know them only in spirit.

Juhi, chosen because her need was greatest,

who has the longer memory.
 
 CONTENTS

Acknowledgements 7
I
The Happening
1. ‘Ilya died’ 3
2. Wait till Tomorrow 26
3. Destiny? Or Bad Luck? 48

II
A Conspiracy of Events
4. Live Lightly 7 9
5. Home in Satoli and Aarohi 98
6. Only Connect 129 1. The Bigger Picture 153
8. The Soul has its Reasons 176

III
Many Worlds
9. Planes of Existence 201
10. In the Forest 223
11. Guru Purnima 243
12. Bridges 258

IV
“With Love, Oona”
13. Evolving at IRMA 273
14. Refractions 293
15. “I will live my thoughts” 316
 V
One Year
16. Happy Birthday, Oona 339
17. A Pilgrimage 356

VI
The Inner Core
18. Fulfilment 383
19. Time Transcended 408
20. Happiness 436
21. Peace 459
 Acknowledgements

“It was a big test,” Tsagaadai said to me under the neem tree in
the Rose Garden in 1997.
This book is the outcome of that test. It records many
synchronous happenings. Then. Before. And After. Today, for
example, is the day since Ashma, Tsagaadai’s wife of one and a
half years, died. I told Renuka Singh, her sister, that I would light
candles and pray for her here in Delhi. Renuka herself will be
in Dharamsala to meet the Dalai Lama. It w’as she who showed
me, towards the end of 1998, the quotation in The Dalai Lama’s
Book of Daily Meditations which I have used, about healthy
young people who die young — “They are masters in disguise
teaching us about impermanence.” She compiled and edited the
book, and had specifically Oona and Ashma in mind.
The flower I associate with Oona is still blooming. Last
month, in September, when I was looking at the first proofs, I
found variant spellings, the ending ‘es’ or ‘us’. I checked with
Lakshmi. “It comes from the wind, Zephyr,” she said. I had
spelt it phonetically, without a ‘y’. My garden plant dictionary
confirmed that. Zephyranthes Candida. “Flowers of the
Western Wind, a lily that blooms in autumn.” I have lived with
the flower for four years now, the title of the book wras changed
four months ago to Oona, Mountain Wind.
I thank all those in the book for being there, and for
their explicit permission. And also those who persuaded me
to share it with a ‘wider audience’. LIrvashi Butalia who saw
the raw draft; Primila Lewis; Narayani Gupta who thought
it would help others to cope with loss; and Indira Dayal who
read with trepidation fearing sentimentality. Surjt Mansingh
currently professor at JNU, the School of International Studies,
who writes academic books for giving me an incisive critique
and Swati Mitra who produces books of a different kind for
becoming engrossed in this even though nothing was ‘new’ for
either of them, my thanks to them. A year, and an edit later, Ravi
Dayal and Shyama Warner suggested that I pay some attention
to the reader. Therefore I pruned digressions, explained what
was obvious to me, and I told one untruth. In the interest of
chronology I moved the letters received by Oona in the packet
marked 1985-86 to the middle of the book in the first year of
the narrative, 1997, claiming they were in her bookshelf. I had
actually found them in tire box of Oona’s papers in June 1998.
Kamal Singh and V B Eswaran read as I wrote. Esha
Beteille and Janaki Kathpalia read it when I had finished and
were generous in their encouragement when I dithered about
going public even as I wondered who might want to publish
it. The publisher and his editor, Dr Rani Ray, found me within
days of the completion of the make-it-reader-friendly edit.
They asked for no changes. The designers accepted the off-beat
ideas and encouraged the use of Oona’s sketches and drawings
as illustrations. To each of them I am deeply grateful.
My debt to Swami Bhoomananda of Narayanashrama
Tapovanam, Thrissur, Kerala, is unbounded. His permission,
however, was qualified, “As long as it is well-written.” I leave
you to judge.
Swami Nikhilananda’s approval was implied as he said
before he left for the Chinmaya Mission at San Jose, California,
in 1999: “Send me a copy.” I owe much to the acharyas of the
Mission.
Swami Bodhananda was kind enough to comment
favourably.
I deeply regret I was not able to share this with P R
Sharma, Oona’s father-in-law, who supported my effort ardently.
He died in January 2000.

Jasjit Mansingh
New Delhi, 6 October 2000
 I
The Happening
Give. The greatest joy in life is giving, in loving,
and in sacrificing. To give we must have abundance in
ourselves. We can’t give what we have not.

Swami Chmmayananda
 1
‘Ilya Died’

esterday I saw the first peach blossom ready to

bloom. A hint of deep pink showing at the top of the
I fuzzy white round bud. The sun was not strong, nor
was it chill winter. The song of sunbirds almost drowned the
muffled traffic noises. By afternoon, clouds had gathered and it
rained. In fact it hailed, small frozen droplets that did not last
long on the grass. It was 4 February 1997.
I remembered another year when the hail came. It was
later in February when the peach tree was in full and splendid
blossom. There was a sudden squall, with a northerly wind, and
hailstones the size of pigeons’ eggs clattered down. Poor peach
tree, I thought. Miraculously, the next morning it still looked
beautiful, unbruised, though there was a carpet of pink petals
on the ground beneath it.
This comer of the garden is shaded and harbours many
special plants—the juniper and the violets brought down from
the hills, the streaked white grass that grew so profusely in
Oona’s garden, the Japanese flowering plum, with its dark wine-
coloured leaves, which I planted far too close to the forty-year-
old frangipani.
The garden holds so many memories, memories which are
like landmarks now.
Five years ago, on 21 December, the moon was full. It was
the winter solstice in 1991. Friends and family had gathered
for Oona’s wedding. The Granth Sahib was placed between the
winter-bare peach and the plum trees, in front of the frangipani
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 4

which, too, had only stubby branches. But behind these, in our
neighbour’s garden, was the dark green foliage of the mango
tree, the tree which had shielded the peach blossoms from the
fury of the storm. The Granth Sahib was placed so because I
wanted the congregation to look out into the garden.
Oona and Sushil had wanted a small wedding. In fact
Sushil said there should not be more than five people. I counted
them off on my fingers: two sets of parents made four so which
of the two grandmothers did he want to omit? Not my mother
surely since this is her house. Dadi? Flow would it be possible
to leave out Oona’s paternal grandmother, Gurbir’s mother?
But we did try to keep it small and intimate. We made lists,
theirs and ours. Then we sat together and pruned heavily, theirs
and ours. Even so there were almost two hundred people at the
wedding.
There was very little fuss about the rituals. My family does
not believe in any. Oona had spent her formative teens in the
neutral setting of a boarding school and not been exposed to
traditional festivities as I see in other families. About Sushil’s
family we knew little other than that his parents had settled in
Pune, that they were originally from Uttar Pradesh, and that
he had a sister, Meena, married to Ajit Harisinghani, a speech
therapist, and that they too lived in Pune. Sushil’s surname,
Sharma, identified him as a brahmin.
If there was little involvement in rituals, there was even less
in preparations. Oona was not interested in the latest trends,
nor in glitz and glitter. A plain silk sari, with a narrow gold
border, was quite enough to please her. Or tussar, she liked the
feel of the rough handspun silk and the muted tones that such
saris came in. She liked handloom cottons best and traditional
weaves and designs. She didn’t wear saris often. Informally jeans
and a shirt, or perhaps a track suit, were fine but I had noticed
that ever since she went to work in rural Kumaon she preferred
to wear salwar kameez. She enjoyed the kind of clothes I made,
from the fabrics that she liked; they were elegant in their
simplicity, exactly the reverse of what was usually available off
5 ILYA DIED

the shelf. They were also sturdy, and half the price. I have made
her clothes since she was a baby—no frills, no bows, no lace.
We did not even discuss jewellery. It was understood that she
could use and take whatever I had. But she did want diamonds.
From Sushil.
When she got married I told her I would keep her in
clothes for five years. It was not yet five years when she died.

It was six o’clock when I came down to give my mother a cup

of tea. There was a heavy mist outside and the silence that
goes with it and I could barely see the shapes of the trees in
the garden. She would have been awake since four listening
to the kirtan broadcast directly from the Golden Temple. She
is ninety- one, alert, active and fiercely independent. Except
these three weeks past when she has been in bed with high
fever. This was caused by an infection; a nasty blister spread
along her eyebrow, and her left eye became bloodshot. She has
been focused on her own pain and moans that the pity is that
whatever it is, it will not carry her off. She does not know that
the doctor had feared it might spread inwards and affect her
brain, and if that happened she would need to be in a hospital.
I refrain from telling her, as she knows very well, that the time
of going is not of our choosing. I smile reassuringly instead. We
have often talked about this business of dying. She has firmly
stated that she does not wish to be hooked up to any kind of
tubes, that she should be allowed to go in dignity, and she hopes
without pain, when the time comes. Her greatest fear is that she
will be incapacitated and will linger helplessly, indefinitely, and
become a burden. Her constant prayer and desire is to go while
she is still on her feet. Or, better still, to go in her sleep.
No, we have no choice. But sometimes we don’t get a
warning either.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 6

It is over five months now that Oona and Ilya died. Oona,
my daughter, and Ilya her daughter. Oona was my mother’s
eldest grandchild, and Ilya her only great-grandchild. What
seemed so wrong about that was the complete lack of logic.
They were the young ones, the future generation. My mother
has already lived her life but she has been spared. I was prepared
to go myself, in fact feared last year that it was imminent, and
I am still here.
We really have not spoken about it, or even wept together.
Early on, before the final kirtan for them, she said to me, “You
do not have the benefit of being religious and the comfort of the
scriptures. I did not think that you and Gurbir would survive
this uncrushed. But I see that you have an inner strength and
wisdom. I did not know it till now. It is more than I have...” She
is wrong. She has it in greater measure. She is deeply religious
but despite that she had questions. Slowly, she began to accept
it as the will of the Paramatma, the Lord. An inscrutable will.
I was too shocked to think, and I felt uncertain whether the
Lord really knew what he was about, and even if he cared. It
was enough for me, then, to roll with the punches, the shock
waves, and stay afloat rather than go under. Anyhow, in the
weeks after, she, in her uncomplaining acceptance, her silence,
was a great source of stability for me.
When I saw her again that morning, two hours later, she
greeted me with a smile, the first since she became ill. And she
asked if I had ever dreamed of Oona. I haven’t, nor do I dream
much. She announced that she had and that it was a wonderful
dream. She seemed to be savouring it still and said that she
would tell me later. Mid-morning, when I put in her eye drops
and sat with her, she did.
“It was in the mountains”, she said. “There was a large
meadow. Everything was white, it had snowed...Oona was
standing there, also in white. She looked absolutely radiant.
There were four or five other people but I did not recognise
them. Sushil was not there and I did not see Ilya...They were
picking mushrooms and just having a good time...I remember
7 ILYA DIED

going there in a car, but I don’t know how the car got there...
It was so beautiful.. .1 don’t remember any talk, just the
marvellous scenery and the feeling of happiness. I did not feel
any pain, only bliss.”
Mushrooms. Mushrooms had been their undoing.

I had started writing that morning. It was the mist, and the
sense of relief that my mother seemed to have turned the comer.
A memorial for Oona and her work had been in my mind. Not
because Oona was my daughter, or because she died. Or even
because two generations were wiped out by a single episode.
Specially at a time when the thought of a second child was
uppermost in Oona’s mind. Nor was it because she achieved
any spectacular success or fame by the standards of a highly
competitive world which sets store by such.
Perhaps it is because of the impact her death seems to have
had on so many people, young and old; those who knew her
well and those who had only heard of her and of her work. I can
only judge by the vast amount of mail we received from all parts
of the world, by the trouble people took to call and come by,
by the effort they made to share with us their own grief and to
offer the best sympathy they could. Perhaps the sympathy was
greater because both of them went within days of each other.
Seen through the eyes of so many others made me realise that
she really was special, and that her death had an impact because
her life had laid the ground for it.
Besides, there were so many little things that had
happened which puzzled me. I wanted to capture them before
they slipped away, pin them down in black and white. Then I,
or whoever else, could examine them to see whether they were
merely random, disjointed happenings or whether they were
part of a larger pattern.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 8

I sat at the computer, thinking and writing, for two hours,

with interruptions, the eye drops being the last. When the
morning mist lifted my mother emerged to sit in the sun. I sat
with her, that always pleases her, and asked her to tell me the
dream again. She added some details.
“I could see hill shapes and there were large bare trees
around the meadow. Actually it was not a meadow, it was two
or three fields. Oona was dressed in a white sari. She had the
palioo over her head, just like a bride. She looked very, very
happy, quite radiant.”
“Did you feel peace?” I asked her.
“It was a marvellous nazaara”, she responded, with the
accent on ‘marvellous’. “It was a scene I shall never forget.”
‘Nazaara’ is literally a sight, or a scene. I wondered if it
might not be a ‘vision’ that she was describing. Her reaction
somehow suggested that it was not an ordinary dream.
This is what I mean, about litde things happening. I wrote
about the trees in the garden quite spontaneously as also of the
wedding. I have it on the computer already and my mother gives
me trees and bride in the detailed recounting of her dream. I
asked if she would like to interpret the dream.
“There is nothing to interpret,” she replied firmly. And
then soffiy, as though it was her last word on the subject, “It was
such a wonderful sight.” She has a doctorate in psychology from
London University, 1926, a time when in some communities
baby girls were killed more often than raised, and if raised
married off rather than educated.
This day was, in fact, the turning point in her illness. She
recovered her will to live and went from being bed-bound to
pottering about the house looking after her minor needs.
To me it seems as though she has finally made her peace
with Oona. I have always had the feeling that in life she grudged
Oona my attention. Oona saw it too but was quite good-natured
about the minor upsets it would occasionally cause. No, it
was not only Oona. She grudged my attention to anything or
anyone else even though she did not make any overt demands
9 ILYA DIED

on my time. Living in a three-generation home was not easy,

nor four after Ilya came along. This happened perhaps three
or four times a year in Delhi when they came down to chase
paper work or perhaps take a break and enjoy a brief holiday,
swimming or catching up with friends. I would go into a frenzy
of tidying up, stitching, or just finishing my routine work so
that I would be totally free while they were here. Her dream
stayed with me all day, grounding me in those terrible days last
August.
It was the word ‘nazaara’ that did it. The root from which
it is formed is ‘nazar’, which has quite another connotation
besides its meaning of ‘sight’. It is a form of extreme envy, or
perhaps ill will. A person can actively harm another through
covetousness, or become the victim of another’s envy. It is the
evil eye. It is why we touch wood, spit, or refrain from lavishing
praise, particularly on children.
I had heard nazar earlier when we took Oona’s ashes up
to Satoli. There was a condolence meeting of the members of
Aarohi, the non-government organisation (NGO) of which
Oona was the Secretary, the chief executive, and the people of
the local community. Mohit, who had been -visiting Satoli with
his companion Annu, spoke. They were two of the group of
four close friends who were there when Oona, Ilya and Sushil
became ill. They had all helped move them to Ranikhet where
the other two, Anita and Kalyan, live. Mohit was a member of
the managing committee, besides being a founder member
of the organi sation. He gave them the bare facts of how the
accident occurred while Gurbir spoke about the relentless
progress of the effects of the poison. It takes little for rumours
and speculation to start and we found later that some had. It
seemed clear though that it was an unfortunate accident and
not the result of any devious or evil human machination, or for
that matter any supernatural intervention as their own beliefs
might lead some of them to think.
Beyond shock there was grief. And beyond grief there was
incredulity that this should have happened to people of such
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 10

obvious innocence, goodness and worth. Pratap Bhaiya, the

chairman, spoke at some length about Oona’s work, her vision,
the path she had charted and the need to continue to follow her
lead. I remember the phrase he used, ‘maarg darshan’, which
expresses all that. He is a lawyer and a resident of Nainital where
he also heads an educational foundation. Oona and Sushil had
invited him to be the chairman of Aarohi rather than any of
the Delhi-based founder members when they decided to set up
their society for integrated rural development with Satoli as the
base. His rational mind had sifted through the facts, and the
only ‘reason’ he could find was that they had become victims
of their own goodness: that the evil eye had mown them down.
“Nazar lag gai,” is what he said.

It is not easy to appreciate the distances involved until one has

actually been there, nor comprehend how limited the choices
were. Oona’s home in Satoli was only about 350 kilometres
north of Delhi but it was another world. It was in the shadow of
the mountains she so loved—Trishul, Nanda Devi, Nanda Kot
in the centre with the view sweeping east to Panch Chuli and
west to Bandar Punch, an arc of over 180 degrees. She used to
come down to Delhi because she had to; she much preferred
that we visit her there.
Mountain Wind is what a friend of hers from Gujarat,
Theo, called her ten years ago when she started working, in an
obscure tribal region, an undulating forested tract of land in
western India. That was almost three years before she actually
got to the mountains. The name has stayed in my mind all
these years even though it was never used again. It surfaces
now because it was so apt for her, for she had the freshness of a
mountain wind.
Theo is a mountaineer and he too followed the call to make
his home in the Himalaya, at Munsiari at the base of the Panch
11 ILYA DIED

Chuli peaks towards the border with Nepal. In mid-August

Oona had told me of his experience during the summer. It was a
miraculous escape she said. He was climbing, roped up. Somehow,
just above him an avalanche started. When it swept over him
the rope snapped and he was carried with it for 2,000 feet. He
survived with only a few bruises and one broken arm. Theo, and
his son, six months older than Ilya, were on the train with Oona
on 17 August when she was returning to Satoli having spent the
previous week with us in Delhi. Theo was one of the many people
who told me that they had just met Oona, or heard from her, days
or weeks before her own accident. The accident from which there
was no miraculous escape.
It was a chance meeting. They were both returning to the
hills and the train journey from Delhi was common for them–
Theo, headed for Munsiari, and Oona for Satoli, both in the
Kumaon hills of Uttar Pradesh. The train service, a comfortable
overnight journey each way, started only three years ago. It took
the tedium out of the nine and a half hour journey by road from
Delhi through some very congested towns. The railhead is about
fifteen kilometres north of Haldwani, the last town in the plains.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 12

Bhowali is an hour’s drive away. From there the different

routes into Oona’s part of the Kumaon hills radiate. Oona would
need two and a half hours to reach Satoli and Theo, on a different
axis, perhaps five.
Ilya died in Kumaon, at the Military Hospital at Ranikhet,
on 22 August 1996.
Early that morning, just after six, the phone rang. Gurbir
was awake. He took the call downstairs. When I came down, his
knotted eyebrows and deeply creased forehead told me he was
extremely disturbed.
It was Annu to say that Oona, Sushil and Ilya were ill, that
they had been brought to Ranikhet. Ilya’s condition was critical and
they needed to consult a paediatrician. She was being investigated
for meningitis and encephalitis. The fact that they had eaten
mushrooms on the night of the 19th in Satoli was mentioned in
passing. They had been brought to Ranikhet the previous evening,
the 21 st, and admitted in the hospital. She would call back in half
an hour for information.
I was able to locate the phone number of a paediatrician
friend of Sushil’s to whom Ilya had been taken as an infant. She
would know what to do. At that hour it took her a litde time,
when I explained who I was, to make the connection. She had
been woken by my call. I told her what little I knew. The mention
of mushrooms alerted her instantly and she asked me to call back
in half an hour while she looked up the literature. Her advice,
by seven, was that all of them must be moved to a hospital with
facilities to handle liver and kidney failure. She urged that I go
up immediately. Since Sushil is a doctor himself, and they were
already in hospital, I failed to register fully the implications of her
advice.
“What could I do?” I asked her.
“Be with them. ” She added that very likely the only treatment
possible was ‘supportive’ in nature.
We also spoke to other doctors but nobody would venture an
opinion without knowing more. And we had no more to tell. By
13 ILYA DIED

half past seven we decided that Gurbir should leave immediately.

His presence would carry more weight with the Military Hospital
than mine. I would stay accessible on the phone. He left by eight,
by taxi. He would check with me when he reached Haldwani in
case their plan of bringing them to a hospital in the plains was put
into effect. A nursing home in Haldwani had been mentioned as
a possibility. Ranikhet is in the same direction as Satoli, except for
the last two hours or so.
I had only fifteen minutes to quell the sinking feeling in the
pit of my stomach before my mother came down for breakfast
from her bedroom upstairs which she uses during the summer.
I remember clearly that it was Thursday. That is when she listens
to a half-hour kirtan programme broadcast from Delhi which
finishes at a quarter past eight. The reception is good so that even
on a day when she is not hearing well she can still enjoy it, unlike
the early morning broadcast from Amritsar which is subject to
static. I explained Gurbir’s absence. She did not ask any questions
that I could not answer but went outside, into the garden, to read
the newspaper.
I mention the sequence deliberately in detail because
it seemed to be the first of a series of ‘coincidences’ of which I
became aware.
Shortly after nine, Mohit’s mother relayed a message that
Ilya’s pulse was a little stronger. I told my mother and she asked
me not to worry, that the Lord was merciful and all would be well.
She was thoughtful though and I sat with her. After a while she
started talking.
“This morning, when I woke up,” she said, “I saw your
father.”
My stomach had quietened a litde, and in my head hope
surged. Silendy I said to myself, Ilya be well. Ilya be well. The
refrain continued quietly at the back of my mind.
My mother and I have talked occasionally about life and
death specially after my father died in 1979, a peaceful death, in
bed in the same room where she now sleeps. She says she often
feels his presence as if he is guiding her though she was by far the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 14

stronger personality of the two. My youngest brother happened

to be home that night. He called the doctor next door, where
the mango tree grows, and was on the phone to us at Gurbir’s
parents’ home in Defence Colony where we happened to be for
the weekend. It was all over by the time the doctor came. In
minutes. It was 2.10 a.m. on 28 August 1979, Raksha bandhan,
the day of the full moon in August which also signals the end
of the rainy season. People said it was a very auspicious day...
implying that good people are fortunate if they die on this day?
I had no inkling that Thursday morning that 2 8 August
was about to repeat itself.
Sitting in the garden, my mother continued, “I saw Peter,
too. I have never seen them both together.”
Never before has she mentioned ‘seeing’ Peter, two years
older than I, known formally as Pritam. He joined the Air
Force as a fighter pilot. Hawk Eye was his nickname there.
His contemporaries tell me he was superb. He flew Hunters,
3 Squadron, during the 1965 war with Pakistan. Then he
converted to Gnats, the Indian fighter plane, and was posted to
a training establishment at Jamnagar, Gujarat, in 1967.
The Trainer, with dual controls, had come back from the
workshop and he took it up to put it through its paces. But on a
loop it failed to pull out of a nosedive. Both of them were killed,
the trainee and he. There was a Court of Inquiry but as far as I
know the cause was not established, whether mechanical failure
or human error. His Commanding Officer was to test die plane
but he had generously volunteered to save him the trouble. That
was 9 September 1967.
“Bloody bad luck,” they said. He was thirty-one years old
and had been married less than four years. His wife, Rani, was
twenty-two and their daughter, Mimi, exacdy a year old. Rani
was four months pregnant.
The Air Force flew my father down to Jamnagar and the
body was brought back to Delhi for a ceremonial funeral with
military honours. I remember my mother sitting entombed in
stony silence while other relatives beat their breasts and wailed
15 ILYA DIED

as is customary. I remember telling them after a few minutes

that was quite enough of wailing. But I see now that there is a
point to the custom. It allows, no, more than that it encourages,
expression of grief.
I didn’t have time to dwell on my mother’s remark. I was
focused on Ilya and had already decided that I would take the
night bus up. The phone rang again and my heart sank. It was
from Ranikhet. I can’t remember if it was Anita or Annu.
“Are you sitting down?” and I knew that the worst had
happened. It took her two minutes of being solicitous while I
held a rising impatience in check.
“Ilya died.”
It was soon after ten in the morning. They were all coming
down to Delhi. She, I remember this as being Anita’s husky
voice, said Oona had asked me to come to Garhmukteswar,
where the Ganga flows, where they would perform Ilya’s last
rites. Six o’clock, rendezvous at the bridge. They would leave as
soon as they finished the paperwork at the hospital. It would
take them about six hours and me about three. I did not even
ask how Oona was. And she didn’t say.

My own attempt at warding off the evil eye had not worked.
After Gurbir had left for Ranikhet, and before my mother
came down for breakfast, I went to the kitchen prompted
by some remembered lore. I took three red chillies, a big
one for Sushil, a smaller one for Oona, and a little one
for Ilya, and roasted them on the fire. To avert calamity
one burns them and takes them to a crossroad and leaves
them there. Of the three, before the kitchen filled with
acrid fumes, the smallest split. I stood there looking at it
in horror. At that moment Gita, Oona’s first cousin from
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 16

Gurbir’s side of the family, walked in.

“Ilya’s split.”
She didn’t know what I was talking about.
“That is Sushil, and that is Oona. Look! Ilya’s split.”
“Chachiji!” was all she could say as she put her arms
around me.
She didn’t know what to make of it. She looked at me
as though I had lost my mind. She had heard from her
father, Gurbir’s older brother Sarindar, that Ilya was ill and
rushed over. Gurbir had asked him for a reference that
morning—he had been head of the Urology department
at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences and knew all
the other specialists, the best in the country.
“Come with me,” I said. “To the crossroad.”
The nearest crossroad is only two houses away, I
explained on the way. We stood there, rather foolishly,
then left the three chillies on the road and walked back.
Gita’s husband arrived while we were still at the gate. I
think he knew what I was trying to do. His mother with
her traditional background would certainly have known,
as would Sushil’s.
I remember friends coming and going, whether
relatives or those connected with Oona’s work like the
Eswarans—Girija would periodically collect and send
up bundles of old clothes and woollens and Esh, as he
was known, was very actively involved with natural
resource management and was also on Aarohi’s managing
committee, Mohit would have called him. ‘ And phone
calls. But Gurbir, calling from Haldwani, couldn’t get
through to me. He called Sarindar instead who gave him
the bad news and told him of the plan for Garhmukteswar.
Ajit, Sarindar’s son, came. He is closest to Oona in
both age and friendship. An ENT specialist in private
17 ILYA DIED

practice he has active links with hospitals in the city. He

asks me how Oona is and I can’t tell him. I don’t know.
He tells me not to worry, that he will speak to the medical
specialist and arrange for hospitalisation if necessary. The
medical specialist is Dhiraj Bhatia next door, in the house
with the mango tree. It was his father who had come to see
my father.
The Quarter Master General’s office calls. Gurbir had
been trying to reach him in the morning before he left. I
give him the news. He is profusely apologetic that he had
not returned Gurbir’s call earlier and offers help. I begin to
decline and then realise I could do with help. I ask for a car
for Garhmukteswar.
Although it had been offered, I could not bear the
thought of company. I wanted to be alone, undistracted by
sympathy or small talk. At about half past two Anita called
again. The discharge formalities had taken a long time;
they were about to leave and would not make it by six.
Gurbir had been waiting in Haldwani since one. Where
would they link up? They must know that 1 rilok Singh
Bhasin’s petrol pump on the main road was an obvious
place.
“Bring a change of clothes for Oona,” Anita said. Yes.
I should carry a light quilt too just in case Oona needed
warmth. And something to eat. What about Ilya? What
does one do? I picked up her cloth hat with the large polka
dots. Something to wrap her in. A change of clothes, too.
A navy blue skirt and a cream- coloured blouse to go with
it. Panties. And a shawl for Sushil.
The military Staff car, a shiny black Ambassador,
arrived punctually at half past three. It was reassuring to see
two disciplined men in uniform. A Junior Commissioned
Officer accompanied the driver. That was escort enough.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 18

I had told my mother of the plan and asked, almost as an

afterthought, whether she wanted to come, warning her
that it would be a long evening. She did not hesitate.
“What will I do here? Let me come.”

We reached Garhmukteswar after seven. The sky was dark

and heavily overcast. We parked on the left, just short of
the bridge. The two men stood beside the car, looking
conspicuous so we would not be missed. Resdess, I went
onto the bridge and peered at every car coming in my
direction. I was looking for Kalyan and Anita’s Gypsy,
the white Ambassador taxi Gurbir had gone in, and a
low slung Maruti Esteem. After some time the Junior
Commissioned Officer, the JCO, came to me and said it
was not wise to walk alone so far down the bridge. He
suggested I wait in the car.
Instead I got my mother out and took her down the
steps to the small ghat on the river, to the left of the bridge
where the Rest House is. I setded her on a bench, covered
her with the shawl since there was a sharp breeze blowing
upstream, and went down to the water’s edge. It was exacdy
where I had taken Chari, Sushil’s friend from Medical
School, when we once travelled down together. Chari had
been on that road at least a dozen times but, as he told
me, had never stopped anywhere. Then, too, the river had
been full. He had looked at it with reverence and taken the
water in his cupped hands. Then he had tilted his hands
towards the river in the gesture of giving and allowed the
water to flow over his fingers back into the Ganga. The sun
had not gone down. He had looked across the expanse of
19 ILYA DIED

water to the far shore and remarked on how majestic the

river was. Ajay Dhar, called Chari because of his habit of
waking at four o’clock, char baje, the same time my mother
gets up to listen to the kirtan from Amritsar. It is the time
that I, too, had been waking up for about three months.
Sushil had remarked that it was Brahma Mahoorat, the
best time for meditation. He treated it as a joke, but the
fact is that my sleep pattern had been disturbed.
Chari had shared Sushil’s plan of working in a small
village community and bringing to it the best of modem
medicine. They were going to be a partnership in health
care. Sushil had been grooming himself to function as
a general practitioner and was already in position and
Chari, as the surgeon, was working towards it—he had
bought some land in Satoli, not far from them, and gone
to Muscat to make his millions before returning. Except
that some rare leukaemia got him. He held it at bay for
about two years but when he realised it was the end of
the road he asked his wife, Purnima, to bring him back
to Delhi so he could die at home. Ilya and I had gone to
see him. That was about a year ago. Sushil and Oona were
in Himachal, and I was babysitting Ilya in Delhi. She was
about two and a half then.
“It is little Ilya,” he had announced when we walked
in to his room.
“The advance guard,” I said. “Sushil and Oona will be
here tomorrow.”
Tomorrow was not to be for him. He was in a bad
way, breathing, through an oxygerl mask, with difficulty.
Purnima and the boys were in the room and there was
soft music playing. I asked if I could massage his feet and
concentrated on the vital life force points that the book on
reflexology mentions. Quite spontaneously Ilya wandered
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 20

off to the side of the bed and ran her soft litde hands in
massage strokes on his forearm.
We stayed for about an hour and she did not become
resdess. Did not cling to me, or make any demands to be
entertained, and she ignored the boys. Chari died half an
hour after we left.
Kalyan told me later that Purnima, an anaesthetist by
specialisation like Sushil, had happened to call Ranikhet
from Muscat the Wednesday evening they reached there.
Chari’s first anniversary was approaching and they had
plans to return to the place where his ashes had been
immersed, high up in the hills where the Ganga is young.
On hearing about the possibility of mushroom poisoning
she too had reacted with alarm: Get them to a large
hospital immediately.
The Military Hospital did not have a paediatrician.
Kalyan told me he took a civilian specialist twice that night.
Kalyan and Anita were in Satoli, fortuitously, because they
were to hold a workshop on solar energy over that weekend.
Mohit and Annu had taken the opportunity to drive up so
they could all spend time together at the ‘Cowshed’, as the
small cottage the four of them had jointly built next door
to Oona and Sushil’s home was called. What if no one had
been there? Quickly I block out the scenario that begins to
take shape in my mind.
It began to drizzle lightly. Two policemen had came by
earlier asking what we were doing. I had pointed to the car
and they left us alone but cautioned me to be careful not to
wander away ln the dark. The drizzle became insistent and
we scurried up the steps into the car. The JCO and driver
stayed outside, getting wet, until I insisted they come into
the car out of the rain. Soon it turned into a downpour.
We could see nothing through the windscreen. It
21 ILYA DIED

was like being underwater, the rain a flowing river on the

fogged glass. I began to worry and wondered how long I
could expect them to wait, or what else we could do. It was
almost nine.
When the rain eased, I told the JCO and the driver to
go down to the shops on the other side and eat something
and that we would wait till ten. My mother sat without
fidgeting. Occasionally she would put her head back and
shut her eyes. At some point she peeled the oranges I had
brought and handed me some segments. I had also made
some sandwiches for her but she declined the offer of food.
It was long past her bedtime. She said nothing, asked no
questions, for which I was immensely grateful.
When the rain stopped I walked down to the main
ghat on the right to check with the pujari what might need
to be done. The JCO had already asked earlier, when we
reached, and had come back with the answer, Nothing.
There are no rituals for children. But it was something to
do. I got the same answer.
“Just take the body out into the river and consign it
there.” I could see the boats, many of them. I guess they
waited around for business.
Half way down the ghat was a small Shiva temple. I
added my own offering of flowers—I have no idea whether
I brought them with me or bought them there—to those
left by people who had gone before me.
“Dear Lord,” was the beginning of my prayer. “Please
God,” was the rest. What could I have asked for Ilya?
I had with me a quotation from Ramana Maharishi.
The gist of it was that the Ordainer ordains No matter how
hard you wish for something to happen, if it is not to be it
will not happen. And no matter how much you attempt to
avert something, if it has to happen it will.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 22

And I had something from Gary Zukav, The Seat of

the Soul, about the immortality of the soul. I had been
reading this book over the past few months. That morning
I had looked up the index for Death. Death was not listed.
Evolution and Incarnation were. That morning I read
something else too that I have thought about a great deal
since:

If a child dies early in its life, we do not know

what agreement was made between the child’s
soul and the soul of its parents, or what healing
was served by that experience. Although we are
sympathetic to the anguish of the parents, we
cannot judge the event. If we, or the parents of
the child, do not understand the impersonal
nature of the dynamic that is in motion, we
may react with anger towards the Universe,
or towards each other, or with guilt if we feel
that our actions were inadequate. All of these
reactions create karma, and more lessons for the
soul to leam—more karmic debts for the soul to
pay—appear.

Ilya gone. What would Oona and Sushil do?

I returned to the car and watched the on-coming
traffic. At about half past nine I saw a white car slow down.
Mohit was at the wheel. He went past, turned and pulled
up behind us. Oona was in the passenger seat which was
reclined to its maximum. Annu was at the back. Mohit got
out, without a word, and I slid into the driver’s seat.
Oona turned. Leaning against the door she shifted her
legs in my direction. I reached down and gendy took her
feet in my hands and held them as I had done countless
23 ILYA DIED

times before. A good foot massage was the ultimate

relaxation for her. She used to tell me that I had magic in
my hands.
It was half an hour before the rest of them came.

Ajit had said we could call him at any time we needed to.
It would be well past midnight. Dhiraj had said the same
thing. They would then assess Oona’s condition to decide
what needed to be done. I had no way of knowing or
judging.
Oona was not merely quiet, she was on the verge of
collapse. She could not retain water and she was not on a
drip. Kalyan told me afterwards that they had arranged an
ambulance, but the doctor said that the condition of the
road was so poor it was unlikely that the drip could be
maintained. Also, speed would be much reduced.
When the others reached I saw that Ilya was with
Gurbir in the back seat of the taxi, her head cradled in
his lap. Sushil got out from the front and took her into his
arms...she looked as though she was sleeping
My mother and I stayed with Oona in the car while
the rest of them went down the embankment towards the
boats.
I asked Annu to give me her place in the car for the
drive back to Delhi. Mohit drove. In the back seat, my
knees wedged into the space between the two front seats, I
could reach Oona’s shoulders and her head. She also loved
to have her head massaged, a head mush as we called it.
That is what she got for the next two hours.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 24

I told her about the Gary Zukav book. I promised her

we would read it together while she was getting better.
I don’t remember if it was raining during the drive
in to Delhi, nor if the traffic was heavy or otherwise. As
we neared Delhi I suggested that we stop at the house, I
can’t remember for what, perhaps to have Dhiraj come
over, or simply out of habit. That was home, and that is
where Oona came. Mohit said we should go straight to the
Nursing Home. That is when a steely tightness laid hold of
my insides.
At the Nursing Home I went in to activate the night
nurses while Mohit manoeuvred the car so the passenger
door was closest to the ramp, which ended in a step. The
wheel chair attendant would not go down the ramp. I
bullied him and helped lift the wheelchair over die step
and repeated the process when Oona was installed in it.
Inside, I saw how grey she looked. We got her on to the
narrow examination bed in the Emergency room, she
writhed as the nurse tried to take her blood pressure. I
wanted the nurse to start a drip but she argued that we
should wait for the doctor. I insisted, and got him to say
yes on the phone.
What kind of room, they asked at the reception.
Single? Double? Deluxe?
Dhiraj arrived widiin ten minutes, examined her and
phoned Ajit. Gurbir and Sushil had also come by then.
Oona needed a large hospital. Soon after Ajit and Somi, his
wife, arrived and he took charge. Within twenty7 minutes
we were out of there. Ajit said the bed at Batra would be
ready by the time we reached. It was, and the doctor, Dr
Arun Dewan, was waiting. It was 23 August 1996, around
one o’clock at night.
25 ILYA DIED

Time blurred. But the memories of the next five days

are sharp. Each a shard, driven deep into my consciousness,
into my mind and heart.
 2
Wait till Tomorrow

ona was in the Intensive Care Unit, for five days.

Ajit wheeled her in along with the attendants.
They went up in the lift for patients and by the
time we got up the stairs to the second floor she was already
being hooked up to various tubes. Sushil joined him inside and
I assume that the treating physician was briefed.
In the corridor outside the ICU, I saw two shapes, wrapped
in blankets. There were more people bedded down on moulded
plastic chairs without arms, hitched three together, the kind
one sees in airports and other public places. There were other
people on the floor in the little anteroom adjoining the corridor.
What on earth were they doing there? I found out soon enough
as I became one of them. A patient in the ICU is expected to
have a relative on hand to obtain necessaries from the chemist,
or to be available to receive the ultimate bad news.
For three days Oona was perfectly lucid and conscious
although her vital organs were collapsing. She went into a coma
on the third night. I think the doctor had given up on her then
and expected the inevitable to happen. I had not. The inevitable
did not occur to me as a possibility.
Gurbir called our son, Aloke, in New Jersey the first
morning to give him the news about Ilya and to tell him that
Oona was in hospital. Aloke wanted to talk to me. I came home
only in the afternoon to freshen up and let my mother know
what was going on.
What was I to say to Aloke? Come? Or that we will manage,
don’t come now? He was due for a holiday in November and we
27 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

had planned that the extended family, cousins included, would

get together at Corbett National Park for a weekend. That way
he would save travelling time, meet every one, and we would
not burden Oona’s small home. Oona, Sushil and Ilya would
drive down from the hills, we would drive up from Delhi to
Corbett.
Aloke did not give me a chance to waffle. He said he was
certain that Oona would be all right and that we must not even
think otherwise. Having lost Ilya, Oona would need support.
He was leaving for home the next day.

Oona’s condition was very precarious. Besides dehydration,

the alkaline-acid balance of the blood had been upset. Her
haemoglobin count was only 6. There had been internal
bleeding, the liver was very tender and the whites of her eyes
were distincdy yellow. Something about FPP and platelet count
also. Blood. Donors needed to be organised; Gurbir took that
in hand. And every two hours or so there was some demand for
supplies from the chemist downstairs.
Nobody in the hospital had encountered a case of Amanita
poisoning as it was deduced to be. Whatever contact anyone had
was used to try and obtain basic information. Vipul Sanghoi,
the graphic artist who did the design work for Aarohi, was a
computer buff. He brought what he could find on the Internet.
It was frightening, but it was something to go on.

The common wild mushroom, Amanita phalloides,

is known as the “death cap” for a good reason.
It takes only a handful of this widely distributed
fungus to kill an adult, even less to kill a child.
Standard medical treatment—activated charcoal—
is not particularly effective. Amanita mushroom
ingestion proves fatal in about half of the reported
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 28

cases. Twenty years ago, pilot studies showed

that silymarin treatment substantially reduced
amanita-poisoning deaths in animals who were
fed the mushroom. Subsequendy, several human
studies were launched. In one German hospital
test, 60 people with amanita poisoning were given
intravenous silymarin. None died. Other studies
have produced results that are similar, though not
as spectacular.

I am afraid the only phrase I saw then was, ‘None died.’ It

went on to describe the results of the Amatoxins as “Extremely
Serious.” The fatality rate for Amantin poisoning was given as
about 50 per cent. “It is doubly dangerous due to the fact that
the symptoms are delayed for 6 to 24 hours after ingestion, by
which time the toxins have been completely absorbed by the
body.”
The technical details were given and the way each individual
cell is screwed up and the way the symptoms manifest from
the latency period when the toxins “actively destroy the victim’s
kidneys and liver, but the victim experiences no discomfort.”
Ilya had gone to school the next day. Then the second stage
caught up: “a period of about 24 hours characterised by violent
vomiting, bloody diarrhoea, and severe abdominal cramps.” In
the next twenty-four hours there seems to be a recovery, then
a “relapse, during which kidney and liver failure often occurs,
leading to death.” It continued with advice:

If you have any reason to suspect that someone

has ingested an amantin-containing mushroom,
don’t wait for the symptoms to appear. There is no
antidote for amantin poisoning, and the best hope
is to rush the person to the hospital where the
toxins can be removed before being fully absorbed
into the body. Treatment is largely supportive and
symptomatic.
29 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

Don’t wait for the symptoms to appear? They had eaten the
mushrooms on the 19th evening; they, all of them, had already
been ill for three days. Ilya was dead. Oona in grave danger
while Sushil seemed to be recovering. Seventy-two hours had
gone by and the poison starts acting in two hours.
The other note, dated 23 August 1996, mentions another
species: “Destroying Angels, including Amanita Verna (picture
given) and A. tenuifolia, A. virosa, A. suballiacea, A bisporigera,
and A. ocreata. The only sure way to tell these Destroying
Angels apart is by examination of their spores. Their similarity
is also a good way to identify mushrooms to avoid—white cap,
white gills, white spores, ring and volva = DON’T EAT. The
toxins cause liver and kidney damage and death.”
I had no idea if any check had been done.
It continued: “When young, the Destroying Angels have a
marked similarity to puffballs and edible Agaricus mushrooms,
so when harvesting Agaricus and puffballs, be sure to check for
a volva or its remnants and cut all puffballs in half before eating.”
The irony of the next paragraph hits hard: “As knowledge is your
best defence it is wise to become familiar with all the parts °f a
mushroom.” When the film in Oona’s camera was developed
the first ten shots were of various mushrooms, it was part of
the data for her future project which was to document the
mushrooms of the Kumaon hills. But she wasn’t even in Satoli
when the mushrooms were picked and delivered to the house.
The cautioning continued, “The identifying characteristics
can be removed by rain, wind or animals.” It was the middle
of the monsoon and all diree possibilities existed. “The first
inkling that something is not quite right is the gastrointestinal
phase—” How clear it is from this distance but when the
messages came in I didn’t know the sequence of events. I heard
Sushil mention ‘phalloides’ in the corridor the first day but it
was pure guesswork.
Oona’s appeared to be a classic case. The silymarin was the
only hope even though it was already the fourth day for Oona.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 30

It was a very, very long shot but we tried. We tried, rather than
face the possibility of the final phase — “between the fourth
and eighth day after ingestion, the patient lapses into hepatic
coma combined with renal failure, ending in death. All this
from a dose of 0.1 rng/kg body weight or even lower.”

Gurbir told Aloke but Aloke could not find it listed in the US
Schedule of Drugs. He was asked to try in France or Germany.
Kausi, Ramdas’ wife, came to mind. Her brother lives in
Frankfurt. Ramdas and Gurbir had been posted together with
the Parachute Brigade in Agra. Their daughter, Kooka, and
Oona and Aloke had practically grown up together in Agra, and
then we were all together in Kashmir soon after the 1965 war
with Pakistan. Sushil called him. He promised to track it down,
buy it, and give it to Aloke who was due to transit through
Frankfurt on Saturday. All we could do was wait.
In the hospital there was no time to think of anything except
what was needed next. Gurbir had lists of blood donors and was
practically running a shutde service between the hospital and
the Red Cross Blood Bank, because each unit was released onlv
if it was replaced in kind. There were so many people there and
we had to pay attention to them also. I don’t know how they
collected, but they were from all phases of Oona’s life.1 There
were Sanawarians, I remember Vikram Maira and Harbinder
particularly. I don’t know how they knew but they were fixtures
at the hospital. I heard Ravi Maira, Vikram’s father, tell Gurbir
that he could count on at least a hundred donors for blood.
Ranjan Roy, Oona’s classmate who lives in Long Island, told me
afterwards that Harbinder would let him know every night how
things were. There were people from her college, St Stephens,
and those connected with her work besides our own friends.
We lived from minute to minute, from hour to hour, from
31 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

one blood transfusion to the next, platelets, FPP and trips to

the chemist downstairs for supplies. She was so incredibly
brave; I didn’t see a trace of fear through all those days. She
was even sociable with friends who came in to see her between
her bouts of being violendy sick and passing blood the first
day. Somi came. And Jasleen who had her arm in plaster and
Oona wanted to know what had happened. The second day she
seemed to have stabilised and had more visitors but it was only
the third phase, the phase of false reassurance.
After his morning round the second day, the doctor said
that we should think of a liver transplant, now rather than six
days later. I was so hopeful, six days sounded like a lifetime
when we had reacted only in minutes and hours. He warned us
that dialysis had its own risks but also assured us that back up
systems would be on standby. The dialysis was even scheduled
for every alternate day.
What a long day that was. We thought she would go through
it first thing in the morning but they didn’t take her in till late
afternoon. Sushil and I were frantic. I saw it as unnecessary
delay, and I agitated for Sarindar and Ajit to do something, to
prod the doctors, but it appears they were juggling with Oona’s
blood pressure, trying to get it high enough and steady. The fire
fighting was on a whatever-is-critical-at-that-moment basis. It
is not surprising that they didn’t want us underfoot.
What really astounded me that day of the dialysis was
Oona’s concern for others, not a question about herself. While
we were waiting, Sushil looked at the board across a door in
the anteroom and asked what the name of her friend in IRMA
was. She had so many friends, which one might he mean? I
don’t remember if I had seen the board, but I hazarded Manjul.
Manjul Bajaj, someone he would have met in the hills, at Sitla
where he Oona, and Kalyan too, had worked. The board said
Dr Rajiv Bajaj. Cardiologist. It seemed like such a good omen
that we lay in wait for him and introduced our selves. He was
Manjul’s brother. He was impassive but kind, he still had to see
someone else before Oona.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 32

I stood discreetly for over an hour outside the room into

which he disappeared so I wouldn’t miss him. They were being
very strict about my going in to the ICU that day, not that they
allowed it for more than a minute or so anyhow. When he
emerged and turned into the corridor, I followed him and said
I was coming in behind him. He didn’t say No. I just wanted to
make the connection for Oona. When I told her, she nodded
and said that she had met him before. I had a minute with her
while he spoke to the doctor and nurse and looked at Oona’s
chart. When he came to the bed I did the formal introduction
anyhow. Oona smiled, and asked: “How is Manjul?” My God,
I thought, small talk at a time like this! But she would not be
hurried. When he turned the conversation and got to the point
of saying that he had to explain the procedure I slipped out.
Finally, when they wheeled Oona out of the ICU to take
her to the Nephrology unit on the fourth floor, all those who
had been waiting outside walked beside the stretcher with her
down the length of the corridor until the lift. Kalyan, Anita,
Kanika, Annu, Ruma, Meena, Ajit Flarisingani and Sushil. I
don’t think Mohit was there. Yes,, Surjit, Gurbir’s sister who is
a professor “at Jawaharlal Nehru University, was there. She had
been there all morning waiting to give blood.
Oona looked so calm and lovely lying on that bed. Her
normal colour had come back and her beautiful black hair
framed her face. Gita had come up with me. We saw her from
the door after the dialysis was underway, and there was the
briefest moment of eye contact. Kalyan told me that when they
took her in she had looked around the room carefully before
being settled in. It would take some time they said. I came home
then to bathe and change, leaving Gita and Surjit with Gurbir.
“How am I doing Papa?” she asked Gurbir when they were
bringing her back to the ICU. And he had reassured her, “Very
well.”
She was. The pre-dialysis blood tests at four showed that
the haemoglobin count was up to 11.6 from 6 and they hadn’t
asked for the platelet transfusion.
33 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

Yet barely two hours later when I came back for the night
how different things were. I thought she was drowsy and tired
when she spoke to me, but it was more than that. “I think I’m
going,” she said. It was the last time she spoke.

Two things happened that Saturday, her second day in hospital,

on the night of which the coma began to get a stranglehold,
for that is what it was—the next morning Oona’s pupils were
responsive to light but the movement of the eyeballs was
sluggish. Rani sent an e-mail message from America, listing
four homeopathic medicines. The instructions were that they
should be given, separately, at intervals of ten minutes. The
medicines, in tincture form, had been left at the house by a
friend. Gurbir brought the package in with him in the morning
but mentioned it only in the evening.
When the diuretic and the catheter had not worked and
the doctor had planned the dialysis, and slotted it for every
alternate day, and the possibility of a liver transplant had
also been raised, friends had begun to explore what might be
feasible, where and how. I too turned to other avenues.
When we got the news about Ilya’s illness I had looked
up my mother’s books, she has four of them, and they have
been in use over forty years. I looked up poisoning, specifically
mushroom poisoning. The only treatment mentioned was
activated charcoal with sweet oil, with the proviso that the type
of mushroom needed to be identified. I had told Annu when
she had called the second time for information on Thursday
morning. One of the books also mentioned pulsatilla 1 m. As it
happened I had that in the house, a doctor had prescribed it for
Gurbir’s mother, one dose a week. I used to give it myself rather
than leave it with her so it would not get mixed up with the
various other medicines she took, allopathic and homeopathic.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 34

She too had dialysis five years earlier; her kidneys were weak
and she had arthritis too.
I had sent it up with Gurbir along with a note reinforcing
the charcoal. Pulverise any charcoal, use apricot oil, I had
written. I still don’t know what activated charcoal is. It was not
given, nor do I believe now, in the light of the information we
received, that it might have made a difference at that stage. The
pulsatilla was not given either as far as I know. I remember it
was handed back to me, along with my note, at Garhmukteswar
but I have no recollection whether by Gurbir or Sushil.
Would the treating physician agree to the homeopathic
medicines? I did not want to upset him by seeming to interfere
or risk an outright rejection. I told Ajit my quandary. He does
not believe in alternate systems of medicine and fairly bristled
when he said he would not ask. I explained that all I wanted was
for him to sound out Dr Dewan. That I merely wanted him to
be the go-between, to put the idea to him so that it would not
come as an outrageous request. It was an act of kindness for Ajit
to have agreed to do that for me in the face of his own disbelief.
Half an hour later he told me that I should call Dr Dewan in his
office. He would receive my call.
In that half-hour I met two people among the visitors at
the hospital who buttressed my belief. The first was a gentleman
I had met in Ranikhet, Dr Bhardwaj, a homeopath. He had
heard from Kalyan and arrived. A godsend, an omen, I thought.
My spirits soared. “Tell me how to give this,” I said as I thrust
the piece of paper under his nose. He did, agreeing that the
medicines were appropriate.
The other visitor was Salima, who had known Oona and
Aloke for almost fifteen years, from their adolescence onwards.
She told me a rather convoluted story of how, many years ago,
she had been ill and in a coma for two weeks. The allopathic
doctors had given up hope; a homeopath, or was it an ayurvedic
vaid? was called in. He gave her something, and said they should
wait for twenty-four hours. The next morning she sat up in bed,
to the amazement of her family, announced she was hungry and
35 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

asked for kebabs, which she proceeded to eat.

Salima had missed Oona’s wedding because she read the
date wrong and had appeared the following day. Oona and she
had worked out an arrangement one half of which had been
put in to effect. Oona could use Salima’s family house on the
beach in Kihim, south of Bombay, for a vacation, which they
had done last winter, taking with them Sushil’s sister, Meena,
and her family. Ilya had loved the beach and was fascinated by
the ocean. She had just learned to talk in English that year. I
remember how her eyes would light up if any programme on
TV showed water, or water sports in the sea. She would point
excitedly, eyes as big as saucers, and say: “Big wave!” She had
surfed in the Arabian Sea it seems. Salima had not yet taken
Oona up on the other half of the offer, that there would always
be room for her up at Satoli when she needed a holiday in the
hills. Salima had pressed my hand and said softly, “Don’t worry.
Oona is strong. All that fish they ate, she has the strength of the
sea in her ”
When I spoke to Dr Dewan he heard me out quite patiently.
Until I started to tell him how my friend had recovered from a
coma. What was the problem, he asked. “I don’t know, but she
recovered. She is sitting right here. Will you speak to her?”
I can’t recall whether he did or not, but he gave me
permission to give Oona the homeopathic medicines so long as
they did not interfere with whatever else she was having under
his supervision.
“Wait,” I said. “Tell the nurses and the doctor. Here.”
Inside the ICU I handed the phone to the doctor on duty
saying that Dr Dewan was on the line. It is the first time in
those two days that I registered a modicum of respect, relatives
generally are treated as a nuisance. Unavoidable, but best kept
at a distance. In any case, I was only a subsidiary relative so to
speak. Sushil rated some deference, being the husband and also
because he himself is a doctor.
I do not know whether it might have made a difference
if the homeopathic medicines had been started earlier. In
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 36

Ranikhet, or when Oona reached Delhi. In either case the

possibility did not exist. Ajit told me later that he did not think
she would survive the first night. We put our faith in modem
medicine and the very best was done. It had been made clear
to us that Oona’s condition was very critical and that between
the dehydration, the shrinking liver, failing kidneys, it was a
tightrope walk to juggle the various parameters. Dr Dewan
mentioned sixteen.

What brought a strange sense of comfort that Saturday,

while we waited for the dialysis, was a message passed on
by Ruma, a friend of Sushil’s, who had called the first day
to say that they were doing Reiki for Oona. I had no idea
what Reiki was but took her announcement to be equal
to a form of prayer. One part of the message was that the
Reiki Master had said that Oona would be all right but
that Saturday was a critical day for her.
And until six o’clock it had gone well.
The other part of the message was that Ilya had been
a saint in her last life; that she had very little karma left to
work out in this life. She had finished that and was off and
away, out of the cycle of rebirth. The phrase used was that
she had reached the fifth level of Consciousness; I think I
recall accurately.
Afterwards I went to see Renoo, the Reiki Master,
with whom Ruma had made an appointment for me. It
was one of those unusual days with heavy rain. The roads
were flooded, and at two places blocked by uprooted trees.
I could hardly see where I was going but I did find the
house. I was only five minutes late. Much later did I see
linkages between the fact that it was 9 September, the day
37 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

my brother died, and what my mother had told me on 22

August, the day we received the news that Ilya was ill, the
day she died. Two hours before the phone rang my mother
had already ‘seen’ Peter, for the first time along with my
father. Ilya was three and a half; Oona had just turned
four when Peter died. Was there some deeper connection?
They belonged to three different generations but each of
them was a first-born. Had Peter appeared to my mother
to presage Ilya’s death? Perhaps to guide her soul to the
other world? I would like someone who knows about
occult things to tell me if this is far-fetched nonsense.
Renoo knew nothing about me, as far as I know, and
we talked generally. I reminded her about her message,
both parts of it. For Ilya she repeated what I had already
heard. For Oona, she asked why she had travelled at night
and why without a drip. I explained. She then talked
generally about periods of time in her life corresponding
roughly to end of school, college and the last five years.
I said that if one accepted what she said about Ilya, how
would one interpret what happened to Oona? What was
the meaning of Oona’s life? And did she have to die now?
She thought about that and said that the meaning of
Oona’s life was to facilitate the transit of Ilya. That part of
her work in this life was done. But she said emphatically,
her work was not finished. We would need to carry on
whatever she had set her heart on and see that it was
accomplished. She was specific about me: “Reach out to
people.”
Changing direction she remarked that Gurbir had
a problem with his right leg. He did as a matter of fact,
nothing major but it did bother him. She was very keen
to meet Sushil who she said would need a lot of help and
support. Ruma had made an appointment for him too, for
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 38

a week later, when he was due to return from Rishikesh

where he had gone to meet his guru.
She wanted to know what I did. I explained my
interests and that my work was connected with books.
“Yes”, she said. “I see a podium and lots of people. And a
book. You are there.” Then, looking intensely into my eyes,
she continued, “You must write. Write about Oona. The
book has a purple cover ”
I was taking care not to volunteer information
generally, but at the purple cover I felt I had to let her know
that purple, or more precisely wine and burgundy, were
Oona’s favourite colours. I had not told her that Sushil’s
brother-in-law Ajit and I had already talked of a book,
and that we had asked Sushil to put down the good things
he remembered specially of the last few months. Like the
incident on Oona’s return to Satoli after her week in Delhi
mid-August. Sushil said Ilya and she had a great big hug
and kiss cuddle and Ilya says to her,
“I love you, Mama.”
“I love you too.” At which Ilya paused and thought,
and played a trump card.
“I love you TEN.”
I had not seen Ilya all summer except for a brief week
in July. In August I had felt a great longing for her which
was most unusual for me since there was so much coming
and going in my life—Oona and Aloke at boarding
school, holidays twice a year, and Gurbir with his frequent
postings in the field, or travel. I wanted to know, even if it
was at second hand, all that Oona and Ilya had done that
summer and what they had talked of.
They came on 30 June, my diary says. That was when
I had stitched the mother-daughter outfits for them. It
was hot, muggy weather and I used a length of soft cotton
39 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

in an ikat weave, in a cool white and grey combination.

I made a flop-around-the- house kaftan for Oona, with
long sleeves so the mosquitoes would not chew her up.
With what was left over, I made a sleeveless A line, ankle
length nightdress for Ilya. Oona loved hers, Ilya did not
approve. Oona explained that Ilya liked a generous flare so
that when she squatted, village style, it would go over her
knees to the ground and her toes would be covered too.
It was a good way to keep body heat in and quite sensible
where she lived. I improvised by inserting white panels on
the sides to give her that extra width.
Sushil had gone on a consultancy to Orissa and Oona
had to go to Lucknow for two days, with Kalyan, to attend
a meeting on the new World Bank-aided Drinking Water
project. The only entry in my diary for that week is ‘Ilya’s
ears pierce’. We did not get it done. Next time, I thought.
Next time did not come.
We went swimming though. The children’s pool at the
Gymkhana Club was tame after Ilya’s holiday by the sea. She
was much more at home in the water and declined to use
the aqualung aid. With hand-support under her stomach,
she propelled herself quite efficiently from one end of the
pool to the other. She also had a refinement on the usual
jump-into-the-water routine where I would catch her
before her head went under. “I’ll dive?” she said one day.
She took her stance and launched herself into the water,
head first. Sushil was surprised when I told him. He had
shown her how to dive only once. Our favourite game was
to become a star, the first lesson in floating and buoyancy.
I would demonstrate in the big pool as she watched from
the edge, she wasn’t allowed in that pool. Just once I asked
the attendant to look the other way so she could have the
experience. When I told her to jump, she had absolutely
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 40

no hesitation. ‘Ilya has become a star’ is how Ajit and Somi

explained her absence to their boys. They have a video of
the three of them splashing around in an inflatable pool
but I haven’t seen it. One day I expect I will. Ilya also had
proxy sibling time with Meena’s daughter in Pune during
their annual vacation there. There, too, the explanation
was: ‘Ilya has become a star.’ How else does one explain
things to young children? I would take her also to Gita’s,
whose ten-year-old daughter tended to treat her like a live
doll. The explanation there was ‘God’, I think.
It was during that week that I had suggested to Oona
that if she planned to have another baby she should not
delay it too long. She didn’t get drawn into a discussion.
Weeks later, afterwards, Kalyan and Anita told me that
they had talked about it often. They said Oona wanted a
second baby and was unhappy that Sushil said he was too
old at forty. It was what he spoke to her about when she
was dying. “Get well, baby. We’ll have another child.”

Ilya had begun to identify very strongly with Satoli. That

was HOME and she prefaced everything relating to Satoli
with ‘my’. She was quite familiar with the English alphabet
and she loved to have stories read out to her. At bedtime,
she liked to be told stories based on real-life Satoli
creatures which Oona and Sushil churned out. With me,
in the winter, it had been Mowgli. In July she was hooked
on Pooh Bear and Tigger. And she had quite a repertoire
of Hindi nursery rhymes and the usual patriotic songs
with which all schools, including the Aarohi Bal Sansar up
there, begin the morning. Oona had started the primary
41 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

school as part of the bringing-up-Ifya strategy. But it was

also the next step in the development activities of Aarohi.
Her focus had shifted to include education as a vital tool
in the development process. Her long-term plan was to
have a first class residential school for the children of other
development professionals too. To drive the point home,
the Aarohi stationery’ carried the message ‘Educate a girl
child, educate a nation’ on the envelopes.
Ilya was not particularly musical but the gusto with
which she belted out die national anthem, Jana Gana
Mana Adhinayaka Java Hey in the car on our way to visit
her great-grandmother, Oona’s Dadi, had people turning
around to look, specially when we waited at a red light.
We also had a little game about what was to be done at the
traffic lights. Red, green, amber. She had to tell me to Stop
or Go.
Ilya was happy when Oona came back from Lucknow,
and when Sushil returned a few days later from Orissa.
But the next morning, when they packed and were ready
to leave, she was ecstatic at the thought of returning to
Satoli. My mother remarked on that I remember.
In those five days that Oona was in hospital, Ilya was
not mentioned. What could I have said to Oona about
Ilya?

It was during this visit in July that Oona had asked me

to tell her some stories about Aloke and herself as children.
I must have been in the midst of half a dozen things and
nothing came to mind. My memory of their childhood,
I was ashamed to admit, was sketchy. I don’t think they
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 42

were difficult children. I don’t remember any tantrums.

Nor could I pull out any first-times or cute sayings. I
could only recall a few crises like the time Oona developed
pneumonia. She was recovering from chicken pox and we
treated her to an outing in the car. Possibly that is when
she caught cold. Or the time when Aloke turned blue in
the face and could not breathe. That was in Agra, just after
the 1965 war. Oona’s Montessori school teacher lived in
the same block of flats that we did, in Cecil Mansions,
an old colonial building amid extensive grounds which
housed the officers of the Para Brigade. She had a bad
asthma problem and had trained herself as a homeopath.
We rushed to her, Aloke in my arms gasping for breath.
Down our flight of steps, along the verandah and up the
next flight to her flat at the far comer. She gave Aloke some
pills and, magically, he began to turn pink. Perhaps my
faith in homeopathy stems from that experience.
It does not matter now that the experimental new
medicine—the brand name was Legalon Sil made by
Madaus, Cologne—did not work a cure. I believe, though,
that the fact that I was allowed to give the homeopathic
medicines made a difference; it enabled me to be with
Oona more frequency during those last two days and
nights.
The doctor’s permission gave my presence in the
ICU legitimacy. When Aloke came he shared those
visits with me and was able to participate in Oona’s last
two days in this life. He and I are both convinced that
though her coma deepened she, at some level, was aware
of our presence and what was going on. He pointed out
to me that whenever I touched her, whether to massage
her feet or to clean her face and comb her lovely hair or
simply to press her temples and head, the green line that
43 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

monitored her heartbeat would become thick to the point

of becoming fuzzy. Was it only an electrical charge? It felt
like conversation.
We developed a system that the first bottle on the left
was to be used for the next dose. When that was done, it
was moved to the extreme right. The tincture was to be
given in a solution of water. I needed to measure ten drops
for each dose. The nurses did not have a dropper. Nor
did the chemist downstairs. Nobody had ever asked for a
dropper. I explained. Light dawned.
“Oh! This is for the mother and daughter who were
expected.”
Word of this unique ‘case’ had filtered down to him.
I gave him the bad news that things were not good and he
asked me to wait. He rummaged in a box brought down
from on top of a cupboard and triumphantly produced a
dropper. I had to buy other things too but he would not
charge for the dropper. For the first time my eyes filled
with tears and my throat constricted. I couldn’t speak, but
he understood I was both touched and
With the ventilator tube in her mouth taped down to
keep it in place it was difficult to get those drops in. I put
them under her lips, a few drops a time, and waited for
the mucous membrane to soak them up. What good care
she used to take of her teeth, brush them after every meal.
When did she last brush them I wondered; had the nurses
brushed them?
Yet another friend came on Sunday evening, Swati,
who had also offered me company on Thursday morning
despite the fact that she works and has two teenaged
children. She brought Dr Kalyan Banerji with her; he must
have the highest regard for her to leave his overflowing
evening clinic. He changed one medicine. Oona was quite
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 44

waterlogged; he gave her Cantharsis for the kidneys. He

did not say so, but he did not look hopeful.
The most difficult time was when Dr Dewan
pronounced brain death.
Work me a miracle Oona, I willed her. Just show
them. Prove everybody wrong.
He said that clinically it was so. It could be confirmed
only through an EEG. She couldn’t be taken to a machine,
and the machine could not be brought to her, I can’t
remember why. Dhiraj’s wife, Tina, is a neuro-physician.
I’ll ask her to come, surely she would not agree. Forty-
eight hours, the doctor said we should watch. And then?
On life support? But was that life? Would they keep her in
the ICU? How long?
Tina came, Dhiraj too, and his mother. She examined
Oona thoroughly and was quiet. All I saw was the shine of
wetness in her eyes and a barely perceptible movement of
her head. I read it as No but I was not prepared to accept it.
Years earlier we had all seen “Whose Life is it
Anyway?” and discussed the choices open to an individual
who was kept physically alive by machines. Voluntary
euthanasia we had agreed then. For myself, I have often
told Gurbir no tubes. My mother has also forbidden being
put on life support.
But Oona? Who could one talk to? Dr Dewan could
say, or do, no more. The next morning, both Gurbir and
Sushil had discussed the ‘future’. It was hopeless. Sushil
suggested the possibility of the withdrawal of dopamine
or whatever it was that was being administered to stabilise
and maintain blood pressure. Aloke and I avoided looking
at each other as we listened from the fringes. NO. I heard
myself say. WAIT. Wait till tomorrow is all I asked.
Dr Bajaj! I am afraid I barged into his office and he let
45 WAIT TILL TOMORROW

me talk. We were all there. What were we to do? He was

very humane. “Don’t lose hope,” he said. But all of us knew
it was just a question of hours, or perhaps days. One night
is all I had asked for.
In the evening Oona’s heart began fluctuating wildly.
Going up to over 200, quietening and then settling at
around 115. At night yet another friend came, at ten,
she had been coming earlier too. She brought a vial. Her
gemologist had created something after having seen a
picture of Oona. Diamond and sapphire.
“Give it to her every twenty minutes,” she said. “Five
drops. Give it through the night.” I still have the bottle. It
was only half finished.
Gurbir stayed back with me at the hospital that night.
Sushil was exhausted and he had also been unwell; his
tests had shown high bilirubin so everyone was urging
him to rest as much as possible. Aloke had not had time to
recover from his jet lag.
I went in every twenty minutes, the mantra Nam-
Myoho Renge-Kyo, given by another well-wisher, with
me all the time. In between I lay down in the anteroom.
The others had asked, every day, if my patient was getting
better. I had been noncommittal. For the first time I shook
my head in a negative.
There was a new face there that night. He did not look
as though he would be sleeping. I asked him to wake me
on the half-hour if I should not be up already. He didn’t
need to. I suppose I dozed, but I was up. He remarked on
it. Gurbir was in the reception area at the other end of the
corridor where there was a little more space.
I woke five minutes before two. Sitting up straight I
meditated on the mantra I had been given before going in.
The nurses and a doctor were crowded around Oona’s
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 46

bed. The line on the monitor was a kind of a hump. They

turned, of one accord, and looked towards me. I held
up my hand and they withdrew. All of them. I went to
the head of the bed, took Oona’s hair in my hands and
smoothed it the way she liked. They say the soul leaves the
body through the top of the head. I made space for it, and
asked it to go. In peace.
I stayed by Oona’s head for perhaps five, perhaps ten
minutes. I stayed until the nurse came back and started
to unhook the respirator. As I turned to leave, I noticed a
syringe lying on the bed, on the other side of Oona, where
the doctor had been standing. It was full.
I walked down the corridor and woke Gurbir with
a simple, “It’s over.” Thirty-three beautiful years. Our
wonderful child, gone at the peak of young womanhood.
In her prime.
She dreaded going grey. Ageing and decrepitude. She
did have two white hairs tucked away at the back of her
head. I saw no need to tell her.
I didn’t go back in with Gurbir.
He then phoned Sushil.
And we went down to the lawn and watched the
moon together. Holding each other as we had not done
for years. It was half past two. The moon was full. Raksha
bandhan. It was 28 August 1996.
She had written her overseas rakhi letters to her
cousins Arjun and Kabir, Gurbir’s sister Surjit’s sons, in
mid-August while she was in Delhi. They received them
in America on 28 August 1996. The letters were dated 28
August 1996. They got the news soon after their letters.
Aloke’s missed him. For him and for Ajit, I tied the
simple gold thread rakhis we had bought together, on her
behalf, that morning before the cremation.
 3
Destiny? or Bad Luck?

ona, today I shall write to you. It is 19 February,

exactly six months since you cooked and ate those
wretched mushrooms. I kept asking myself why
no warning bells rang, why you should have used something
that was five days old, why you didn’t forget them on the fire
so they could have burned to an inedible mess. Or at least
dropped the dish. Why didn’t Sushil do his usual crosscheck
when Manbahadur brought them in?
Sushil says that you had told him not to eat mushrooms
while you were away. Was that a warning to him to be careful
of accidents as in the previous episode when he and Ilya got the
runs? You had called from Almora saying they were two hours
late. It doesn’t seem likely that you should have said that simply
because you did not want to miss out on the pleasure yourself.
Sushil also told me that Ilya had asked to have them while you
were still in Delhi. His response was “Let us wait for Mama.”
Was it your date with destiny?
It took me weeks, months, to piece together how it had
happened. You had only one day in Satoli when you got back on
the 18th. The next day you were at Nainital and returned home
in the evening, bringing Samina with you. It was in honour of
your guest that you did the ‘something special’ for dinner in
addition to what had already been prepared by Sushil. The next
day you and Samina returned to Nainital for the rest of your
workshop there. That morning, the 20th, Ilya had to be brought
home early from school because she was not feeling well.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 48

Why didn’t anyone register earlier than 22 August that

it could be the mushrooms? I can remember three different
incidents concerning you when Sushil’s diagnosis was the worst
case type and fortunately each turned out to be quite minor.
Why did he not assume the worst this time? Kalyan says that
it was only at the hospital in Ranikhet that he heard mention
of mushrooms having been eaten. Mohit I have not talked to.
Since Kalyan and Anita have often told you all to be careful,
Kalyan says if it had been mentioned in Satoli, they might have
taken the decision to come to Delhi instead of Ranikhet. At that
time he thought that being with them in Ranikhet would give
you all a chance to recoup from a bad bout of the runs. Perhaps
they were preoccupied with their own workshop and there was
incomplete communication among all of you. Annu and Anita
both mentioned that Sushil had asked Manbahadur who looked
after the Cowshed if he and his family were all right when Ilya
started the gastric symptoms. Obviously, I didn’t ask you any of
these questions considering the condition you were in when I
saw you at Garhmukteswar, or later.
Destiny, or sheer bad luck? Perhaps the two are the same.
Perhaps all the questions that I ask—why something happened
or didn’t happen—are simply obscurations that enabled the
event to transpire. Naniji said to me when the inevitable had
happened, “Mushrooms taan bahaana si.” That what had
to happen did, the mushrooms were just an excuse. If not
mushrooms, it would have been something else. In short, that
your time was up.
And Ilya’s too? This I find very difficult to understand. Why
both of you? But then how would life have been for either of you
without the other? Or suppose it had been Ilya and Sushil while
you were here? That would have... funny, the word that comes
to mind is ‘killed’, destroyed you. Well, that is not much better.
The fact is it happened. Call it destiny, God’s will, whatever.
Accepting that, and working backwards, gives me a perspective
that makes me believe that the shadow of death was hovering but
because I had been so out of sorts myself I thought something
49 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

drastic would happen to me. In July I showed you where to find

the various investments I had made for you, and my own, in
which you were the joint holder or the nominee. You didn’t pay
much attention beyond a brief okay but settled your own dues
for the life insurance premiums that I had paid on your behalf
and Sushil’s. “It has been pending long enough,” you said.
Though I had vague fears I never saw you as the target.
The other question I ask is that if I had, was there anything I
could have done? This sideswipe of fate, taking both of you, is in
a sense my mortality, a rather sneaky way of doing it. But Gary
Zukav says that nothing that happens in this world is without
cause. That whatever happens is, in fact, an act of compassion
though we may consider it grossly unfair or cruel or tragic.
Compassion I can vouch for. So much has been generated,
and we have received it in such generous measure that it cannot
be without meaning. What precisely is the meaning, is what I
am now trying to discover.

My fragmented state, which began early that year, spilled over

into a letter I wrote to Rani. I started it in May and continued
it after your visit in July. Why do I have a copy? It was a newsy
letter and perhaps I intended to recycle it for Diljit, whom I
think of as your foster mother, rather than my cousin, ever since
her home became yours the year that you were in England, the
year before you got married. I had been meaning to write to
her before she and Aju moved back to India but obviously I
didn’t send it. My unrest began when I lost my mailing list on
the computer. Ramdas had written the programme specially for
me and he wasn’t around. Other than being saddened, I was
extremely annoyed when he died last year. Years of intemperate
eating and drinking, and smoking, caught up with him despite
Kausi’s efforts to rein him in. I wrote to you in graphic detail.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 50

You saved that letter, it was the only one from me that you
kept. I understand why. He was so fond of you. Once you were
dragged in to make peace between them. All of us sat around
the dining table. Kausi was very agitated and Ramdas was trying
to get a word in instead of withdrawing into silence or tuning
out as he usually did. Finally, you turned to Kausi and said very
reasonably, “Kausi Aunty, you are not listening.” How old were
you then? Fifteen? Besides this you kept two from Papa, the
one he wrote after you went to your own home, and the other
after Ilya was born and we had taken you back to Satoli. Each of
them was introspective, and movingly eloquent, as he wished
you good luck for the new journeys ahead of you.
Well, my letter to Rani was disjointed and it reflected
how dysfunctional I felt. I had started it to congratulate Mytri
who was graduating from Yale. You know that she has had a
strong bond with you, envy too perhaps, for having known the
love of her father, a love she never knew. I threw in Mimi, too,
since she was finishing her law course at Stanford. I had rather
hoped that Aloke would be able to go and represent all of us.
He couldn’t. He had an exam himself, the second part of the
Chartered Financial Analyst certificate.
“I have to get reorganised...” I had written. It was continued
on 2 August 1996. How prophetic it seems now: “The letter got
‘lost’ and after that I sort of got lost too. Just about coming to
terms with my ‘losses’ so to speak. I was telling Gurbir yesterday
that I’m feeling cheerful again (!!) after weeks.” That was a gross
understatement. I had been feeling so wretched that I went for
a medical check-up in July after you left. They found nothing
wrong.
Then a news update on you: “Oona will be here in about ten
days.” That was the week you came down by yourself, and not
in transit to somewhere else either. Sushil told me afterwards
that you felt ‘compelled’ to be with us. At that time, however, I
merely told them what you had said about your future plans for
Aarchi and the dates you had scheduled for Delhi in September
along with Ilya. The letter continued:
51 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

They are now extracting essential oils and someone from

IRMA did a market survey which she plans to follow up. Next
month she will be back, with Ilya in tow. Ilya is jabbering away
in English now and enjoying grown-up clothes, which means
dresses that she can pull down over her knees, the little dehatan.
But she has become hypersensitive and dissolves into tears if
she thinks she is being ‘reprimanded’ or ignored. A thin skin
has got to be shed soon, I think, in this day and age.

The change in Ilya had really bothered me. The exact

words that went through my mind in July, Oona, when you
were away in Lucknow, and Ethel spoke loudly to Raveena—
Raveena and Ilya were both playing in the verandah and I was
inside working—were, “How is this child going to survive in this
world.” I went out to see what had happened when I heard Ilya
sobbing. I picked her up and took her to Ethel who was watering
the flowerbeds along the drive. “Kya hua?” She explained that
she was not scolding Ilya but merely talking to Raveena who
was poking about in the flowerpots. Still holding Ilya in my
arms I explained, as I wiped her tears and hugged her close,
that she must learn to think for herself before assuming that
anything negative was directed at her. Had she done anything
wrong? No. Then why should anyone shout at her? Ilya listened
very carefully and seemed to understand. At three and a half
that was quite mature. Raveena, who was just learning to walk
without keeling over, was blissfully unaware that anything was
the matter.
That evening I talked to Kausi who, with her vast experience
of teaching children in school, would know what to do. We
began to work out a way to help Ilya get over this sensitivity.
You, too, had cautioned me not to make any suggestions when
Ilya was drawing, that she would take it as criticism. So I merely
asked her to tell me what she had done. She explained that the
straight lines were railway tracks, and the little dots and dashes
rain.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 52

Am I reading too much into it now, phrases like, ‘survive

in this world,’ or ‘coming to terms with my losses’ and ‘shed a
thin skin,’ or did I pick up something already there? Was that
shadow hovering over you both, rather than me? Gary Zukav
also says that the thought creates the reality. I don’t see that I
could have wished for anything like this...so what is the reality?
And to think that I employed Ethel initially so that there
would be a woman here to look after Ilya’s needs whenever you
came down, even if it was only once every two or three months.
Part of the plan when Ethel had the baby was that Ilya would
have someone to play with here, a kind of in-house sibling.
Ethel had wanted to go home just before you were due in.
She wanted to leave Raveena with her parents in the village. I
told her that she could go—she didn’t know when, or if, she
would come back—but only after you had left. As it happens
Raveena became ill, was unhappy at her own grandparents’
home, and they both returned, without warning, by the end
of September. Ethel’s husband had written to her about you,
but she did not get the letter. She came back because Raveena
missed being here. Ethel was drawn to come back despite all
her plans.
Before Naniji got ill, Ethel told me what you had said to her
when you gave her Ilya-hand-me-down clothes. “Come back
here. Your kismet is here.” It took her more than three months
to tell me, she thought I would be more disturbed on hearing
this. Kismet was a strange word for you to use. If you merely
meant well-being you could have said ‘bhala’, your Hindi had
improved tremendously since you started working in Kumaon,
and yet you used the equivalent of destiny.
It took her about forty-eight hours to understand that
something had happened. She couldn’t eat for three days, she
said. She talks about you often, and dreams of you too, normal,
everyday kind of dreams. She says you give her instructions,
or there are short exchanges of conversation, suggestions on
how something might be done better. She has a slightly hesitant
sheepish smile when she tells me, not knowing whether she
53 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

ought to or not. And she arranges flowers for you, next to your
picture. You know what she brought back with her as her gift
for the household? A big bag of dried mushrooms which she
and her mother had collected in her part of Bihar, the forested
tribal region in the south. Obviously she didn’t give them, or tell
me at that time. She consigned them to the compost pit.
I can still see you sitting on the bed next to Raveena, feeding
Ilya and every now and then putting a morsel in Raveena’s
mouth who was then about five months old. About as old as
Ilya is in that lovely picture Chari took which you had framed
for me with a red border. I put it up on the wall just above the
computer screen so I could see it when I needed to rest my eyes.
She is wearing white, and looking over her shoulder into the
camera, a wide-eyed interrogative look, eyes like large black
shiny buttons. They look quite lustrous actually, may be because
all the tones in the picture are so pale, almost as through they
are shades of white. I have replaced it with one that Kalyan gave
me. You haven’t seen it in place. He said it was taken in Satoli, in
July. Ilya is standing in front of the new east window, in a long-
sleeved white dress with some red smocking and a little red bow
around the neckline. She holds a margherite, white, at about eye
level. Her hair is up in the palm-tree mode held by a little yellow
band. And, barely visible, is the broad, black plastic hair band
she so loved to wear. The window with its beautiful likhai work
is in focus, every detail of the carving clear, while Ilya is in soft
focus. She is not smiling, not with her eyes or with her mouth.
My first comment was that she seems to be in another
world. Kalyan explained that he had to induce her to be there,
out of the way, so he could take the shot he really wanted—the
margherite bush in full bloom at the bottom of the stairs. I have
that too, there she is sparkling, her usual self, happy and joyous.
In another picture from the same time, you look like a little girl
yourself, grinning from ear to ear, wearing Ilya’s red velvet hair
band. Kalyan tells me that day was very special. You all went
to the ridge above the house, next to the government primary
school, and planted a hundred trees just as you used to when
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 54

you were both at Sitla with Chirag.

Are there other worlds? As a child of eight or nine you
once asked me if I believed in God. I could not give you a clear
reply.
I think I said that I believed that there was Something
but 1 wasn’t sure quite what. So many years have gone by and
I don’t have a better answer. As a young adult you complained
that we had not taught you anything about the scriptures, any
scriptures. I felt ashamed then but perhaps, like life experiences,
each of us has to make our own spiritual discoveries too.
Tidying up your bookshelf last summer when I could
not concentrate on anything, I organised it too. The Road Less
Travelled is inscribed to you by me, dated 1984. Its subtitle is
‘The Psychology of Spiritual Growth’. All the Castaneda books
you bought in college are there, the entire Tolkien set, and the
western philosophers. A battered looking book, in paperback,
is the Anthology of Indian Literature. It is inscribed to you,
‘With love, Vidya’. That would place it to your time in IRMA. It
is really well-thumbed. In the section the Age of Rishis, among
the Upanishads Katha and Isa are ticked. The Bhagavad Gita is
listed under the historical period, Itihasa, and has a firm line,
like a long dash, in black ink in front of it. Last summer I read
this. It is a translation by Juan Mascaro, Chapters 1-4, 9-11, 17-
18. I read it more than once and my bookmark rests in Chapter
18. Let me quote you some. Krishna says to Arjuna:

50. Hear now how he then reaches Brahman, the

highest vision of Light.
51. When the vision of reason is dear, and in
steadiness the soui is in harmony; when the world
of sound and other senses is gone, and the spirit has
risen above passion and hate;
52. When a man dwells in the solitude of silence, and
meditation and contemplation are ever with him;
when too much food does not disturb his health, and
his thoughts and words and body are in peace; when
55 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

freedom from passion is his constant will;

53. And his selfishness and violence and pride are
gone; when lust and anger and greediness are no
more, and he is free from the thought “this is mine”;
then this man has risen on the mountain of the
Highest: he is worthy to be one with Brahman, with
God.

And then another bit. Krishna speaks.

61. God dwells in the heart of all beings, Arjuna: thy

God dwells in thy heart. And his power of wonder
moves all things—puppets in a play of shadows—
whirling them onwards on the stream of time.
62. Go to him for thy salvation with all thy soul,
victorious man. By his grace thou shalt obtain the
peace supreme, thy home in Eternity.

Do you understand that I am telling you that my mind was

on all this before anything happened?
Could the Seers and Rishis all have been wrong I asked
myself over and over again. Millions of people have believed
their message over these thousands of years. Could everybody
be wrong?
Now I read, above all else, the middle section of Chapter
2. Verses 11-30. Arjuna is in great confusion, and despair, about
his path of duty on the eve of the great war. Krishna begins to
tell him about the relevance of human action, at the cosmic, the
social and the individual level, and how a man of disciplined
mind should act. This bears directly on sorrow:

19. If any man thinks he slays, and if another thinks he

is slain, neither knows the ways of truth. The Eternal
in man cannot kill: the Eternal in man cannot die.
20. He is never bom, and he never dies. He is in
Eternity: he is for evermore. Never bom and eternal,
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 56

beyond times gone or to come, he does not die when

the body dies.

The footnote explains: “From the cosmic point of view,

one who really understands does not grieve; for the essence
(self, spirit, atman) within the individual, being eternal, That
was, is and will be, while the existential phases like childhood,
youth, manhood, age, or cycles of birth and death, pass away.
The wise do not confuse the two nor grieve for the imperishable.
One can only have a visionary understanding of the essence but
cannot know That through learning.”
Perhaps you have found the answer for yourself. The
answer that begins to make sense to me is that this physical,
material world is not the only world. You see, Oona, I cannot
think of you as gone, merely as having moved on. I don’t dream
of you because you are so much in my consciousness, here with
me rather than somewhere out there.

Word of your condition spread like wildfire. You had people

of all faiths praying for you, feeling for you, in all parts of the
world. Arjun and Kabir heard from Pooji; Arjun, in Berkeley,
decided to fly out. Aju and Diljit called repeatedly from London.
They couldn’t reach us so they sent, through a common friend,
the phone number and name of a liver specialist at St John’s
Hospital who specialises in poisoning cases. They had already
spoken to him, he was prepared to consult with the treating
physician here, and they insisted we make contact. Kalyan and
Sushil did, various options were discussed but nothing seemed
feasible at that point. Meanwhile Shaila got ready to leave;
since a transplant had been spoken of she thought that as your
cousin, even if at one remove, she might be a match. But events
moved too fast.
57 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

“I think I am going,” you said that Saturday night, so

gently, barely two hours after Papa had told you were doing
well. Knowing that conversation I didn’t take you seriously, or
literally. I remembered Sushil saying, “Work on her will, she
believes in that.” I told you that your medical parameters were
better. It was not a lie. When I told you your haemoglobin count
your eyes opened wide as you repeated a little incredulously,
“11.6!” You did not talk after that but I continued. I told you to
hang in there, and that Aloke was on a flight at that moment,
that the magic antidote was on its way with him. “Fight, Oona.
Fight.” I urged. “You still have so much to do.” But you seemed
weary.
It did not cross my mind that this was the beginning of
the end. I had faith in the doctors, in the miracle of modern
medicine, in your own resilience. You had put on weight in the
past three or four months. When you came back from England
you had dropped to a low of 49 kg. Then there was Ilya. In
July we both weighed ourselves. I was down to 52 and you
had reached 56. You patted your derriere and said, “Isn’t this
disgusting?” It was solid and chunky, not disgusting.
Early the next morning, the night attendant volunteered
some information—that you had a restless night, and that your
bedsheets had to be changed. I took that to mean that your
insides were working good. When I saw you briefly before the
doctor’s morning round, I noticed your left hand was heavily
bandaged with a crepe bandage, and there was a strip of white
bandage around your right wrist as though it had been tied
down to immobilise it. The man attending the small boy in the
next bed said that you had been very agitated and that he had
to call the nurses to see to you. What was going on? Why didn’t
they call me in? Your eyes were four-fifths closed and looked
quite puffy. The yellow in the whites had deepened.
When we met the doctor after his morning round he
looked very sombre. I told him of the previous night and your
remark, plus the heavy eyelids. He was attentive. There had been
no urine output despite the dialysis, he said. He looked at each
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 58

of us and said that you were in a downward spiral. His words.

How could that be? How could things change so dramatically
in just twenty-four hours? Ajit spelled it out for me later that
morning, in a very measured kind of way; it appeared that the
toxicity had gone to the brain.
That was a bad morning. Aloke had missed the connecting
flight at Frankfurt and was due in only around noon rather than
soon after midnight. The medicine had been carried by the
crew of that flight anyhow, Kausi’s brother Vijay managed that
and called to confirm, and Sushil and Annu had collected it.
You were very restless. Difficult breathing, pulling your legs up
and moaning and writhing. Heartbeat fluctuating quite wildly.
I didn’t know what to do except recite silently the mantra that
I had. Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo.
Someone I had met at a Buddhist chanting session sent it to me
and I had been told then that the words had power even if one
did not know precisely what they meant.
Mid-morning Kalyan and Mohit both came in with me. It
was their reaction that told me the fight was over. Kalyan knelt
on the floor at the foot of your bed, lowered himself on his
heels, closed his eyes and stayed silently with folded hands. He
is praying, I realised. Mohit stood by the side of your bed, all six
foot four of him, head bent ever so slightly, his hands clasped
in front of him. I was at your feet, massaging them, pouring my
energy into you. But as I watched them dismay began to creep
into my heart.
I remember that the agitation increased. You were put on
the respirator. Papa was at home waiting for Aloke. I remember
Mohit saying Papa should come right away and that he would
bring Aloke to the hospital.
It wasn’t till mid-day that they actually started the first
drip of the medicine. The instructions and literature had first
to be translated from the German and then the doctor had to
study them before proceeding. Go to work. Go to work, was all
I could think.
By the time Papa came you had been given a muscle
59 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

relaxant; the thrashing around stopped. Sushil said these were

the convulsions and you, unlike Ilya, were spared the worst of
it.
Anita, Annu, Ruma, Kanika, Meena were all there, sitting
in a circle just outside the door of the ICU on the ground. They
pulled me in to sit with them and we held hands and focused
on you, sent you energy. And something worked. I felt a
quietening, almost a physical calm, at the pit of my stomach. It
is a calm that stayed with me through the next two days. And,
strangely enough, since. Ruma said they had been sending you
Reiki healing and that you had been receiving it. Even after the
coma set in.
I waited for Aloke in the empty reception area of the ground
floor, away from the crowd of well-wishers, concentrating on
Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo and rhythmic deep breathing. When
he walked in I was able to meet him without needing to fight
back tears, without breaking down. I would not make it worse
for him, but more than that, in the depth of my heart I hadn’t
given up on the miracle.
We walked up together, my hand in his. He came in with
me. He touched you so gently and reassuringly, and spoke to
you with encouragement. Did you hear?

The moon was full for you in August. Tomorrow, 22 February”

it will be full for Ilya. Exactly six months; I feel very, very low.
I relive that day with her. Sushil told me that they woke him
during the night in the Officers’ ward and asked him to come
and be with her. He could barely stay awake himself but Ilya
was having convulsions and screaming in agony. She would
lapse into silence until the next bout. He thinks that perhaps
she was not fully conscious.
That night when I saw her at Garhmukteswar she seemed
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 60

to be sleeping peacefully. Even in the two months since I last

saw her in Delhi she seemed to have grown. He had her in his
arms. I touched her cheek and stroked her head; she wasn’t
cold. Is it possible there has been a mistake? But Sushil would
surely know.. .he should wake her up, why is he taking her to
the ghat? She didn’t even seem to be stiff as far as I could make
out from the way he was carrying her.
I noticed he didn’t bring her over to you. It was already ten
o’clock and there was no time for protracted good byes. Naniji,
despite the dark, crossed the road and tried to see her and caress
her. She said nothing, wept no tears.
When they went down the steps towards the boats moored
near the ghat, I led Naniji back to the car where you lay limp.
There was no question of you trying to get up. While they were
gone you had a bout of diarrhoea and vomiting. I helped you out
of the car and supported you as you lowered yourself to squat
on the side of the road... there were no people about anyhow.
Then you asked for your clothes to be changed. Somehow we
managed that and I sponged your face and smoothed your hair.
You were so thirsty. Took little sips of water, not too much at
a time, holding it in your mouth. Every few minutes. Half an
hour went by.
“What’s happening?” you asked. I went across the road
to the bridge where the driver and the JCO were standing.
They ut the flickering light of the boat about a hundred yards
downstream quite close to the bank. The river was a swathe of
darkness. The rain had stopped. I watched for a few minutes
and saw the light change course and head towards the bank. It
was the moment of immersion. Had Mohit or Kalyan been able
to read the few lines I had written down for Ilya?
I cannot shut it out Oona, and a hundred thoughts come
crowding into my mind. How far did she drift? Was the stone
heavy enough? It was tied around her with the length of material
I had picked up to serve as shroud. Red and orange dots it had.
I had bought it for her at Dadiji’s request as a present, for a
summer dress, but I had not got around to stitching it. The dots
61 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

had reminded me of ladybirds. She used to love watching them

in the garden, and it was the first
word she had learned to ‘read’ from
her books in the Ladybird series.
There would be fish in the river, and
turtles, and other creatures.
There was no time to mourn
Ilya. Does one mourn a ladybird? A
butterfly? Somewhere, at some time,
I even thought Ilya’s exit might give
you a fighting chance. That was too
much I suppose, though it did give
you five days.
When I look back now, I begin
to feel as though the stage was being
set and all the necessary props were in position so the play could
proceed. The fact that I had a biography of Ramana Maharishi
on my table that Thursday morning was a direct consequence of
the talk you and I went to in the evening on 17 August, Moksha
at Madurai. It was you who insisted that you wanted to go even
though Papa felt you shouldn’t crowd the evening. I want to
go, you insisted. Normally you would have deferred to Papa’s
clearly expressed wish. It was so out of character for you, you
were so considerate of other people’s needs.
In October Robyn came. Devastated. Almost guilty, since
it was she who introduced all of us to the pleasures of eating
many species of wild mushroom s in Kumaon. She gave us
The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, by Sogyal Rimpoche. I
read it avidly, Oona, and it made me sit up. It seems as though
the ‘right’ things were done for you in the hospital, by instinct
rather than knowledge. Where does instinct come from?
I had asked if all the Sages could be wrong. In November
I got my answer. I met one in the tradition, a modem Sage. I
had never heard of him, often I don’t read the newspaper, yet it
was there that I saw an announcement. Swami Bhoomananda
from Kerala would be speaking in Delhi. Hauz Khas caught
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 62

my eye. His morning discourse would be at the Shiva mandir

just across the road, virtually on our doorstep. But it was his
face that spoke to me. Even in a black and white picture it was
radiant, beatific. I went.
His text was the last chapter of the Uddhava Gita, which
he said was part of the Mahabharata. The theme, living and
dying. His talk the first day answered the question I had held
in my mind—this whole business of death, is it an absolute
end? He spoke about death. When Lord Krishna’s time on earth
was nearing its end—at the age of one hundred and twenty,
the natural and optimum life span in that age—his friend and
disciple, Uddhava, could not bear the thought of Krishna dying.
So Krishna sent him away into the forest, if separation that way
was easier to bear. It is the same Krishna of the Bhagavad Gita
but then he was only eighty years old.
“There is no such thing as death, it is only the body that
dies.” Time and again he repeated that message. In a dozen
different ways. “Can anyone ever say, ‘I am dead’? Who is it
that knows, ‘I am’?” This knowing principle is different from
the body; it is the vitalising principle of ‘matter’. It is the all-
pervasive, it is ever-existent. Ramana Maharishi phrased it
differently. Ask, he said, “Who am I?” The ‘I’ who knows the
physical person I-entity must be different from the entity, other
than it. The false identification with the body is the cause of
sorrow and grief. I didn’t get that all in the first talk, but I went
to hear him, morning and evening, for the two weeks he was
here. They say the Guru finds the disciple when the disciple is
ready. Should I thank you for my ‘readiness’?
In December, Gigi Mama came for two weeks for a
concentrated spell with Naniji. It is nine years since he last came
to visit. I gave him the condolence letters we received. He read
them over two days and was so moved he could not speak. Just
kept shaking his head and withdrawing into himself. Didn’t she
know...? Why...? The questions I had been asking, the questions
everybody asked. The questions we still ask.
On his return to California he sent me the letter he had
63 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

received from Niki Mama, it is quite accurate in its bare bones

outline of events. “One could never imagine the kind of tragic
events that occurred. On 19th night Oona and family had
mushrooms for dinner. They were the wild variety.. .The kirtan
will be held on 7 September.” I never thought of him as being
philosophical, merely as my youngest brother, the crusader
brother who never married, but he continues, “Such instances
make one aware, once again, of the philosophical questions
regarding pre-destiny, reincarnation in the cycle of life and
death. The Bhagavad Gita is very clear that the body is just like
the clothes one wears—getting discarded—while the journey
of the immortal atman continues. Also that the ways of the
Almighty are inscrutable, and it is not for mortals to question
them. Your destiny is written the day you are born...” He ends:
“Incidentally, 2 a.m. on 28 August was exactly the time when
Daddy passed away. It was also a puranmasi (full moon) and
the day of Raksha bandhan. Jasjit and Gurbir have shown
incredible fortitude in the period of crisis and in the days that
followed....”
I don’t know about fortitude, all I know is that we did
whatever needed doing. Anita said later that when she told
you in the ward in Ranikhet that Ilya had died, and helped you
across the ward to her bed, one tear escaped. All you said was,
“We have been very irresponsible.” It was exactly what you said
to Papa too, when he met you in Haldwani. And when Sushil
added, “We have been careless,” Papa reassured him. Despite
the way you looked (‘ashen’ was the word he used), Papa too
never thought then that it might end this way.

Let me tell you what has been happening these past few
days; it is almost as if they are cues and I can think of only one
word for them—synchronicity.
While clearing my backlog of work I found a letter, mailed
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 64

months ago, returned undelivered. My impulse was to tear it

up, get rid of it, but I opened it.
It was to Revd James Cox, at St Michael’s School, Patna.
Dated 19 August 1996! It seems I had not disconnected from
the discussions we had during that trip about Ilya’s future and
the school in Satoli. I had done some thinking aloud also about
the book club: “One of the reasons I keep Bibliophile going is
the enrichment it provides through contact with all kinds of
people. I mention this as an extension of the thought in my
mind that I should begin to think of ‘retiring’.”
You once asked me if I had ever ‘planned’ anything. Listen
to this: “I would then invest that energy in the school that Oona
has started in the Kumaon hills to which her daughter goes.
Ilya’s education is uppermost in our collective minds these
days. They will all come down for a week in September and I
will go back with them for a few days. When there, I do spend
my mornings in the school—it has a total of about 20 children
from the nearby villages, ages 4-9 or thereabouts.” You see what
happens to plans? And yet I was there in September. All of us
were, with your ashes. And I went back again after Aloke left so
that Sushil would not have to be alone when he returned. Also I
thought my presence would help to scotch those ugly rumours.
People fishing in troubled waters, is how Papa had expressed it
when he dismissed them.
Harbinder, your first love in school, wrote beginning with,
“It is now six months...” It is dated 19 February. I don’t suppose
you have seen him for ten years or perhaps twenty. He sent us
the two pieces he had written for the Sanawarian Newsletter.
One was a letter, and the other was a formal write up, an
obituary I guess. I don’t recall if he actually went into the ICU.
Then I spoke to Madhu. He had been in touch in December
and told me that he would return from Bastar in February. I
called one morning and he was surprised. He had got in the
previous night. Did I know, he asked. I didn’t. He came over and
talked for three hours. They remember you down there still,
after nearly fifteen years.
65 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

“I was very close to her” he said, with that little question

mark in his voice meaning did I know. I said, “Yes. I have
the sense of it.” He had brought his Dutch wife, Elly, over in
December, and said his mother wanted to call to condole. I went
over instead. Mrs Ramnath recalled the many times she met
you while you were in University. I took some of your summer
clothes for Elly including the grey and white ikat kaftan I had
stitched for you in July.
Madhu spoke of coincidences too. In mid-August last year
he was in Holland, the same time you were in Delhi. He was
browsing through some files in the office of a donor agency and
saw the Aarohi letterhead, it was a letter to that organisation
under your signature. And that day there was another Indian
in the office. Suresh Bhai from Amari Mandali! His dream fell
through but he stayed on to form a different organisation in
another part of Gujarat, one not so isolated. We heard from
him. He called you his ‘Maanas putri’, the child of his Mind,
continuing the dream in Satoli. “I am terribly, terribly sad,” he
wrote.
While Madhu was still in Delhi I heard a feature on the
radio on Bastar from the All India Radio Station at Jagdalpur.
I just had to call and let him know. Jagdalpur was not far from
Jeypore from where you all walked into the forest where you got
so ill. Yes, it did happen to be 19 February.
And then it was J Krishnamurti. I heard him speak in
Bombay in 1981. He had talked of the fear of death and how
futile it is. To overcome it, plumb the depths of despair he said.
Reach the bottom. Don’t fight it, experience it. Having done
that, it will recede, then there is no other way than up. Death,
he said, is the only certainty in life. This had stayed with me.
You had just returned to Sanawar after your summer vacation
and Aloke was already back at the Doon School. I was caught
in despair then, at an emotional crossroad in my life, and I put
into effect his teaching. It worked. Well, it was another radio
programme, a recording from the archives of a talk given in
1962, to commemorate his death ten years ago. I made some
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 66

jottings: “The mind is cluttered with belief...imprisoned by

ideas...bound by dogma and is thus incapable of being free from
conflict and sorrow. Learn to think clearly. The act of listening
is a breaking down of conditioningThe real mind accepts no
authority of any kind Religious books have taken the place of
our thinking...the lack of which causes suffering. Cultivate a
clear mind. Think without being distracted.”
I didn’t tell you then, Oona, I’ll tell you now. Remember
once you remarked to Esh in Satoli that I had changed very
much? We were sitting under the pear tree before turning in for
the night. It was September 1993, Papa and Esh had come for
the quarterly managing committee meeting and I had tagged
along to spend time with Ilya. You said I did not get angry any
more as I used to do. I was quite brusque when you asked me
what happened, I said it was none of your business. I’m sorry,
Oona. The reason I did not tell you, then or later, is that I felt
that my unhappiness was my problem and only I could solve it.
No one else could help. I did actually. I realised, and accepted,
that I was not going to get what I was seeking. Romance, after
twenty years of marriage! Once I accepted that, it was easy to
release the desire for it. I also saw that I was being unrealistic,
and that we had much that was good. Outwardly there was no
change. Just the way I viewed it. It is the only time in my life that
I have been less than direct with you. For that I am sorry. You
knew it anyhow for you were wiser than your years.
Two other things happened on the 19th. We overcame the
inertia that had overtaken us and played tennis. It was a kind of
return to normalcy. The weather was perfect, the lawn courts in
superb condition. Surprisingly, considering I hadn’t played for
more than six months, I was moving well, my ground strokes
were fluid and went across stinging; the timing was just right.
After the game, perhaps because the Krishnamurti talk
was so fresh in my mind, we went to see Anjolie Menon who
had taken me to it. She and I have spoken of you often specially
during these past few months and she told me that she would
do a portrait of you. “I have it inside me but it will happen when
67 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

the time is right.” I wanted to leave some pictures with her.

I took the collage I have made. It started with the
photograph Papa took of you in Ladakh when you went with
him in 1989. You are wearing a bright orange life jacket and
sitting in the boat by the shores of Pangong Tsu. The blue of the
water is true as I remember well from my own trip years earlier;
true to that incredibly deep ultramarine. The peaks in the
distance have sweeping blue-grey shadows and the sky is a baby
blue broken by little cotton puff clouds. You fill the left third of
the picture. Your face, a three-quarter view, looks full and you
are smiling your naturally happy smile, your eyes focused above
the camera. To the right of this I have you in profile, caught in
mid-sentence, wearing a black and white printed kurta with the
white dupatta draped around your neck like a ceremonial scarf.
That was taken in the courtyard outside the office when you
were addressing the Annual General Body Meeting of Aarohi
at Satoli in May 1996. Again I was not there; Papa had taken
Tauji and Pooji with him and she stayed back with you for a few
days. That is when Papa gave you the idea of linking the kitchen
entrance at the far side of the house with the steps leading to
the living room at the other end since you already intended to
enlarge the east window. It would give you a narrow sit out area,
facing east, with a part of the view of the mountains, the Panch
Chuli bit. It was done by July because that is where Ilya stands
holding the margherite. You drew a sketch of it. It was your
second last letter to us:
Then, below those two pictures I have a cutout of Ilya. She
is wearing a mauve sweater and is framed on the right by the
wisteria in full flower, the same shade as her sweater. Behind
her is the pine forest across the ravine of your eastern boundary
wall. I have cropped the Kumaon spring sky above her head
along the curve of her red velvet hair band.
The photograph I really wanted Anjolie to see is the one
that haunts me. It is the serious one and I see such sadness in
it. You are draped in the rough black shawl, the same one on
which I slept in the hospital all those nights. You are wearing
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 68

your light beige WWF silk scarf loosely around your neck; that
had become your favourite scarf to keep the dust out of your
hair when travelling. Sushil says he took it with a telephoto
lens, in 1995, when you had gone to a fair somewhere in your
region. Your mouth has the faintest hint of what might be a
69 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

smile. You are looking into the lens, or perhaps through the lens
at Sushil, or yet perhaps through Sushil into the beyond. There
is neither joy nor turmoil in your expression. An inscrutability,
perhaps a weighing up of life. A knowingness, and possibly
resignation. I ask friends who come to the house what they see.
Great strength and depth is the usual answer; pensiveness, not
sadness. Only Somi sees sadness. And she didn’t know you at all
except as Ajit’s favourite cousin. She didn’t get a chance to know
you since they got married soon after you did and within a year
went away to England.
Anjolie looked at it for long, moving it away from her
and looking again through half shut eyes. Coming out of her
absorption she said it was perfect for a portrait.
“The girl spoke in riddles,” she had said to me earlier
recalling a conversation with you when you had joined them
on a family holiday in Agra. She loved you very much, Oona.
She is convinced that you went because Ilya had gone.
The second thing is yet another Bombay connection come
full circle. You remember SP, the Menons’ friend and Raja’s
colleague in the Navy? When he called about a month ago I
had mentioned him to Aloke who had responded indignantly,
“Of course I remember him.” How could he not, when you both
and the Menon boys spent so much time together. SP had come
to the kirtan too- but that was hardly the time to talk. When
he came again, he brought a book for me. It is Savitri by Sri
Aurobindo, his magnum opus, fifty years in the writing. It is
the story of Savitri and Satyavan. And Yama, the Lord of Death.
Savitri followed him to the ends of the earth, to the edge of the
dark void, to get Satyavan back. Her perseverance and quick
wit prevailed, she did. The story is a peg for Sri Aurobindo’s
philosophy, expressed in blank verse, in twelve books spread
over 724 pages. SP has translated it into Urdu and it is being
calligraphed.
SP had been hovering in my mind and I asked Raja for
his phone number. Before I could call he did. I told him I had
started writing and I wanted to talk about you. He would have
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 70

quite a different perception, besides his contact with you was

at a time that is hazy in my memory. It was when there was
already a physical distance between us, boarding school did
that automatically. Yet I know that it was also necessary that
you have your own emotional growing-up space. And you were
so keen to go. When we moved to Bombay Aloke had expressed
the same need to me bluntly: “I wish to be more independent,”
he had said with an absolutely straight face. I got the message—
the time for shepherding was over. That was when the Menon
boys, Aditya and Pupsa, and you and Aloke used to hang out
at the United Services Club in Colaba and swim in the sea
during your vacations. The understanding was that none of you
children would go beyond the float unless there was an adult
with you. And the two adults who were fixtures at the club were
Raja, with his jogging, and SP who was a bachelor presumably
with nothing else to do but spend his evenings at the club.
He described the first time he met you. You were with
Pupsa.
SP said he was struck by your presence, he saw you
as Someone special. What was it? I prompted. He became
thoughtful and continued after a while, “She looked at a flower
and became the flower. Or sky. Or whatever it was.” He said
he was very disturbed because he felt your time on earth was
limited. You were only sixteen then! When you asked to go
way out towards Prongs Lighthouse, to swim out at high tide,
he stalled, not wishing to be the unwitting means of anything
happening to you and diverted the two of you with sandwiches
and cake to eat instead. Over the years he kept himself informed
of your whereabouts—I didn’t need to tell him anything—but
without ever asking a direct question. You see, Oona, nazar
again. He was quite apologetic for saying all this to me but he
felt he had to.
I asked for his reaction to your pensive picture. He looked
at it for three seconds and said simply: “Al vida. Farewell. She is
saying good bye.” No padding. No humming and hawing.
Oona, did you know? Did you know as early as the end
71 DESTINY? OR BAD LUCK?

of 1995? When I wrote to you about my unrest, you asked me

to drop everything and come to Satoli. Thrice you repeated the
invitation in four months. Were your invitations in response to
my need, or did you have a need of your own?
Sushil says that you used to say your life would be short
and sweet. Many people in Aarohi remarked that your pace had
quickened and you seemed to be in a great hurry to get things
done. That you had taken to asking, rhetorically I would have
thought, what they would do if you were no longer there. And
in mid-August I asked you to chase up the pending balance of
the grant from the Ministry of Environment, to telephone once
at least. Usually you responded promptly to such nagging from
me, and were conscientious yourself. This time you waved your
hand in a dismissive gesture. “I have done enough for Aarohi,”
you said. “Let them get on with it themselves.”
And your anniversary letter to us in May. It was such a beautiful
letter. You thanked us, among other things, for having given you a
strong foundation, “a stable emotional core” is the phrase you used.
Taking stock, I begin to acknowledge in the recesses of
my mind the suspicion that time and space are irrelevant, and
that physicality itself might be the cosmic aberration. I feel that
you had begun to emit waves, vibrations, which spread through
space and that we, all of us who loved you, wherever we were,
had been picking them up. Even now Oona-thoughts have not
died. I feel as though I am a receiver, perfectly tuned, absorbing
them as they come.
Every contact that occurs, Oona, is a confirmation. It is
help, and it comes from entirely unexpected directions. The
other day Naniji called me out early one morning.
“Look!” she said, pointing to the peach tree. It was in
full blossom, the sun had just caught the top. It took me back
instantly to the countless dawns in Sitla and Satoli, dawns that
you saw, and the many that we shared with you—the gradual
lightening of the sky, the first flush of pink on Nanda Devi, then
Trishul and the rest.
It seems that wherever I look, whatever I do, you are present.
 II
A Conspiracy of Events
Some people, sweet and attractive, and strong and
healthy, happen to die young. They are masters in
disguise teaching us about impermanence.
The Dalai Lama
 4
Live Lightly

ound and round it had whispered in my head.

‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth....’
For days I had tried to shake off the phrase but it
persisted.
It was still with me the day the moon was full in February,
on the 22nd. But it had been joined by another, ‘Live Lightly’.
I had been thinking about Oona’s life and how she had lived,
without taking from the earth more than she needed. As people
continued to visit, both acquaintances and friends, I began to
understand and appreciate the webs of relationships she had
created. Because it was the 22nd, Ilya too filled my head. The
moon had been full for Oona in August, and now six months
later, it was full for Ilya.
A Zen Master, the Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hahn,
was scheduled to speak in Delhi that day. I had not seen the
announcement but Esh had, he suggested I might be interested.
The title of the talk was ‘Walk Lightly’. When I saw that in the
newspaper, it was as though a big bell resounded in my head, its
reverberations drowning all other voices.
I went, knowing nothing about him, expecting nothing.
He spoke of Love and Loving, of mindfulness and the inter-
relatedness of all phenomena. To explain, he held up a square of
white paper. How was the paper made, what nourished the trees,
what skills forged the machines? When burnt what happens to
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 76

the ash? What happens to the smoke, the gases released? Made
of innumerable elements rooted in the earth, nourished by the
atmosphere and everything that constitutes it, it is reabsorbed
by nature. Nothing is destroyed or lost. He spoke also of living
fully in the present moment. The resonances were uncanny.
By the time he finished the moon had risen. I saw it clear the
tops of the trees in the direction of Lodi Estate, just over the
house where we once lived. Magically, my despondency of that
morning was dispelled. It is as though life resumed for me and
I became aware of die world again.
It was entirely without a sense of surprise that I saw, a few
days later, that Sogyal Rimpoche was to speak at Tibet House-
on the 28th. He spoke on the Nature of the Mind, the fourth
chapter in his book, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying,
which Robyn had given us.
The following week, at Robyn’s home, two sets of people
asked how I was sleeping. Well, I replied. There was relief yet
the slightly wide-eyed look I saw gave away their doubts. But
I am back to my usual pattern of waking up at six. They had
heard about Oona and Ilya and apologised for not making
contact; they hadn’t because they did not know what to say or
how to say it.

It is spring, mid-March. Last night was a disturbed night. I had

worked late and it took me long to fall asleep; I kept waking to
wonder if I had slept at all. But morning did come. The sound of
a gentle drizzle woke me. The sky was monsoon-like, dark grey
near the horizon and lighter overhead. It was before dawn but
the birds had started their chorus. The heady fragrance of wet
earth filled the air.
The drizzle turned into rain; it will wash clean the dust
and pollution of the city. The sun came out for about half an
77 LIVE LIGHTLY

hour. The fresh green of the new leaves on the acacia trees in
the park behind the house is tender, fragile. From the terrace I
can see the scraggy drumstick tree and the mulberry, which was
heavily pruned, has a tight crown of new growth. The leaves will
grow larger than my hand, and the fruit, as long as my middle
finger and as thick, will be ready in a month. Black-purple and
sweeter than honey.
The first half-hour when I wake has a special quality. It
is the time of day when the world is my own. No one intrudes
into my space and I am alone with my thoughts or my wonder.
Today, my special half-hour came a bit later in the morning
when the rain stopped and the sun came out. The sky had the
subtlety of a European sky, a soft blue flecked with white streaks
accentuated with scattered cumulus clouds, large and small.
How had they appeared out of shades of grey? The display was
short-lived as the sun went into hiding and a new build-up of
darkness occurred.
This year the garden in the front has grown the Fukuoka
way. It is about six years ago that Oona took me to hear him
speak in Delhi. We had both been enthused, she to the extent
that she wanted to go to Japan for her six-week period of
practical training while she was doing her Masters in Rural
Development at Sussex in 1990-91. I, to the extent that I
thought about including his classic on organic farming, One
Straw Revolution, in the book club list. Laziness prevented me,
I needed to send for stocks by mail. I hadn’t. Oona, when she
had the chance, put the principles into practice.
The flowers are mostly self-seeded because when it was
time to plant, in November, I didn’t. I had virtually dropped out
of sight of the normal, every day world. My work was neglected.
I didn’t go anywhere. I lived totally immersed in memories of
my own Oona-world, of reconstructing events through Oona’s
friends, and then, in January, the necessity of doing what had
to be done for my mother while she was ill. I look now, and see.
The white and green grass that Oona gave me has encroached
into the space of the violets and the juniper. Yesterday Ethel
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 78

pointed out a single blossom on the Japanese flowering plum;

hardly a centimetre across, five rounded petals in white with
the beginnings of a faint blush, and orange-tipped stamens
emerging from a deep coppery pink centre. Today there is a
generous scattering of them and the promise of more to come.
It has been in the ground more than five years and these are its
first blossoms. This and the Californian peach tree on the side
of the house, closer to the mulberry, came from Ramgarh where
Oona had taken us when she was with Chirag, before she went
to England.
There is lots of yellow in the garden. And white. The pansies
along the border are being crowded and instead of staying
compact and big-bloomed they are gaining height as they
compete with weeds and stray plants I don’t recognise. There is
also blue, a deep cerulean blue, of a flowering shrub with large
dull green leaves, heavily ribbed. I love that blue, it is so clean
and deep. Then there is the sapphire blue of the larkspurs, and
the indigo of the cornflowers. Behind the flowerbed is the hedge
of shrubs. I luxuriate in its variety and profusion—hibiscus,
white jasmine, haemophyllia and the fragrant quisqualis. They
too have grown freely, crowding each other, but I haven’t had
them pruned even though I know they too, like children, need
space to breathe and bloom.
Besides the self-seeded flowers I planted some seedlings
which a friend brought: Gypsophyllia, Lady’s lace. And poppies.
Pink single in the front, and two clumps of magnificent deep
red double poppies to the right along the drive. Oona has
poppies in Satoli, but I have never had them in Delhi. Why do
they remind me of young men and Flanders, young men gone
needlessly to their graves?

Oona loved her garden too, specially the spring flowers. She
79 LIVE LIGHTLY

had brought back lots of bulbs from England: tulips, daffodils,

narcissus, freesias, grape hyacinth and cyclamen. They
multiplied. The begonias were local, lush yellow, red and white.
She nurtured them carefully through every winter. Last winter
she was dismayed when the frost killed them. But she set about
getting new cuttings wherever she could.
Besides Sushil, there is Bachi, the handyman-cum-
gardener, who looks after the orchard in Satoli. When we took
Oona’s ashes up he showed me what had happened. Anandi,
the woman who helps him with the weeding and clearing,
said the same thing: that the day Oona died the flowers in the
garden wilted. I saw the dead blooms myself on 30th August
and wondered what was wrong. Bachi is not watering them
sufficiently, I thought. But both Bachi and Anandi work with
the land and would know which plants could have died of water
starvation.
That couldn’t be, there had been a rainy spell. Yet they
swore that all the flowers drooped and died.
Khemanand, who lives up the hill and for whom Oona had
asked me to find a factory job in Delhi, came that evening and
squatted in the living room, elbows on his knees and holding his
head in his hands. He is a subsistence farmer, has three children
and finds it difficult to make ends meet. He needs cash to clothe
them, and to send them to school. He had worked in the plains
earlier but that factory closed down. He couldn’t find another
job and returned to look after his small piece of land. I tried
to tell him that he was much better off at Satoli and suggested
that perhaps he could work for Aarohi. There was not enough
money in that to attract him. Delhi was his Mecca.
Khemanand had once passed me on the hillside when I
was walking Ilya to the office along the less steep but longer
path which goes past the old temple. She was about two then
and I had her in my arms for a rest period while I picked my
way carefully over the uneven stone paved portion. Obviously
they knew each other, because she did not demur when he lifted
her out of my arms without a by your leave and strode away
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 80

downhill saying “Office?” He got there almost five minutes

before I did; five minutes is a long time, and distance, in the
hills.
I met him again the summer I spent ten days with Oona
and Ilya while Sushil was away for a fortnight. I was nervous
about Oona and Ilya being alone for that length of time with
just the dogs and cats for company and no neighbours within
hailing distance. Satoli is a hillside with scattered homesteads
interspersed with some forest, fields and fallow land. Most
homes have electricity though the supply is erratic, and there
is no road, only footpaths. The village is Peora, on the kutcha
road that serves the area; that is where the office is. It has a
post office and a few shops selling basic goods—flour, sugar and
tea, potatoes and onions and some local vegetables. The general
merchant keeps soap, cigarettes, sweetmeats, cells for battery-
powered transistors, stationery. Peora has two government
schools, a primary and a high school. Once a day the bus
from Haldwani comes in from the plains, and once the bus
from Almora, an hour away to the north. Almora is the closest
bazaar and the district headquarters, also the nearest place with
a hospital and telecommunications. That summer there was, in
fact, a crisis. The local Hood, as we referred to him politely in
shorthand, the largest landowner of the region, began flexing
his muscles and sent a message through Bachi that he would rip
out the water pipe that ran from the spring, about a hundred
yards uphill, to the house
Khemanand was virtually in shock. They all were. He
told me that on the night before they heard the news of Oona’s
passing he had dreamt that his house had developed a crack
and the walls had split asunder destroying it. He had taken the
dream to be a bad portent, knowing that Oona was ill, and that
Ilya was already dead. They heard the next day.
Many people came. They all had that slightly glassy-eyed
look. A look that reflected pain and disbelief. Bahadur Baba, a
retired school teacher and landowner, talked for one hour. I had
difficulty understanding his pure Hindi but gathered enough to
81 LIVE LIGHTLY

feel his own personal sense of loss. He talked of her character, of

her work, and of her being. She was a woman the like of which
we have never seen, he said, shaking his head sorrowfully.
Woman? She was worth more than any man (and that is the
ultimate compliment). A woman? No. She was a Devi. We are
privileged that she came to live among us.
There were others who spoke the same way. I asked Sushil
later whether this was the customary eulogy talk, mere hype.
“No,” he said. “They mean it.”

Manbahadur, who had picked the mushrooms, hung

about outside. He did not say a word; it took me three days to
bring myself to speak to him. Did I hold him guilty? Did I wish
to blame him? Perhaps I did. The thought that he was merely
an unwitting agent gelled in my mind much later, only after I
had heard from SP his own caution about not becoming one
himself. Manbahadur’s wife, Indira, her thin but very striking
face seamed with lines, the legacy of frequent childbearing
and unrelenting housework, came every day. They too, like
Khemanand, live up the hill. Their eldest daughter, who had
once worked in the house and helped look after Ilya, had been
asked to help with the evening meal. Basanti, the woman who
came in the day, left at five since she had a disabled husband
and three children of her own to look after. Indira would sit
quietly in the side room where the various pets bedded down
for the night until work was finished and they would then walk
off together into the night.
Indira and Manbahadur are one of the few Nepali families
who have made their home on the Satoli hillside. Manbahadur
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 82

helped with the clearing of Chari’s land which was a little further
east but on the same ridge; Chari who was to be the surgeon
and Sushil the physician when they built their hospital. Dreams
and plans. With Chari dead, Purnima cannot leave her practice
in the city. She has two boys to bring up and educate. She also
has Chari’s parents to look after—he was their only child. But
it was important to have a dream, Oona used to say; without a
vision, a goal, you do not reach anywhere or achieve anything.
I was in Satoli earlier that year and heard how Indira
had helped Ilya. Sushil and Oona had gone to Lucknow for a
meeting and had left Ilya with Tara, the girl working in the day
at that time. Bachi would stay overnight to see to the girls and
the dogs, cats, and hens. It was only for one night, at most two.
One afternoon Tara had taken Ilya for a walk, to the Cowshed
next door, then unoccupied. Ilya had a crying spell and nothing
would quiet her. Not even Bachi whom she adored. Indira and
Manbahadur’s eldest daughter was grazing their cow near the
spring just above the Cowshed. Bachi was walking on that path
when he heard the crying. Apparently Ilya had cried hysterically
and continuously for three hours. Bachi panicked and did not
know what to do. He wanted to take Ilya to Sitla but Chirag did
not have a resident doctor and there was no one in the office
who might have helped. He took her to Indira who held her
and gave her some vibhuti, holy ash, and Ilya quietened down. I
had asked Tara and Manbahadur’s daughter, and also Oona and
Sushil, but no one seemed to know what might have happened
to trigger it. She had not fallen. She was not hurt. She had not
been left alone. Perhaps the girls had climbed into a tree and left
her on the ground? Had she felt abandoned? They would not
admit to any of the likely causes I suggested. Did one of them
have a meeting with some youth? No, there was no one else
there they maintained.
One evening I asked Indira. She nodded, Yes, she
remembered. I had greater difficulty understanding her mix
of Nepali and Hindi, or was it Kumaoni? She kept shaking her
head and making clucking sounds to indicate, as I understood,
83 LIVE LIGHTLY

that it was a bad happening. But what had happened?

“Usko dar baith gaya.” She was gripped by fear, Indira said.
Fear of whom? Was anyone there other than the two girls? No.
But she was afraid. I persevered and asked, Of what? It was in the
middle of the afternoon and Ilya was not one to be frightened
of creatures, she loved her dogs and cats and chickens and
whatever else came along. Had the girls seen anything? No.
Then?
“Usne kuchh dekha.” Ilya saw something, she said,
stretching out her arms and holding them wide over her head.
A shape. Whose? It wasn’t a person she said. She saw something
and she was frightened. I could not get anything more coherent
out of her. The fact remains that Ilya was traumatised by
something that day. Sushil tells me that Indira is a medicine
woman, that she has powers. Bachi swears that for three hours
Ilya was hysterical and only Indira was able to help her.
Transposing this account with the changes that I saw in
Ilya in July, and my own unrest during those months, makes me
wonder if Ilya might not have seen the shadow of Death.

There is another phrase that I have not been able to forget.

It bubbled up, silently, and repeats itself as though to say,
Pay attention. Pay attention. “Most men lead lives of quiet
desperation...” It is from Thoreau’s Walden. Oona’s copy is here
in Delhi, in her bookshelf. I see it is inscribed in her hand, in
pencil, “February 1985, from Mummy.” It is one of the set of
three leather bound books I had got for her, the cover of each
embossed in gold. The others were Moby Dick and Don Quixote.
She liked to have books presented to her suitably inscribed;
since I wrote nothing in them she recorded the fact herself.
Quiet desperation was so far removed from the way Oona
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 84

plunged into life. She met it head on and refused to be pushed into
any blind alleys. She frightened me sometimes with her confidence,
which I would see as brashness, an invitation to hubris.
The first time I lived on my own, in Srinagar when Gurbir
was posted in the Valley at Tangdhar and used to come home
once a fortnight, I remember being overtaken by terror. Oona
was about three and a half then, Ilya’s age. I had taken Oona and
Aloke to the Srinagar Club, along with Ruth, the resident maid
referred to by friends as the Battleaxe, who was to keep them
in the children’s play yard with the swings and see saws while I
was at the tennis courts. We were barely three games into the set
when Oona appeared, wanting to help pick up the balls. I tried
to persuade her to go back to Ruth but she wasn’t interested.
I then tried to get her to sit down quietly and watch but that
was asking too much. She wanted to participate. Finally, I said
impatiently that she must not disturb me. If she would not play
with Aloke, she could go home.
At the end of the set I went to collect them. Oona was not
there. Ruth thought she was with me at the courts. No one had
seen her in the garden either. “Go Home!” rang in my ears and
my blood froze. Home was two kilometres away. And it was
at least twenty minutes since I last saw her. Good grief! There
were two ways home!
One of the people in my foursome was a police officer. I
asked him to help me. We looked again in the Club, and then
decided to drive homewards, he on one route and I on the other.
We agreed to wait for each other at Zero bridge where the two
routes converged to cross the river Jhelum.
I drove slowly, my heart in my mouth. Nothing until the
bridge. Then I spotted Oona half way down the length of the
bridge, walking briskly near the railing. I pulled up gently abreast
of her and asked if she wanted a ride home. Very matter of factly
she got into the car. No tears, no tantrums. I asked gently why
she didn’t wait for me and what if she had got knocked down.
“How could I?” she countered. “I was walking on the side of
the road.” We left it at that, without recriminations, but it was a
85 LIVE LIGHTLY

lesson I never forgot—that words are powerful and must not be

used heedlessly, specially not in anger.
How does one learn to parent effectively? Dr Spock was
the bible of childcare when we were young parents. Thirty
years later, Dr Spock, with revised views, was still popular
but there were scores of other books. The First Three Years of
Life, which I gave Oona when Ilya was bom, was a treatise on
development. We muddled along with the help of elders in the
family and experienced caregivers like the ayah, Ruth, but the
new generation has a greater consciousness and a far closer
involvement in caring for their own children.
I was not working outside the home so my time and
attention did not need to be juggled. It was so different for Oona
with Ilya who was born one day short of their first wedding
anniversary, on 20 December 1992. I was in Satoli along with
Anita and Kalyan in the spring of 1992, or was I with Oona
and Sushil when Anita and Kalyan came to visit? I remember
being on my best behaviour, very conscious that this was Oona’s
home and that for all practical purposes I was the outsider, the
in-law. The mother-in-law. I was very fortunate that I had no
emotional baggage on that account because my own experience
with Gurbir’s mother has been one of warmth and equality.
Surjit, Gur’bir’s sister, was first my friend before she became my
sister-in-law. There again I was spared the crosscurrents all too
often associated with this relationship. What I was particularly
careful of that evening was to leave to Sushil the prerogative of
offering social hospitality.
It was well past seven o’clock when Sushil asked
ceremonially whether we would like a drink. Yes, thank you.
When everyone had been served, home made wine or whatever
else it was, Sushil raised his glass.
“Let us drink a toast.” We waited. “To the baby.”
They had been married three months and barely had
time to settle into their home or, for that matter, into their own
personal relationship. When the split second shock had been
absorbed there was a round of congratulations. How innocent
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 86

and happy they looked. They beamed with pleasure, and Oona
giggled her infectious laugh, displaying her perfect teeth, as we
all hugged her in turn. We used to discuss the imperatives of
the biological clock in the year before she went to England and
she was keen to have a baby before she was thirty. Except that
she wasn’t even married then. Sushil was in the throes of an
impending divorce. Nor had he made any declarations of intent
either to me or to Gurbir. It seems he did to Oona, a few months
after she left India.

It had been tricky, the wedding. As I understood it, the Sharmas

wanted Sushil and his first wife, also a doctor, to be reconciled.
He was reluctant to upset them yet the divorce was obviously
pursued. They were conservative, so how was he going to spring
a new daughter-in-law on them? And how would they take it,
would there be resentment? Where would that leave Oona?
As for ourselves, we had to accept Oona’s determination as a
given. We had brought up the children to exercise their own
judgement, encouraged them to take charge of their lives and
make their own choices. How could we quibble now and try to
lay down our law? Oona’s choice was not made lightly, and we
had to respect it.
Besides discussion in the Sharma family, when Oona and
Sushil set a date and he went down to Pune to break the news
to them, it fell to me to write a note for him to carry. I never
have been clear about which party does the asking in a formal
situation. The girl’s parents, or the boy’s? Perhaps that is why the
institution of the go-between came about—a third person who
brings the two together, or paves the way. Or perhaps does the
‘negotiations’. Gurbir was busy so I wrote.
87 LIVE LIGHTLY

18 November 1991
Dear Mr and Mrs Sharma,
Sushil has just told me that instead of returning to Satoli
he is making a trip to Pune, He has also told me that you both
have given your blessings to the formalisation of his relationship
with Oona. We are very glad to hear that because it has become
obvious to us that they have a deep regard for each other which
has survived a long period of uncertainty and discouragement.
To be very frank, we had hoped that Oona’s absence from
India might cause rethinking on both their parts. But since that
has not happened, we have to accept that they know their own
minds and give them whatever support, both emotional and
practical, that we can.
It has been very good to have Sushil here in Delhi these
past two weeks specially with Oona laid up in bed with her knee
operation.
He is very gentle and kind and considerate. These qualities
mark out a ‘good man’ and we believe that they are entirely
complementary to Oona’s own patient and loving temperament.
I have had the opportunity to speak to Ajit when he
called to find out if all was well the day after the earthquake.
The papers had announced the epicentre to be Almora and we
were all worried. The local group of friends have done some
very creditable work in the Tehri region and they are now
busy organising more. It is wonderful to find how many young
people have a strong social conscience.
We look forward to meeting you when you come to Delhi.
That was as clear as I could be. Sushil’s problems were his, but
I could not pretend ignorance of them. Incidentally, the ‘local
group’ was none other than Kanika, Mohit, Annu and others in
Sruti, the organisation Kanika worked with to support activists
in tribal areas. Oona wrote, too, on 20 November 1991.

Dear Mummy and Daddy (do 1 have the liberty to call

you that?)
Thank you so much for your best wishes and blessings that
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 88

I got in the mail today along with a letter from Ajit. I was most
touched.
Things are happening so fast that sometimes it is quite
overwhelming for us, and must be for you all as well. I guess
there is also such a sense of relief, because this is really a
culmination of a deep love and respect that I have had for Sushil
for so long now. We do look forward to spending endless happy
years in our home at Satoli. What with fine surroundings,
and challenging work as well, the picture really seems rather
complete.
My knee is healing well, though I still have this cumbersome
plaster and am not allowed to walk without crutches. Hopefully,
by the time of the wedding it should be almost fully recovered.
These long hours at home have given me ample time to think,
reflect and adjust to India after this lovely year in England. It
really was very fulfilling for me to study and travel there.
The weather in Delhi is wonderful. Warm sunshine during
the day, and clear blue skies. However, by the time you all come
it will be colder. We would have loved for you to visit us in Satoli
but perhaps it is better to plan that for the Spring or Autumn
when it is warmer.

Sushil brought with him the formal response from Mr

Sharma who addressed me by kinship, as Oona’s mother—
Oona-ki-Matajee. It was written at “3.00 a.m. when the world is
asleep”, he noted, on 21 November 1991:

Thank you very’ much for your kind letter which Sushil
has handed over to us. It appears drat destiny is taking its own
course and we merely watch the events as silent spectators.
Nevertheless we are grateful for the sentiments expressed by
you on Sushil and we sincerely hope and trust that he will come
up to your expectations.
There is a sudden breeze of chill air accompanied by a
89 LIVE LIGHTLY

sharp drizzle as I proceed to write this maiden note to you at

this unusual hour. It is said that wind is the breath of God. Is it
an omen for good? Signs of beginning of a new life full of hope
and aspirations? Only time can tell.
We are glad that Sushil came here instinctively to seek
our blessings on the future course of action. I need hardly say
that our blessings for him are his birthright and he has them in
brimful under any circumstance but this may not be enough
to fulfil the needs of the situation. In my thinking both Sushil
and Oona stand in need of Divine Blessing and I am constantly
praying to that end for ultimately only God’s WILL will prevail...

Oona, too, received a warm response by mail a few days later.

Apparently the behind-the-scenes preparation came from
Meena, who was in America, and Ajit, her husband:

Ajit has handed over to us your maiden letter dated

20.11.91. We are delighted to receive it, overwhelmed to go
through it. You have, of course, the liberty to address us as you
like but the way you have done has at once touched our hearts.
The high drama that has taken place within the last seven
days that Sushil has been here has brought you out as the STAR
around which the Family Satellites have revolved. We are
indeed grateful to your illustrious mother who played such a
dominant role breaking all traditions in the process. The silent
part your illustrious father played has to be reckoned at face
value as without his help and support the task was well nigh
impossible. Finally the role of Meena and Ajit...As for Sushil
himself he has passed through fire and in the process has
emerged unvanquished to play his destined role in life for which
he has been yearning. With you on his side, and the blessings
of parents on both sides and abundance of love and affection
which has come naturally to both of you and a tidal wave of
sympathy, the road lies clear before you—wide and open. We
call upon you to spring back on your feet and engage yourself
with missionary zeal for accomplishing the task for which you
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 90

have come to this world. My message to you is:

“Work, work, work incessantly. I am with you and when I
am gone, my spirit will work with you.”

I don’t know whose spirit will work with whom. I do know that
when the Sharmas came for the kirtan, PRS summoned all of us
saying he had something important to communicate. He read
out, from a letter he had written to us, the message before he
gave me the letter formally. It was a divine revelation, he said.
He felt that the spirit of Oona and Ilya (I noticed he did not
use a plural) had merged with his, and he spoke of an immense
sense of revitalisation. I kept the note carefully.
From Meena’s letter to her parents, I see that there were
other factors at play which had not crossed my mind. “Ajit’s last
letter mentioned that you have some reservations about Oona
and her family being Sikhs. I think you can safely drop that fear.
I have had opportunity (and so has Ajit) to meet Oona and get
to know and talk to her very intimately during our various trips
to Sitla. I am more than convinced, and so is Ajit, that Oona is
far above such petty thinking which separates one human from
another. The Sushil-Oona wedding is a good way of expressing
(we don’t even need to mention it, we just do it quietly) that we
don’t believe in the Hindu-Sikh dichotomy, that we can reach
out to people just because they are people, and good ones at
that.”
She continued: “With your thoughts we were able to
drop the caste discrimination in our family. When Ajit and
I got married we were able to drop our limitations of state
boundaries, and with Sushil and Oona we’ll drop a religion-
boundary. I really like to think of myself as belonging to the
entire cosmos and in essence I believe you do too, so why raise
this Sikh-Hindu issue.”
Not knowing any of this, I had responded to Mr Sharma
informing him of the arrangements, which are the prerogative
of the bride’s folks. That Oona and Sushil were keen to have a
religious ceremony and we would arrange the Anand Karaj, the
91 LIVE LIGHTLY

Sikh ceremony, at home.

A week before the wedding, each day, at breakfast, my
mother would read out to Sushil and Oona a stanza from the
Guru Granth Sahib and explain it. She covered the four that
constitute the wedding ceremony. She was very pleased that
there would be a doctor in the family again since none of her
own sons chose that profession. But she did ask me when Sushil
would ‘go away’. He had stayed with us and helped through
Oona’s knee surgery and the physiotherapy that followed.
“When his parents come,” was my answer.
The only request that the Sharmas made, when they came,
was that the form of the Sikh ceremony be explained so that
they would know what to expect. We were pleased that there
were no counter-suggestions of Vedic or Hindu rituals at that
stage, a day before the marriage. Nor did they express any
interest in Oona’s ‘dowry’, a custom that I have seen where the
display is almost a part of the ceremonies. Her education was
her dowry. As it had been for me. As it had been for my mother
and her sisters, the older two were doctors too, three quarters
of a century earlier.

PRS, as Sushil’s father came to be known affectionately, has

been sending me his Oona letters in small batches every week.
Among the earliest was the one which Sushil carried. His
practice is to make excerpts, some long, some short, but I have
asked now for Oona’s letters in their entirety. He continues with
the excerpts, religiously once a week, and has recently begun to
send copies of all the correspondence—from Oona, Sushil, us,
and also his own to them. I have received the first brown paper
packet, containing ten letters, starting from the beginning.
I see that Oona wrote to her in-laws from Satoli at the end
of January 1992:
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 92

This month has almost slipped by and we realise there is

not much time for us to leave for our one month long outing.
Here we are both fine and have been fairly busy at home. There
have been lots of visitors, considerable work in the garden,
internal decor, shelves, etc. Sushil goes to Peora to his clinic
regularly. I spend a lot of the mornings at home with a few day-
long trips to Sida to catch up with things there.
Work is shaping well. We talk a lot amongst ourselves as
well as with our village friends and something more concrete
and tangible is coming out of this interaction. Hopefully with
the few days that we have in Delhi we will be able to get some
more definite feedback.
No news from Meena and Ajit for a while, our love to them.
All else is well except for the daily visits of the resident sambhar
and his entourage every night. The property is pockmarked
with confident trails of their hoofs.

This set the pattern of their communication. It was

invariably Oona who wrote, though Sushil did send them a
detailed letter regarding their itinerary and the organisations
they expected to visit en route to Pune.
It seems that the first two months of their life together
were spent in thinking about and planning their work.
 5
Home in Satoli and Aarohi

RS kept Oona’s letters neatly filed. I marvel that I too

have so many of them considering that she would
be in Delhi every two or three months on work. We
visited twice a year at least, I more often after Ilya was born.
Oona’s letters to us were shared with the extended family;
with both her grandmothers—Nani, the maternal one and Dadi
the paternal, her cousins, my brothers and with Aloke when he
came. It was a way of keeping everybody in touch, of nurturing
and retaining relationships. Mine are not filed. I find them in
twos or threes and each time I do, it is with a sense of wonder.
Often it seems to be exactly what I need as I write. They begin
to unfold both the growth of an organisation and the fulfilment
of an individual.
Being in her own home, that particular home in Satoli,
was for Oona a dream realised. She had persevered in that
effort. It was the only time we had a heated exchange, a ‘yours’
and ‘mine’ conversation, when she asked for her savings to be
remitted to her plus whatever extra was needed. In her last year
at Sitla she had felt the urgency of finding a place and settling
somewhere in those hills in the future. Sushil had left Chirag.
He found the property and negotiated the purchase. She herself
was on her way to England and none of our arguments against
absentee ownership cut any ice with her. She was determined.
Sushil moved in, added to it, and started the process of making
it habitable.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 94

She moved there after they got married. It had everything

she had wanted ever since she started looking for a place: that
glorious view of the mountains, and water, her two priorities.
It had been a long wait. She wrote on 6 January 1992, of her
homecoming.

We had a very comfortable journey back without any

trouble. Almora was freezing ... we took a taxi that got us to
Madan Singh’s house by 9.00, where we were welcomed with a
hot cuppa tea — true village style.
The walk up to the house was magical, like how Sitla was
the first day we saw it — with the mountains rising up above
the mists and the fog falling away into the valley. The frost on
the ground was heavy and glittering in the clear morning light.
It is so, so, beautiful here. The weather has been bracing
after that first cold day. Every day it has been clear with this
absolutely glorious view...
[a very creditable sketch]...and it goes on that way [long
arrow to the right]!!
The house and the land are in good shape. The new window
and generous shelf space have made a world of difference and
its been such fun planning out things, pottering around in the
garden and just seeing everything coming up slowly but well.
You all will just love it here.
Sushil and I have spent such a lot of time together here
these six days. We’ve been having late mornings, a brunch meal,
and a long walk in the evening through the pine forests around.
Couldn’t have been a better honeymoon.
Lots of people have been over to visit and have been giving
us lots of badhai (congratulations)— it’s really very nice. We’ve
been sounding out people about our future approach to work
and they all seem to be able to identify with it quite instantly.
That is gratifying though it is bound to take time.
Tomorrow we have invited lots of people over for a small
house warming and tea. Perhaps some 60-70 people will come.
Should be nice, just tea, baal mithai and a peanut munchie.
95 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

Can’t wait for you all to see the place....

Sushil added a note too: “Beautiful balmy day. Sitting at the

new clinic and finishing some letters. After the initial freezing
days it is lovely to have a warm sun. The lights came too for
a day and have gone again. Sushma and I have organised the
new clinic and work has begun in a small way. There’s always
plenty to do at home and on the land but we are happy to have
a lot of time to ourselves. The night before the Leopard was
grunting within the property and caused some excitement. All
safe though... We look forward to your coming here, you’ll love
the place.”
Oona’s next letter is a letter of thanksgiving, written on 17
January 1992, from Sukoon. They must have christened their
home—Tranquillity—but very soon it lapsed simply into Satoli.
The letter from Gurbir which she refers to is one of the three
from us that she saved.

Thank you for your inspiring letter, Papa. You can’t

imagine how often Sushil and I think of our parents with such
a deep sense of emotion and feel that so much of what we are,
and what we value, is from them. We see it as all good, and
then appreciate you even more. Thank you for starting us off so
beautifully.
What we make of our lives is something that only time will
tell. But, as always, I feel a deep sense of joy and peace in living
amongst high mountains, blue skies, and deep forests; where
even the routine tasks of cooking things off the land, dreaming
of an enchanting garden and keeping one’s own home gives me
great pleasure. Life is good.
Things are settling down here. The house is more
comfortable and aesthetically pleasing and we make minor
adjustments in the decor after hours of talking by the fire in the
evening.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 96

Sushil has started work. He leaves at about 9.30 after

breakfast and comes home by about 3.00.1 have the day to
myself, and find that it is about 1.00 by the time I’ve cleared
the backlog of things to be done. Someone or other invariably
drops in and it’s nice to talk about the land and the people
here. What grows well, the weather, what people are busy with
nowadays, the resident leopard. Yesterday he was calling again.
Puran, today’s visitor, tells me that some folk say he can’t hear
too well, and hence is not scared of humans. Quite frightening
to hear that sawing noise at night, perhaps 200 yards away.
My knee is all right. If I concentrate on the heel-toe
walking method I manage quite well, but don’t see beyond my
feet! Otherwise I get a bit of pain. We do the exercises regularly.
It is definitely improving a lot. I’ve started walking around much
more as of this week and its very interesting to be back in the
swing of things—mixing with the people and doing some work.
Papa, there are a couple of things you could help us with....

Then some domestic details for me: “I thought I would take

some sarees.... Do you think you could organise some blouses
for me? Thanks.” She would be going to her in-laws for the first
time, it was a good idea to dress formally. She continued, “I now
understand what it is like to run a home. Boy, it takes time to
keep things pleasing to the eye. But I daresay between Sushil’s
systematic-ness, and my rather steady efforts at this, we’ve set
up a cute home, with a touch of comfort and elegance. It is such
fun planning and enjoying small changes.”
And plant talk: “The various bulbs are sprouting and in a
couple of months we should have a garden to behold as well.
It is taking shape real nice, though a lot of the effort has been
Sushil’s. There are a hundred narcissus in bloom indoors and
Royal Purple iris near the loo. Delightful.” She signs off, “With
love to the rest of the family.” The postscript followed: “Bye.
Nanda Devi smiles away.”
97 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

The thought of the leopard on the prowl used to scare

me during the Sitla days. One evening she got bored with talk
when we were all up there, including Surjit. She walked off, into
the darkness, and returned half an hour later. She didn’t have
a torch and had been down to the end of the garden, where
Lakshmi told me she was having an azalea planted some years
ago, in the middle of the day, and when she turned around her
dog had gone. Lifted by the leopard virtually from right under
her nose. Oona had gone beyond this point, down the khud to
the lower end of the property where the hydram is, and come
up the apple orchard along the boundary wall which separates
it from the Mairas’ property.
They passed through Delhi and she wrote about the
exploratory trip around mid-February 1992. It is one of the few
letters of hers that I have which is not dated:

Have been meaning to write for a long time but you can’t
imagine how busy things have been. We are in Pune...
Our five days in Gujarat worked out so well. Both the Aga
Khan Rural Support Programme’s work and Sewa Rural, the
well-known Rural Hospital, were wonderful experiences. Lots
of commendable work has been going on for 15-20 years with
very good results. All the organisations had a character of their
own because of the people that head diem, all sterling people.
One thing that seems to be common to many of these people
is the deep sustenance they get from spiritual contemplation
though their work is distinctly pragmatic and secular.
The journeys were smooth though we could have travelled
lighter. To carry a suitcase around is not a very good idea, but
people just loved the Pahari nimboos. Sushil and 1 both caught
nasty colds in the heat of Gujarat and were walking around in
black woollen sweaters in that scorching weather for a couple
of days. People couldn’t quite make us out when we would tell
them that we had come from the Himalayas! But all in all I
think everyone we met really enjoyed having us there, and we
will definitely be visiting Sewa Rural every year. It is a fine place
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 98

for Sushil to pick up surgical experience. They are a bit weak

on non-health activities and were amenable to the idea of my
contributing on that front.
It is nice being in Pune and staying with Sushil’s folks.
Mummy is a marvellous cook and in the evenings we sit and
chat. Daddy works a full day and is very fit—great to see. Meena
and Ajit’s place is enormous and located in a quiet area at the
base of this huge forested hill.
We’ve both got cracking with our respective work here
and its been busy. Perhaps the most exciting thing has been
our exposure to acupressure which is a philosophy (Zen) and a
treatment. Quite amazing.
Yesterday Meena and I went to see this organisation which
pioneered the revolutionary concept of Pani panchayat. It was
really interesting. It is a community irrigation approach where
the village contributes towards a lift irrigation scheme that
distributes water equitably on a per capita basis rather than on
the amount of land holding.
We are having dinner with Pooh and family tomorrow,
then off to Jamkhed and Kashele later next week, and then to
Goa. Meena and Ajit, their beautiful alsation pup, us two -will
go in a borrowed Standard Herald. Look forward to spending
long days on the beach, sun and sea.
All for now. See you on the 2nd. Will you pick us up? Do
fix our appointments for us... Enclosed is the receipt for the
glass. Could you pick it up please. Thanks. Meena loved the
silver vase. Sushil’s Dad’s comment on your letter was: “My!
This letter is very technical!”

The silver vase, with intricately crafted Iranian motifs, was

one of my trophies from the diplomatic tennis circuit in Tehran.
My letter, no doubt, was to give her feedback on whatever
paperwork she had entrusted me with.
She wrote again, collectively as usual, on 23 February 1992,
99 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

on the eve of their holiday in Goa, which became an annual

feature. “This month has been so enriching. We were able to
visit five organisations and get a fairly deep insight into the
work, the motivations and the shining qualities of the founders.
All of them emanate a great simplicity, a personal (and secular)
sense of spirituality, high academic qualifications and success
by conventional standards, an uncanny talent to conceptualise
and work at the grass roots. They are all giants in the field and
shared their intimate thoughts with us. We feel privileged to
have got this shower of good wishes even before we have begun.
It really is quite overwhelming.”
I look at the word ‘spirituality’’ and wonder. It was a word
my friend, Shanta, had used to describe her impression of Sushil
during a visit we made together, during which he spoke to me
about himself, his aspirations, and the difficulties with his first
wife, but I could not see beyond the complications then. Did
Oona see that too? Was it a frugality, an asceticism, as Oona
herself termed it elsewhere, which attracted her?
They were travelling and visiting different NGOs before
finalising their own plans. They also had to work out how’
they would survive before their work plans got under way.
Oona obtained a short-term research grant from a progressive
NGO and Sushil had his practice. “Wonder if Deep [Joshi of
PRADAN] deposited the money in the bank,” was tucked away
between general news. : “This acupressure has helped my knee
a lot... .1 am on the road to health ” And, finally, a
statement
that indicated her priorities were shifting, “It looks as if
our two days in Delhi will be packed to the brim with work.
So please don’t commit to anyone that we’ll be socialising with
them.”
And the inevitable postscript: “How was Ute’s stay?”
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 100

In Satoli time was elastic. And there was constant coming and
going. Often the staging post was here, with a stream of Oona’s
friends in and out of the house, whether she was with us or not.
Often they were en route to her, like Ute, or perhaps had just
come down. Gurbir had missed Ute at the airport but she found
her way home anyhow.
Ute Trapp, a friend from Sussex, was perhaps one of the
first visitors Oona and Sushil had in Satoli. Oona told me that
the pine divan-bed was built in double quick time, and in
generous proportions, so that Ute would not need to sleep on
the floor. Ute stands at 5 feet 9 inches barefoot, so the bed was
not the usual midget hill size. She had asked a man in Peora for
directions to the house. He happened to be the carpenter. He
put two and two together, turned around and escorted her up
the hill to their home.
We heard from Ute. Sushil’s announcement, sent to all
members of Aarohi, had come back undelivered, then Gurbir
had written. Her letter dated 6.2.97 came some days ago.

Lieber Gurbir, Dear Jasjit,

Thank you for writing.
I don’t find any words, neither in English nor in German.
I feel terrible sorry, it’s so cruel.
I came back from work, to have lunch. Then I read your
letter. I stared at the words, did not comprehend them, then
the meaning reached my mind and I started crying. I did not
know what to do. I went down to the river Rhein, to find some
consolation in the flowing water, but everything was grey,
depressing. I called my boyfriend, his arms did not reach me
and I took the train. I felt stronger, pictures entered my mind
which let me feel good and bad at the same time. Good because
I felt the strength of memory, to remember the good times we
had. And bad, because it will never be like this again.
I told him everything which came into my mind. It was
not really much time I could spend with Oona, but it was
101 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

intense and influenced me a lot. I always admired her activities

and as my dad said, “When she stood in the door, the light was
switched on.” My parents met her only once, when she was in
Germany, but they too have a strong remembrance.
Sometimes I think it can’t be true, it seems so unreal. How
could it happen? I know it is senseless to ask and I don’t want to
bother you with these questions again.
I feel like embracing you and crying together. Since this is
not possible I put down pieces of my thoughts. I feel privileged
to have known her, and keep her in mind and heart.
I find it even more difficult to write about Ilya, sorry it’s
too unfair. I wish you all the strength you need.
I remember Lite’s visit. I remember I had taken her and
my mother to hear the Dalai Lama speak on 6 July 1992, his
birthday. I remember how enchanted we had all been with his
presence.
Oona’s knee problem was an old injury from boarding
school, while playing basketball. Her leg had been in plaster
for six weeks and trouble used to erupt every’ now and then.
Over the years she had been advised muscle-strengthening
exercises as the only alternative to surgery. She felt handicapped
because sometimes even slight pressure would provoke a flare
up, specially if she did not use the crepe bandage she had also
been advised. It had got worse when she was in England. Her
knee would swell and cause excruciating pain. It happened yet
again while she was in Germany, visiting Shanta’s daughter
Bulbul in Cologne and Ute in Darmstaadt, before she returned
to India. Diljit and Aju had taken her to a specialist in England
and we considered the possibility of surgery there. He, however,
suggested that the best man was actually in Delhi-—Dr Ashok
Rajagopal. When she returned in November 1991, Dr Rajagopal
found a slot for her before the holiday season began—Divali
was on the 5 th that year. Within three days of her return he had
taken out the tom cartilage and repaired the tendon through
the new method of ‘keyhole’ surgery. The physiotherapy took
another two months. When she got married she did not have
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 102

full flexibility of the knee to be able to sit cross-legged on the

ground but had to use a low stool. The priest did not think that
was proper but we explained it was the only way she could sit.
In any case, the Granth Sahib was at a higher level, on the divan,
and God, we felt, would surely understand. She did not limp as
she took the pheras but she did have to ease herself down gently
after each phera around the Granth Sahib. How often she said
that Dr Rajagopal gave her a new lease of life.
At the time of the operation she expected, and intended,
that her life would be in the hills and that Satoli would be their
home but no formal declarations had been made. It was almost
two weeks later, at the full moon in November 1991, that they
announced: “Right. We get married next full moon.”
I remember Chari again. Since Oona had not met Sushil’s
parents she felt that she should, but how and where? Chari
scotched Oona’s idea that perhaps she ought to go to Pune to
meet them. My question to her had been, “Suppose they do
not agree. Will you then not marry Sushil?” I felt it was up to
Sushil. Kalyan, Mohit and Annu agreed that a diplomatic way
was needed and that he must go and discuss it with them.

Oona and Sushil got their first break while they were in Delhi
on their return from Pune. They were put in touch with another
organisation, the P D Agarwal Foundation, in Jaipur. They
Wondered if it would be a wild goose chase and went without
much hope. At the first meeting, details of support were
settled—without the benefit of a proposal, of a crosscheck, of
time to think or the usual need to get back, whether within days,
weeks, or months. Sushil told me that he was flabbergasted and
asked Dr Agarwal how he could make snap judgements and
take people on trust. The response was that even if two out of
ten delivered it was worth taking the risk. It was not easy to
103 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

find doctors to work in rural areas. Oona added that they were
then asked if they needed anything else. Transport. A motor
cycle? No. Having used a motorcycle herself while she was at
Amari Mandali in Gujarat she said that would not be suitable,
particularly not in the Kumaon hills. A jeep? Yes. Right. They
did not have one available immediately, but they could loan
them one after two months. No charge on the loan, but no
maintenance costs was the agreement. They were elated to have
found a progressive philanthropist.
How happy Oona was to be in the hills, in her own home. She
wrote in April:
Lovely weather here nowadays. Warm and breezy. There seems
to be a lot of fruit on the trees, but there is no saying; it needs
one hailstorm to wipe out the region’s production. It is really a
marvellous feeling to have the weeks glide past and to observe
the characteristic changes in the land. The apricot blossoms with
plum blossoms, then pear and kilmora flowers, the fragrance of
the iris, followed by that of the kilmora, the ‘gewain’. I often feel
a story falling into place in my mind but still am not organised
enough to put pen on paper.
Tons of work has happened in the garden. Must have sown
60-70 types of seeds. That whole lot of bulbs that Sushil took
up has done so well. The tulips are flowering nowadays. I’m
particularly pleased about the way the saffron lily bulbs have
multiplied. Some 9-10 were put in (and survived). I dug them
out the other day to find 50-60 bulbs! Remember how adamant
I was to bring some back, Mummy? Have made a separate herb
garden as well. Hope things germinate all right. We are lucky
to have so much water and help now. Jeevanti helps with the
dishes and Gopal Singh with some of the heavy work in the
garden. It makes life simpler.
The Aarohi office building is almost ready to move into.
It’s a pretty spot, just next to Sushil’s clinic with lovely views of
the pine forests and mountains. I am all set to start, but no news
of SPWD yet. Shall drop them a line today. The PRADAN draft
came today; that account is now closed and tidy.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 104

Jeevanti and Gopal Singh were the couple who lived on

the ground level and with whose children Ilya played before
they moved out to their own place. The north-facing courtyard
served many needs. It was a playground, a place to dry grains,
lentils and chillies, and store fodder for their buffalo. Having the
family live there provided a sense of security, besides physical
help, but the downside was the mess made by the buffalo, and
the swarms of flies which loved the mess.
Before Oona was fully mobile, she had time to conceptualise
how she would frame the charter of their organisation. The
name, Aarohi, borrowed from Indian classical music, means
‘ascendance’. It was appropriate in more ways than one. Top-
down, target-driven ‘development’ was firmly eschewed. It
was the Gandhian model that they adopted. Oona felt strongly
that any attempt at development, for it to be successful and
sustainable, could only be so if it began at the grass roots. The
whole community needed to participate. The people themselves
needed to identify their needs and then see how best they could
be fulfilled. The role of the NGO would be that of facilitator,
rather than a provider of schemes and subsidies often tailored
by people who knew nothing about the local environment. The
movement for change had to ascend, from the bottom up.
Oona expected to receive a fellowship for one year from
the Society for the Promotion of Wasteland Development
(SPWD), which had supported Chirag’s forestry work earlier
when she was the Team Leader. Esh was then the Executive
Director of SPWD. She always addressed him as Mr Eswaran,
as did Kalyan and Anita, though privately they referred to him
as VBE. Often Esh suggested that she might be less formal. She
would laugh and brush the suggestion off saying ‘Mr Eswaran’
came more naturally.
After the initial support from PRADAN, SPWD, and a
project on documenting medicinal plants and herbs sponsored
105 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

by WWF, the search for long-term funding continued. Oona

remarked that at least 40 per cent of her time and energy was
spent in writing proposals, making contacts and pursuing
leads. The imperative of working within their philosophy ruled
out many possibilities because they were not willing to accept
any funds that were either target-driven or donor-driven. They
were quite clear that their work would be in response to the
articulated needs of the community. The groundwork had to be
done first, community development, and around that micro-
plans would emerge. They, as the outsiders, the development
professionals, were there only to guide and to make available
resources for the implementation of those plans.
The next letter that I have from 1992 is dated 26 April.
“I can’t understand why you claim that you have not been
hearing from us, we do write about once every 10 days...” But
the mail took about that long from Peora. Letters were usually
sent from either Almora or Nainital or Haldwani whenever the
opportunity arose. Or by hand of whoever was visiting. They
called it the monkey mail. “Anyway, I must say it is a refreshing
change to hear from you so regularly, Mummy, and get the
update of the finer points of life in Delhi.” She meant news
about what was happening in the lives of everyone in the family,
in particular her cousins.
Sushil, too, sent a brief note: “Oona has drifted into her
new office after the Grih Pravesh when we were fed a sumptuous
lunch. It looks lovely. She has a sidekick, a very earnest boy from
Satoli. I have someone else too—Jagdish—who is a potential
X-Ray technician and general help while Sushma, the trainee
nurse, is on leave. Things are moving ”
The division of responsibility between them was clearly
demarcated. Sushil looked after the health project and accounts
while Oona, in consultation with Sushil, saw to the rest.
Everything from managing and nurturing the organisation, all
the paperwork, the funding needs, and the primary work of
natural resource management whichever way it presented itself
through the micro-plans. And, most important, community
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 106

development through regular village meetings.

Sushil’s note continued: “Our days are packed (as usual)
and there’s always something left undone or postponed. There
is always the hope that soon we’ll be organised enough to keep
abreast of the million things that we always have to do. Bye for
now—have to rush to make two house calls.” And an invitation:
“Can we all go out somewhere together? Why don’t you plan
a trip up here in these two months?” Right then the house
was totally upturned because the attic was being turned into a
bedroom.
Oona wrote about a visit to Nainital, the district
headquarters for their area, enthused about an oasis of luxury
at the ASC Mountain Training School holiday home. “At first I
was making a fuss because they gave us one room and Louise
was with us. Usual army style, when that room was opened
it turned out to be a suite—two bedrooms, one dining room,
one TV room, one dressing room, kitchen, one hot bathroom
and one cold bathroom! We spread out and lived it up.... Did
some work on Monday and took a cab back as we were loaded
with shopping and the direct bus from Nainital to Peora was
discontinued some time ago.”
Within four months they were almost ready to launch
Aarohi. “We are off to Haldwani this weekend to do some more
groundwork as far as the registration of the organisation is
concerned. Met our lawyer-mentor, Pratap Bhaiya, in Nainital.
There is a Development Seminar in Haldwani that he wants us
to attend. I also spoke at the gathering and we got a lot done...
was good.”
The resource crunch continued: “We are low on cash,
Mummy and Papa. Our money is in Delhi plus some with
you.... Could you send up some to tide us over? Best would be
if you could send a demand draft: Oona Sharma payable at SBI
Mukteswar.” The name needed to be underlined because we
had discussed whether she would retain her own name, which
made sense to me. But she had told me that Sushil was upset at
the very suggestion of that possibility.
107 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

She didn’t wait for the formal registration of Aarohi.

Simultaneously, she had prepared an outline for her first
project. The destruction of the fruit crop that year because of the
hailstorm and the distress of tire local farmers gave an urgency
to the plan to do something for them: “I am also sending you
the proposal on chuaru oil extraction. I wonder if you could
punch it into the computer and neaten it up for me. Pve sent
a copy to Mohit and he’ll probably have some corrections to
make. In case he thinks of someone to fund this, they will need
a fair copy with his corrections. Could you coordinate with him
if you can spare the time?” Of course I spared the time, from the
P S Bhagat biography that I was working on then. She always
asked so politely not presuming on anyone’s time or energy. All
her work in those first two years was done in long hand, or else
she used a portable typewriter.
Chuaru is the local apricot. From the genesis of the idea
expressed in this letter of 1992, in four years a growing niche
market had been created. It was to expand the retail outlets that
she came to Delhi that week in mid-August, besides her other
priority of exploring education options for Ilya.
Oona seems then to have been more preoccupied with
giving birth to Aarohi, she did not say much about her pregnancy
except in passing: “Nice long chatty letter from Bulbul, who is
also looking forward to her baby. Better tell her that she’s already
got a customer for hand-me-downs! She will be surprised.” The
letter ends with an enquiry: “How is Somi’s mother keeping? Is
she out of hospital?” I hear echoes of another question, the way
she had asked Dr Bajaj: “How is Manjul?” Somi’s mother had
cancer. She lingered till the next year...till her first grandchild
was bom, whom she never saw. Somi was the newcomer to the
family, but a current passed between us, unsought, after Oona
died which keeps something special alive.
Oona wrote from Satoli for our wedding anniversary on 22
May, the hottest day of the year in Delhi when we got married.

It is the 19th of May, two in the afternoon and I’m

 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 108

basking in the sun! Somehow the warmth of this sunshine is

invigorating and restoring. We’ve shifted over to a five-day week
with Mondays and Tuesdays off. Sunday is a day when many
people are free to visit/need the hospital and so we thought that
instead of struggling to get time for ourselves then, it may as
well be a working day for us. It is nice to have the flexibility to
decide one’s own holidays.
Feel good and relaxed nowadays. Work is going real well.
We had a general meeting on Sunday to introduce ourselves and
our ideas and the new organisation formally to the people of the
region. Some 70 people came from about a dozen villages, and it
was an excellent meeting. The atmosphere was lively, informed
and also quite serious. People She had very much wanted Esh
to be the chairman of the Society, but Kalyan and Anita were
quicker off the mark. They got him as chairman of their own
pan-Himalayan NGO, Grassroots, with their base at Kalika on
the outskirts of Ranikhet, which they had initiated early that
year. Both of them knew him well and had great respect for
him, personally as well as

She had very much wanted Esh to be the chairman of

the Society, but Kalyan and Anita were quicker off the mark.
They got him as chairman of their own pan-Himalayan
NGO, Grassroots, with their base at Kalika on the outskirts
of Ranikhet, which they had initiated early that year. Both of
them knew him well and had great respect for him, personally
as well as professionally, since their time in Chirag. Oona and
Sushil had to be content to have him as Advisor and a founder
member. For Oona, Esh was the main sounding board on all
matters of natural resource management and community
development besides guiding them through the jungle of rules
and regulations particularly in financial matters. The other
founder members were Chari, virtually absent; Mohit who was
market savvy; and Gurbir with his vast experience in human
109 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

resource management and plain common sense.

Was it during that trip in June that the discussion on where
to have the baby took place? Sushil had said that they would
have the baby in Satoli and he would deliver it. I did not think
it was a good idea but reassured myself that it was too early to
take a stand. I would wait till the seventh month. When Sushil
floated this idea, and Oona did not demur, were they thinking
that if all the village women had their babies at home, with only
the help of a midwife, why should they be different? What kind
of example would it be for the doctor’s wife to return to the city
to have her baby?
Fortunately I did not have to make an issue of it. Once
again Chari came to my rescue. He was visiting Delhi and had
come over to Hauz Khas. I asked his advice. He told Oona and
Sushil bluntly that they could do as they wished with their own
lives, but they had no right to put at risk a third life. That it
was an untenable idea to think of Sushil delivering the baby
at home. A paediatric surgeon himself, Chari’s opinion carried
weight. I have always felt great warmth towards Chari for his
clear thinking and forthright expression and have often blessed
him in my heart. Perhaps that was why I went to see him, taking
Ilya with when he was dying.
by June, the house renovation was almost complete. The
Jeep had come and they had meoility. “Vipul Sanghoi, a designer
and an old Kalpavriksh acquaintance left only yesterday. He
was working on our logo, and dropped in out of the blue to stay
for four days. We did a fair amount of work, but what was really
nice was that that was one of our first free weekends. We went
for a swim at the Quarab pool. There had been a long hot spell
and the water was very lovely and warm, and fairly clear, though
not a patch on Panna lake. ” The same Vipul who brought the
information from the Internet, and came to the hospital every
morning to see if he could help in any other way.
We stopped at Panna lake on our way up to Satoli with
Oona’s ashes. And at the Quarab pool on our way down.
Both of them are now a part of Oona.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 110

A squiggle, “(that was Cat pouncing on me. He is called

Pomkin or Comma and is an absolute pet). Try and get me
a Seminar publication from Kalpavriksh, The India Tapers,
Rs 200.” And news of the apricot oil project: “Hundreds of
people from the village have given us kernels and they are very
appreciative that an alternative source of income from fruits is
possible. Besides, many people have also re-realised the value of
this oil and are adamant not to part with their kernels. Which
again, we feel is an excellent thing to have happened.”
About herself: “I’m feeling all right physically, though a
bit tired at times. No more moodiness about food, but terrible
highs and lows otherwise—unnatural bouts of sensitivity which
have given Sushil and me a rough time in the past ten days. I
don’t think that is me, so I presume it must be related to the
pregnancy. Any tips on this, Mummy? Rohini was saying that
that was one of the most moody periods of her life as well....”
Rohini, married to the Eswarans’ youngest son Som.

The old village house had the usual small windows and low
doors without the benefit of the use of glass. Sushil had decided
to replace some of the slate slabs on the roof with toughened
glass to obtain instant skylights and let in daylight. The project
to raise the height of the doors was a little more complicated.
First the new door jambs had to be made, then a lintel fitted
at the right height and after that the new doors. “The new
chaukhats that have been installed are a joy to behold. They
have added great art and beauty, and functional convenience
to our house. This Ganga flam is an outstanding craftsman.
And every design he has produced has this mixture of pahari
omateness and Grecian elegance about it. Have we splurged on
this! It should all be over in a month or so...”
To revive the ancient craft of wood carving was another
111 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

project Oona had in mind. Two years later she obtained a

grant for documentation from the National Institute of Design,
Ahmedabad. She wanted to set up a training centre but no one
was interested. Not even Ganga Ram’s son who preferred to
become a typist. The report was completed in 1996; it carries a
dedication: To the memoiy of Oona and Ilya.
Oona’s letter of 12 July is brief. And it is on an Oona
Sharma letterhead. Despite the fact that she changed her name
I did not close the bank account she held in Delhi, jointly with
me, as Oona Mansingh. I believe that every woman should have
an escape route just in case it becomes necessary to use it. In
any case, I had opened these joint accounts for both children
when they were in their teens, with money my parents had
given me, so that they would begin to have a feeling of financial
freedom and responsibility. How indignant I was when the
Bank Manager asked me to bring my husband to open the
accounts. Absolutely not, I told him. My husband has nothing
to do with this transaction. I could, I told him, but why should
I? He did not insist.

How do you like this paper—rather nice isn’t it?

Sushil has been looking after a man who tried to commit
suicide by ingesting rat poison, spray, sleeping pills plus
don’t-know-what. Quite ghastly. He’s got a reputation here
for handling poisoning cases. Much excitement, but hardly
desirable.
A few things I forgot in my last letter... Mohit was due
to send us the test results of the apricot oil, no news yet from
him. Could you phone him and chase that? Have got LOTS of
kernels. 1.5 quintals. Now I’ve to find decent bottles.
Had some great meetings of late; some new programmes
are concreting in my head with such feedback. It is possible
that we will formulate a programme for the rehabilitation and
management of ‘Naulas’, the traditional water sources here.
Could you ask Pooji if Arjun could come up to advise on this?
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 112

Aarohi had not even been registered as a Society till then

and she was brimming with ideas. Arjun did not go up, but the
project was actualised.

August 1992 was an eventful month. They had been married

seven months and Oona was five months pregnant. The jeep
came. It was heavy on maintenance, it needed gallons of oil.
Travel to and from Delhi continued to be by bus.
There were only two good stretches on the road. The first
when it branched off from the Lucknow highway at Rampur
and passed through the remains of forest of the reclaimed terai
area in the plains. The second was the homestretch in the hills
portion—about thirty kilometres along the river Kosi. The road
to Ranikhet turns off across the bridge at Khaima, the route
Kalyan and Anita take. Further along are the deep pools in the
river and the bridge at Quarab over which the road leads to
Almora, the nearest town. For Satoli one stays on the south
bank of the tributary stream, and a narrow road winds its way
across the northern face of the Mukteswar ridge. About twelve
kilometres up, one turns right, a sharp turn, onto another road
which is still to be asphalted. Four kilmetres along is Peora
Cars are left on this road and there is a choice of footpaths up
the hill to reach Oona and Sushil’s home in Satoli—the steep
track which they used, and a bit further up the broader one, a
part of it the old cart road from Almora to Mukteswar, which
1 preferred. Sitla, where Chirag is located, is on the same ridge,
closer to Mukteswar but which is reached by another route, the
Ramgarh route. The distance between Satoli and Sitla is not
much as the crow flies. Walking it takes about an hour, longer
if I stop to watch birds. By car or jeep it is about forty minutes.
113 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

The difference of 1000 feet in altitude is a kind of watershed.

Oona wrote on 1 August 1992.
I had one of the most comfortable journeys back that I can
think of. That Ranikhet bus never appeared, the Almora bus
was a good (and only) choice. It reached Haldwani in six hours.
I was at Khairna by 3:30 where Sushil was waiting. The bus was
quite empty so I was able to stretch out and sleep. It is good to
be back, after a successful and busy time in Delhi. Lucky that I
could catch up with old friends like Silvy and Nitya.
The meeting on 31st went off so relaxed and nicely. Eight
people from Chirag were there. If one sees the good will and
cooperation at the working level, the apprehensions expressed
are so totally false that one just doesn’t even know where to
begin explaining. Such things are not very rational, are they?

There was no luxury of a phone call to announce safe

arrival, there were no phones nearby, and we had conditioned
ourselves to assume that all would be well. It was thus more than
mere politeness to write on arrival. “We are solvent once again
with the SPWD money plus Sushil’s money also having arrived.”
And holiday plans: “The work on the house is looking so good.
Mummy, try and come with us to Munsiari. Our plan to leave
on 23rd August is firm. It would be ideal if Arjun and Kabir also
make it to us between now and 23 rd. If they would like to walk
in that area, we’ll get some tips from Theo. We could all drive up
to Lands Edge. It will be quite spectacular. I’m sure your work
can wait a week.” Sushil reinforced the invitation, adding a note:
“Very good idea...Oona left just this much space for me, I guess
I’ll write later separately. Thanks for your letter....”
I cannot begin to imagine what I wrote to each of them
separately, prompted by the ‘rough time’ she had mentioned.
Oona remarked: “I felt that many of your comments explaining
my moodiness were very correct in their general understanding,
though the specific instances you used to illustrate what you
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 114

meant were not correct. Like Sushil being too busy, etc. But yes.
It made lots of sense.”
In Delhi she had her first check up. Everything was
normal but the doctor suggested it was too early to make plans
for delivery; the possibility that it might be in Satoli still existed.
“The baby is moving! The pups are poppets...” all in the same
breath. Two weeks later: “The baby is kicking away madly.
It is quite disconcerting, and amusing also. Rather strange
experience altogether. Who would have thought!!!” Lakshmi, at
Sitla, was the closest neighbour that Oona could have turned to
for help and advice. She visited: “It was really pleasant. Lots of
plant, pet, plus family talk. Lakshmi says nappy liners would be
highly useful. Also I was thinking of some sort of a baby chair/
seat cum harness that fits on a car/jeep seat, so the child can be
sitting separately but safely. Can you check this out?”
A third letter in August announced the birth of Aarohi:

Sushil and I are in Haldwani again, for the second

consecutive weekend, seeing to some other work in the Jeep
plus the registration of Aarohi. The Registrar, like so many
other Government officers is absconding and we are waiting for
him to return.
We had the ultrasound done today...The doctors there
are very nice and know Sushil. All is well with our baby and
everything is going tick-tock. Here is a copy of the report.
Incidentally, all my other papers got left with you, Mummy.
Could you send us the photocopies so we have a record here?
We had dinner in Almora the other day. There seems to
be big money and easy going in Development nowadays. I don’t
think it is particularly satisfying work but the money helps.
Maybe I ought to score a few consultancies when I am in Delhi
for a longish period. Met Mrs Pande and Lalit who remember
you. Lalit is quite supportive, and I think his organisation will
continue to help us.
P.S. The Society has been Registered. 17.8.92! Three
cheers!! No bribes given!!!
115 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

Such exultation. But why in a postscript?

It was exactly four years later, 17 August 1996, that Oona

and I went to hear Ramu Gandhi speak on his guru, Ramana
Maharishi. How she sparkled drat evening. Between work and
the baby they did not have time to go to the movies, or any
other social or cultural events. Occasionally they went to a
music recital, or to listen to Kanika, Mohit’s sister, if she and
her group had a concert.
Oona was to catch the train back to Kumaon that evening.
She wanted to go to this lecture. Gurbir was discouraging
but her heart was set on it. In fact she was adamant. This was
unusual because she was usually very considerate of everyone
else’s convenience. Ramu Gandhi teaches philosophy at the
University. When I told Madhu, in December, how she exuded a
kind of brilliance that evening—she positively glowed—he told
me that she had often heard him before when she accompanied
him to some of the Philosophy department lectures. Ramu
Gandhi, grandson of Mahatma Gandhi, spoke that evening
about his love for his guru. I had mentioned to Madhu the
quotation I had found for Ilya: Man’s will is irrelevant... what has
to happen will. Ramu Gandhi also spoke at the kirtan for Oona.
Time, he said, cannot be measured in linear terms. Because of
the ideals that inspired Oona we should see a completeness in
her life. The fact of thirty-three years was not important, he
said. How she had lived her life was.
At the hospital, on Oona’s last day in this life, Esh had
asked if he could come in and pay his respects. He had stood by
the bed with eyes closed. I was at her feet, massaging them. He
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 116

asked if he could touch her. Yes. He stepped up to the bed and

leaned forward, both hands outstretched to touch her shoulders
and brought his hands to his forehead, it was homage to the
good in her. Days later he told me that he always thought of
Oona as the daughter he never had.
It was from Esh that Som heard. Som and Oona had both
studied Mathematics at St Stephens’ College. While Oona was
in Sitla, Som and Rohini had spent about a year in Kumaon,
at Pithoragarh, studying the impact of open mining on the
environment. Contact had been maintained even after they
went to Boston and were working towards their respective
doctorates, Rohini at Boston University and Som at Harvard.
When Oona and Ilya were in Delhi, in July 1996, Som and Rohini
were also in Delhi and we went to visit them. The conversation
that evening at the Eswarans’ home had been about single child
families, and the desirability of at least two children. Their son,
Madhavan, was a handful at four and Rohini was expecting
her second baby. Oona wondered how they would manage two
children and their respective jobs, they were both then teaching
in the US at Emory, Atlanta.
We heard from Som.

I was so utterly shocked by the news that I could not bring

myself to write earlier. Oona has been a dear friend for all my
adult life. The memory of that last evening, such a short while
ago, and yet now impossibly remote, that Oona and Ilya and
Madhavan and I spent walking to the Chor Minar and the
playground keeps coming back.
Rohini and I are both filled with sympathy and dread to
think of what you have gone through. I have seen my parents go
through their great loss, and they have slowly rebuilt their lives,
although of course, they are different from what drey would
have been.
Oona led a happy and fruitful life and gave fully of herself
to her friends and fellow human beings. If I could say the same
of myself when my time to depart comes, I would be more than
117 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

satisfied. We can do no more than that. It is not given to us to

choose the manner of our going, but we can choose the way we
live, and Oona made all the right choices. She lived life to the
full.
Oona’s life will always be a source of inspiration for me.
Whenever I feel tired and defeated, I’ll think of her
cheerfully ready to overcome the next obstacle and go on, and
I’ll smile again and carry on. Would that we could have gone on
seeing her live in free same way.

Som has Oona’s letters but cannot find them. Esh, too,
saved all letters to him and gave diem to me.
She wrote from Falmer, on 11 June 1991: “Perhaps you are
through with your leave and back into work with SPWD. What
are the exciting things going on, I wonder. Here all the news
of the development world seems to be more conceptual and
sweeping that it’s hardly a good experience at times! One has to
be conscious of ‘stepping-up or stepping-down’ while crossing
over from this culture.” News about others at Sussex whom Esh
obviously knew, and about her own hopes and plans:
1 look forward to coming back. I feel as if I’m running out
of steam here. This term we have a dissertation and one more
term paper to do.
Kalyan and Anita are opting out of Chirag. Makes me feel
funny, as the whole idea was to work with friends. I’ll still be in
that region. Time will tell how things will evolve. Sushil is fine.
I spoke to him a couple of times. Hopefully, if all goes well, we’ll
get together and marry by the end of the year. A new’ phase
then. The work options for me seem so boundless that I feel as
if I need about seven lives to go through them all.

The new phase did begin. What can I say about seven lives?
She wrote on the Oona Sharma letterhead, 4 September
1992, her good news: “You’ll be very glad to know that Aarohi
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 118

was registered on the 17th of August 1992. Here is a copy of the

MOA that was finally handed in.”
The next is noted, in Esh’s hand, as having been received
on 7.10.92. She had not dated it. It was written soon after our
trip to Munsiari. “It was good to hear from you a few days ago
though
I was sorry to hear that you and others had a patch of
illness
After Mummy spent ten days or so with us here, her first
letter back to us said: ‘I don’t know how anyone would want to
live in Delhi.’ Frankly, I agree.” She continued:
Sorry that we will miss you in October. We’ll be around for
a long while towards the end of the year, however.
Life is good here at Satoli and Sushil and I are really
content. Finally our house is organised. It’s been eight months
of dust, rubble and shifting things in cardboard boxes from one
room to another. The roof no longer leaks, and the floor no
longer crumbles with the constant ins and outs that our heavy
shoes subject it to. The garden is a real joy, and we often spend
our whole evening planting, trimming, and landscaping.
Work-wise we feel comfortable and in harmony with
the pace of things. We’ve had some really rewarding village
meetings in a whole bunch of ‘new’ villages; i.e., those that fall
away north of us towards the river drat divides Nainital District
from Almora District.
As these months go by I am more and more cominced that
our ability to get people to drink about their problems and voice
them collectively is fundamental to a sound foundation of our
work. This whole attitude of programmes, and larger projects
that come from generalising problems at levels other than the
village level, leads to a standardisation that is known, by the
common man, as a ‘scheme’. Schemes, then, are associated with
subsidies and cash help. This, more often than not, becomes
more important than actually working towards solving the
problem. This attitude is very, very deepset, and it takes a lot of
emphasising to convince people to think about problems rather
119 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

than aid. This seems to come up again and again at village level
meetings nowadays. As a counter-action to this, we are trying
to evolve micro-plans, village wise, as the base for proposals to
be funded. It is quite complex, as such a diversity of problems
appear, and there obviously has to be a line drawn somewhere. I
feel it is much sounder than offering programmes in this rather
murky environment of schemes that exists. I wonder what you
think.
I hope we will be ready with some proposals by the middle
of October. We still have to locate possible funders.
Nowadays there is a very dynamic District Collector in
Nainital, which is rather good. The DFO (Civil and Soyam) is a
fine lady who “’as also in England for about three months. She is
a thinking person, who is preoccupied with the state of civil and
soyam lands in the hills, We struck a good chord with her, and
look forward to some concrete and more experimental village
organisation. Working with Forest Department efforts in our
area should be exciting.
The other day Pratap Bhaiya, our chairman, came over
and we had a kind of a public meeting. He is a tremendous
personality, and both of us feel glad that a person like him is
our Chairman. He commands respect amongst the people in
the region, and is such a live mind.
The weather has turned, and it is colder now, with the
wonderful autumn skies here once again, along with the
irises and narcissus. The sun is very intense though and that
prompted us to really clean our irrigation tank; so now we have
our own swimming pool, all of four metres long, but very clean
and blue!!
The baby grows well and I feel fine. Sushil sends his love to
you too. All for now.. .Write when you can, and if not we’ll see
you in December.
P.S. Enclosed is a copy of Aarohi’s registration certificate.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 120

The next one, dated 25.10.92, was received on 4.11.92.

Oona was meticulous about keeping him informed specially
about work within his own area of interest and expertise, but
more than that I see warmth.
This time our trip to Delhi was a little different because we
didn’t get to see you — and I must admit that it always leaves
a somewhat unfinished sensation at the back of my heart.
Anyway, December is not so far away and we shall be down for
longer then.
Our trip to Delhi was quite productive in many ways. We
had a couple of things ready, namely a proposal for NWDB
[National Wastelands Development Board], a general proposal
of other droughts plus plans plus activities for the next 3-5
years, along with the concepts behind it, and a small community
health plan. Met Mr Rajanrani, Samar Singh, K Pande (Director
Volags), at NWDB. All of them were very nice and gave me a
lot of time. S S Rizvi was not in town. We are ready to start now
on forestry and land-use work, but I feel wiser after Chirag and
England.
I would think future work, specially related to community
forestry, needs to be more oriented towards regeneration +
protection + sensible village-institution-managed utilisations
(not creating sanctuaries) with a very small proportion of
effort in afforestation. The government tends to emphasise
afforestation but as we have seen from our Sida experience,
survival tends to be very low. Afforestation as an excuse for
protection is fine, because protection is the real need. I hope
we can work more with the Civil and Soyam, and specially
Reserved Forest DFOs. I have spoken a lot to the former DFO
in Nainital, a very discerning and interested lady, and we will
work together in a few villages around. As for Reserved Forests,
I am encouraged by the support of Range Officers and Guards,
etc., but I haven’t spoken to the DFO (Reserved Forests) yet. I’ve
met him before—he used to be an old Bahuguna chela.
The NWDB [now NAEB] has been quick to extend their
support, but as I was leaving, K Pande threw in a rider saying that
121 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

they are withholding processing it until they have something in

writing from the Reserved Forest chaps here. We need money
soon as it is seed collection time already, otherwise we lose a
year. I’ll write to him urging him to go ahead and permission
will definitely follow. I am sure of a favourable response. After
all it is four years since the Government of India resolution on
this, which at least set the policy on environment. I wonder if
you could put in a word, shall send a copy of the letter to you for
information. That’s forestry.
Oxfam may support us for core hinds. I wish we didn’t
have to parcel out our needs to funders So the search is still on
for a comprehensive taker. Summary enclosed. What do you
feel?
As for community health, VHAI’s Alok Mukhopadhyaya
put us onto the Rajiv Gandhi Foundation. Let us see if that
works.
That takes care of work. Also looking for someone to take
care of us as it is a bit tough. However, that is minor, and as is
always the case, it follows!
We extracted lots of apricot kernel oil this time in Delhi,
50 litres of it. The next step is putting it on the (limited test)
market.
Both of us are well, or should I say the three of us. The
weather is simply glorious. Lots of sunshine and clear skies, cold
nights and balmy days. A garden full of flowers and a symphony
of birdsong pre-dawn. What a privilege to be here.
All for now and lots of love to you and Mrs. Eswaran.
Wish Som Happy Birthday for the 3rd of November when
you next write. Thanks a lot for the baby hand-me-downs.
Much appreciated....

I find it interesting that Oona used the word ‘heart’ and

not mind when she expressed a sense of something missing
when they did not meet in Delhi.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 122

And, of course, there was a P.S. “Mummy tells us that you

are going to be in the area around the 1 Oth. Will you come
to us? Any dates fixed? Do let Mummy know, she’ll get the
message through to us.”
123 HOME IN SATOLI AND AAROHI

6
Only Connect

mong the last persons to have spent time talking

with Oona was Samina Mishra, a documentary
film C/ C/maker. She was the fourth person at
Satoli on 19 August 1996, the evening when Oona cooked the
mushrooms. They met in Nainital, at a workshop that morning,
and Oona brought her back because she had been trying to meet
Sushil for some months in connection with her work. Samina
described the evening they spent together—she, Oona, Ilya and
Sushil. A perfect setting and a happy family she recalled.
Oona had been busy finishing a report on the computer
(which had been donated by Surjit about two years earlier). Then
she asked what there was for dinner, and decided something
more needed to be done. She looked in the refrigerator, brought
a plate of mushrooms into the room, asked Sushil if they were all
right. He said yes, and she returned to the kitchen to cook them
and served them as an appetizer. Samina had only a spoonful
and Sushil did not eat much, but Ilya, sitting on the floor next
to them, tucked in. So did Oona.
When Samina came to see me in September she told me
how she had picked out Oona in the crowd at the workshop in
Nainital and asked the organisers, from an NGO in Almora, who
had convened the workshop, to be introduced. She told me how
spontaneously Oona had suggested that she come back with her
to Satoli after the morning session, meet Sushil, and that they
would both return the next day in time for work. Her eyes filled
with tears and she let them flow. My throat constricted and I
reached out for her hand. I could not hold back the upsurge
of pain, nor my tears. I excused myself and sought the privacy
of the terrace upstairs where I could release my sobs. When
emotion was spent, I washed my face and came down. “Sorry’!”
I said as I sat down. She smiled a gentle smile and silently put
her hand over mine. When she resumed talking she said she
had the feeling that that there was unfinished business, that she
was meant to do something, she didn’t know quite what. But
she felt that that was the purpose of her accidental meeting with
Oona.
I have a vague recollection that Samina telephoned on
her return from Nainital, that was the usual form, or did she
mention it in the hospital a few days later? She said that she
had a slightly queasy stomach and an uncomfortable night
journey back. Judging by Sushil’s reaction, in his share there
was obviously more poison. He was recovered enough by the
third or fourth day while Oona hovered between life and death.
When we talked of it later in Satoli, in September, he remarked
that his natural tolerance of toxins was quite high, for example
that leech bites did not bother him as much as they did most
others. In the same way as some people are affected more by
wasp stings than others; or mosquito bites for that matter.
Recently I asked Samina if she would put down on paper
what she told me then. She gave me a note:
My conversation with Oona on 20 August, on the
way back to Nainital from Satoli was, perhaps, the
only conversation in which we really talked. On
the way in to Satoli — my first meeting with her —
I was full of questions about her work and Aarohi
and she told me how it had been set up. We talked
about NGOs, people we knew in common, my film,
all those things that two people ask each other when
they meet for the first time. That evening she was
125 ONLY CONNECT

busy writing out a proposal while I chatted with

Sushil about the things I wanted to know for the
film. So, really, it was only the next morning that we
talked of concerns important in her work and mine,
some of them overlapping.
My film was on healthcare and based in UP. We
talked of NGOs providing services in a state so
riddled with problems. She was emphatic in her
belief that the government had failed in almost every
way at the grass roots and so any new attempts to
bring about change of any sort at the local levels
would have to include NGO contribution. I asked
about panchayati raj and the then recent government
declaration to form Uttarakhand. She thought it was
a positive step, seeing it as a way to generate faith
in government among the people, especially in far-
flung areas. Uttarakhand and panchayati raj would
be ways of ensuring that things functioned in a more
democratic manner, of using funds in the right ways,
of giving people more control over their resources.
And NGOs would have a substantial role to play in
all of this. 1 think she said: ‘We are the only ones who
have actually done some work at the grassroots...this
is an important time for us...I have a lot of thinking
and writing to do on all this...’
We talked a bit about Aarohi’s work and I told her
about using video as a tool in their work. She had
mentioned sanitation and how work done in one
village was used as an example for starting work in
another village. I told her that cheap video formats
could be used to document work and show it in other
places. I think she was quite excited by the idea, in a
quiet sort of way. She said she’d never thought of it
before but it seemed a good idea. She asked about
costs involved and said that it was not too difficult
these days for NGOs to raise money. I suggested that
Aarohi should think of buying a small video camera
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 126

of their own. She asked me to find out more about

costs. We were to meet on her next trip to Delhi,
in September. She took out her diary and wrote my
number in it and a note to call me.

Samina was also one of the many who kept vigil and offered
to donate blood. She still looks in occasionally and we have
discovered many other common connections. Samina met
Oona just that once but she remarks on feeling her presence
and the deep need to ‘do something’.

In these last few months so many other people too have told me
that they feel ‘connected’ with Oona, including people whom
she met just once, in August. The girl at the World Wide Fund
for Nature shop, for one. We were passing by that week and
Oona said, “Stop. Let me give this one last try.” We had been
trying for almost two years to persuade them to stock the apricot
oil and scrub but nothing had come of it. I didn’t go in with her.
She came out after about twenty minutes, beaming with delight.
“Yes, they will keep it! Will you reach them stocks?” I did, soon
after she left.
It was almost a month before I met the girl, Deepa. She
told me Oona had found her in the library and sat down next
to her to talk about Aarohi and this product which had done
so well in the market. The initial stocks had sold within a week
and she had called the house to tell Oona. That was how she
heard about the accident, and Oona being in hospital. When
she called again she found diat we had gone to Satoli with
Oona’s ashes. Her order this time was a relatively big one...“I
don’t know what it is. I feel as though 1 had known Oona all my
life, I feel so connected... I’m really sorry about what happened.”
Madhavi, daughter of a school friend of mine, Oona’s age,
127 ONLY CONNECT

is another who felt a bond, and who has been deeply affected.
She, too, met Oona only once, though they had each heard of
the other over the years. Madhavi works at the grass-roots level
too, for women’s empowerment through her NGO in another
district of U.P. Kalyan, she and Oona met in early 1996 when
each of their organisations was selected to implement the World
Bank aided project for safe drinking water, Swajal. In the past
two or three years she has lost three dear friends, all in their
early thirties, and we talk about why young ones in the prime
of life have to go. She feels very much for Sushil. She has been
to visit Satoli to offer her condolences personally and also to
experience for herself Oona’s work and environment.
Then there was Kalpana who came to visit us with her
family. We knew the family but I had never met her. Oona knew
her brother. They used to swim together in Chandimandir where
we were neighbours, but she and Oona had never met. They
knew Sushil’s family too, and she and her brother were Sushil’s
childhood friends. She visited Satoli, in January, and told us on
her return that she felt she was drawn there, compelled to go,
and that the presence of both Ilya and Oona was very strong.
“I feel I have to do something for Oona, but I don’t know
what—” Raise money, work there, help Sushil, were some of her
ideas. She described her visit at some length. It was dark when
she and Sushil reached. The unfamiliar place, no streets, no
lights, unnerved her. Walking along a narrow path, following
Sushil blindly, she was frightened. But, again and again, she
came back to the very tangible ‘presence’ she felt—a benign
presence—during those few days she was there.

The reaction from those who knew Oona well is, naturally,
much more intense. Bulbul, Shanta’s daughter, called from
Atlanta, Georgia. Our friendship goes back to the time when
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 128

Shanta taught Oona in pre-primary school and tried to make

her right- handed. I discovered that when Oona became weepy
and resisted going to school. We managed to sort that out.
Shanta had not known that Oona was naturally left-handed and
assumed that colouring, drawing or whatever had to be done
with the right hand. Our lives intersected again, a half-dozen
years later, when Gurbir was posted in Iran and Shanta lived
with her husband in Turkey where Gurbir was also accredited
as the Defence Attache. Bulbul was about eleven then, and Oona
eight. I recall Bulbul sharing in housework; preparing meals,
even if it was only sausages and bread for all four children,
including Aloke and her own younger brother.
When they were young adults and we were all in Delhi,
Shanta and I used to talk about the hazards of bringing up
daughters. Shanta took the route of enforcing strict control
over freedom for Bulbul. Oona had far greater autonomy in
managing her own life, partly because of the advantage of four
years in a co-educational boarding school, a mixed college and
then IRMA. Shanta’s marriage had broken by then and she and
Bulbul lived with mv mother for a few months until she decided
how to reorganise her life. Bulbul’s romance blossomed here
in the Hauz Kiras house. Her marriage, though, did not last
beyond five years.
Remarried and with two children, she heard the news
about Oona and Ilya about a month later, through the Madan
grapevine, her first husband’s family. Weeping, she could only
speak in broken sentences.
“It is so unfair...Why them?...It’s cruel...It just is not fair.”
I had to console her.
“It’s all right Bulbul. Don’t cry. She will always be with us.”
“She was the closest to a sister I never had...”
“Call Aloke. Be in touch with him. Talk to him. He too
needs help.”
“I don’t have many pictures of Oona,” she said when she
called again some days later, more composed and profusely
apologetic for having broken down. I have just sent her that
129 ONLY CONNECT

beautiful picture of Oona, the one taken in Ladakh in 1989.

Joyous Oona, unscarred yet by life. Bulbul is an artist, she
illustrates books too. She will dedicate the next one to Oona
and Ilya.

Another young woman, granddaughter of a very close friend

of Gurbir’s father, Dr Patrao of the Nair Hospital in Bombay,
sent a hand painted card with a lovingly inscribed note. “May
you always feel that your loved one is with you, for she lives in
your life and in the lives of those who knew her and loved her.”
They hadn’t met for seven years. “...I find it difficult to express
my sadness to you but I hope you and your extended family
find the strength of mind to carry on without Oona. As you
may remember, I spent three happy days with her up in the
mountains when she worked with Chirag in 1989 and I enjoyed
her company immensely The second day I was there it
snowed heavily and we tramped around in the snow. I was
heavily bundled up but Oona was wearing only her nightgown
and sweater and boots! I was full of admiration for her—her
toughness and tremendous spirit and love of life.”
I remember that winter. We too had been to visit over
Christmas and saw a snowfall, a light dusting which vanished
in two days. Aloke was with us. And Rohit Das, Oona’s friend
from school. A few days ago I wondered why Rohit had not
been in touch. A few days later, he came. Does thought create
the event, or merely presage it?
“I told her not to eat mushrooms then. I told her they can
be very dangerous. Why did she not listen...?” He heard from
his mother while he was at sea. “Did you get my letter?” He
had written in December, mailed it in Kuwait where his tanker
docked. It did not reach but he will give me a copy. It was during
that visit that they decided that their friendship would not lead
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 130

them to marriage.
“Did you know that I visited her in Gujarat too? When
she was at Amari Mandali and I was in Bombay.” He shook his
head... “I don’t know’ how anyone can live like that.”
“Rohit was shattered,” his father, Shomi Das, Headmaster
of Sanawar when Oona was there, told me. Rohit visits whenever
he is in Delhi. We became good friends ever since he joined
Jean and I for a trek in Nepal in 1988 while he was between
ships. He had wondered then how a hypothetical marriage
between them would work, with Oona in the hills and he at sea.
I recall that their views on children did not coincide. He wanted
to raise a family soon and Oona did not. “Did you keep her
letters, Rohit?” He had till last year. He destroyed them before
he went to sea in 1996.
Among the Oona-letters I have is one of January 1989,
soon after Rohit went back: “...it was, I am afraid, quite tense.
I wras looking forward to having him here but something has
happened. Neither of us is willing to be open and things really
didn’t evolve beyond affection and companionship. Of course,
the question of marriage came up again and again. I guess it just
doesn’t fit into my scheme of things at present. What more can
I say? I really don’t see any reason to play safe and ‘convenient’
on something so important. I haven’t done it all my life, and
there is nothing I have regretted so far. Life seems rich enough
for me and I’m sure it will be richer and richer as one goes down
the road. The hope of hoarding up happiness for the Future, or
expecting it at some later stage when it isn’t there right now,
doesn’t hold too much water for me. What do you both think?
It is important for me to know. Whenever.”
That was a difficult year for Oona and for me. She
complained that she had not heard from me in months. Was
I merely busy, or was I expressing my displeasure, a kind of
disowning, at the situation in which Oona seemed to have put
herself—it had become evident that she was in love with Sushil
but he was not free to return her love or make a commitment.
We had talked of it and I had expressed my opinion that she
131 ONLY CONNECT

was not doing die right thing; that in ignoring conventions she
would become very vulnerable both in her immediate work
environment and within the community in which her work lay.
All the fears from die days of my own youth surfaced when my
mother used to fill my head widi grisly stories of what happens
to young women when they stray from the straight and narrow
padi and how ‘men’ were not to be trusted. She said die only
thing they wanted from a young woman, or any woman, was
sexual gratification. We used to argue endlessly and I would
tell her that platonic friendships were also possible, that all
man-woman relations do not necessarily have to end in bed.
She would not be convinced. She insisted that proximity itself
would promote mtimacy. I had declined to be straitjacketed, or
concede that she was right because diat was not my experience.
I had found her point of view so warped that I was careful not
to pass on any such generalisations to Oona. Should I have been
more cautioning? Could she possibly be right after all?
I worried immensely that year because Oona showed no
signs of ‘settling down’. Lakshmi and I talked about it and she
asked me what I wanted for Oona. I thought deeply but and no
marriage specifics came to mind. All I could say to Lakshmi
was that I wished for her to achieve her own potential.

Sometimes I wonder if it is only the fact of the

circumstances of Oona and Ilya’s death that creates the feeling
among such diverse people of the need for a continuation. Or
was there something about them, about Oona herself, that left
such an impact?
I think it was a special quality she had which many of
her friends have tried to define for me. Khalid, with whom she
had travelled when they visited Madhu in Bastar in 1983 and
who brought her back when she became so ill, had called her
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 132

‘incorruptible’. I saw it as an ever-fresh innocence. At thirty-

three she looked about sixteen; she wore no make up, she
dressed simply. There was absolutely nothing devious about
her; she had an obvious integrity between thought and action
augmented with a sharp intelligence.
She and Gurbir would talk at a wide-ranging conceptual
level; sometimes about science or management, sometimes
politics, or sports. Recently, she had focused on the skills
needed to manage people because Aarohi had grown to about
thirty people, including the health project.
I was quite often left out of these conversations, either
because I’d be in the kitchen, or doing something else. In any
case politics bored me since I find it pointless to read about
sleazy manipulations and speculate about horse-trading. But I
did keep track of what was going on in U.P. and the agitation
for a separate hill state specially after Oona told me they had
once been mobbed because their Gypsy had an Orissa number
plate—OIG 139S. It was only because one of the youths in the
mob confirmed that they lived and worked in Satoli that they
were allowed to go unharmed. The Uttarakhand dream which
seemed so close to realisation then, and the prospects that
Oona saw when she spoke to Samina, collapsed in September
1996 when President’s rule was imposed and there was virtual
mayhem in the state. It has just been lifted and an elected
government installed. The compromise arrangement is that
the two main contenders for the post of chief minister will
share office, six months each, rather in the way that Oona and
Eera had shared being head girl in Sanawar. In their case the
compromise arrangement was made because they were both
outstanding and not because of internal politicking. They were,
and they remained good friends.
Gurbir admires ‘success’ whichever form it takes. Oona
could see beyond its outward manifestation and quite often
laugh. She admired beauty specially when it was expressed
in physical skill. She liked to watch dance, gymnastics, all the
winter sports, and swimming and diving when she had the
133 ONLY CONNECT

chance. Better than watching, she wished for the skills for
herself and worked hard at whatever she took up. It was why
she was so grateful to have her knee functioning well again.
In these past five years I saw that she had developed
immense patience. When we were chasing the application with
die central government for permission to receive money from
foreign donors, a prerequisite for some funding agencies, there
was a great deal of what I saw as nit-picking but they called it
Rules.
To spare her the ordeal, besides the expense, of coming
to Delhi to follow up, I took that task on myself. When I saw
different standards being applied to different organisations and
began to get irate, she said, “Don’t get worked up. We’ll get it
some day. If in the process they want us to dance, okay, we’ll
dance.” Dance was a funny word to use, she was translating the
Hindi idiom, nachaana, which expresses perfectly what she
meant. If they want to give us the run around (the purpose of
which was generally believed to be too obvious to need further
comment, and if we did not know that we were naive), then we
would do the ego-stroking repeat visits.
Above all Oona had an obvious genuineness. Tara Jauhar,
the administrative head of Aurobindo Ashram in Delhi, had
seen it. When we met her in mid-August she suggested we
contact her in November. I asked if she could spare a few
minutes then since Oona may not be in Delhi in November.
She changed from being barely receptive to taking tine decision
to stock the Aarohi apricot oil and scrub within five minutes of
listening to Oona talk about Aarohi. I had felt the turnabout,
and Oona too had wondered. Tara had then volunteered that
24 August would be a good day to introduce the product. It was
their parent-teacher day for the International School and there
would be lots of people there. She would provide a table but we
should have our own sales persons. Oona noted it in her diaiy
and on the way to her next meeting we discussed the change.
Oona was very pleased because this avenue as a retail
oudet had been pending for about two years. You go, she would
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 134

say to me. No. You must do this yourself, I would say. Finally,
we found time. That is what triggered my comment, perhaps by
way of explanation, when I told her that she was an extremely
impressive young woman.
It was the week she came home ‘without bag and baggage’
as she joked.
She remembered the appointment in the hospital. On
the morning of the 24th, the day she was to have the dialysis,
she had told me: “Deepak and Pramod will be coming today.
Remind them. They have to go to Aurobindo Ashram.” Yes, I
said. I would remind them. They came, but could not move
from the waiting area outside the ICU.

Oona took a direct path to be where she was. After her

postgraduation from the Institute of Rural Management
(IRMA) in Anand, Gujarat, she joined a small organisation,
Amari Mandali, working with tribal girls in a forested region of
south Gujarat. Suresh Bhai, who wrote about Oona continuing
his own dream elsewhere as his ‘Maanas putri’, and Meera Tanna,
had founded it. They wished to benefit the girls of the area by
equipping them with a means of livelihood. They started with
sixty and a few looms but hoped to increase that number to two
hundred. Oona was to look after all the administrative needs
of the carpet weaving and training centre including procuring
orders and raw materials, bodi largely from Jaipur, and then
shipping die finished goods back. But she wanted to do so much
more. She mentioned ecology and non-formal education to me
then. She gave herself a time frame, eighteen months, but found
that frustration set in earlier. Organisational interest did not
develop in the areas in which she was keen to initiate action.
I remember how distressed she was. She felt also that in die
course of work there was very little dialogue between them. She
135 ONLY CONNECT

did n°t feel part of the dynamics of the team and she was not
Prepared to slave blindly.
She had written a very disturbed, and disturbing, letter.
It was difficult for me to frame my response then, considering
the time and space that separated us. As I recall I suggested that
nothing is worth it if the price to be paid was the destruction of
physical or mental health. I suggested she should consider the
option of leaving if the situation did not improve. I did not even
know what the situation was. Then, or later. Or now. Madhu
too, as he told me in February, had received an anguished letter
at that time which he thinks he still has somewhere.
At the first opportunity I went to visit because the letter had
alarmed me. It indicated that she was close to a disintegration
of personality. We talked. She felt excluded. I explained that as
an employee she would need to establish a different relationship
from the freewheeling one she had experienced while she did
her practical training there during her last term at IRMA. It was
the warmth of that experience that drew her back to work with
them after she graduated, but die rules had changed.
She had no one to talk to. The only other person on the
‘campus’, which was little more than a clearing in the middle
of a forest, was the master weaver and trainer who spoke little
English. There were no neighbours, no telephone, no electricity.
The nearest place she could have found friends was either
Bombay or Anand, each a whole day’s journey. A bus to Fort
Songadh, the only bus that went by. Change to anodier for
Surat. Then by train, a few hours to Bombay, or, in the opposite
direction, a few more to Ahmedabad or Baroda. Then, from
there, about thirty kilometres by taxi to Anand. That was about
half way to Delhi. A group of students from IRMA visited
while I was there; everyone could see something was dreadfully
wrong but no one could quite pinpoint it. The faculty member
too, whom Oona knew well and respected, was helpless. Tier
only recreation was to swim in the river nearby and to write
letters urging friends to visit.
When Oona left Amari Mandali she was offered many
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 136

jobs in Ahmedabad, the State capital, by non-government

organisations working in the social sector or on degraded
lands. Oona chose to explore options in the Himalayas instead.
She visited Bulbul, who had married and moved to Manali. Ren
Madan, Bulbul’s father-in-law, was considering working there
in integrated rural development, Oona’s field broadly. She was,
in fact, a founding member of his NGO, at least on paper as I
recall distincdy.
Ultimately she chose Kumaon—Sida with CHIRAG, the
Central Himalayan Integrated Rural Action Group. And so
the Lalls, Lakshmi and Kanai, came into her life, and ours.
Aranya, the Lall’s home and orchard, is exquisitely beautiful
and Lakshmi such a splendid hostess that it is difficult not to
fall in love with the place.
Kanai, the chairman, wove a splendid dream, and Oona
found it irresistible. Besides, Kalyan and Anita were strong
incentives. Kanai had brought Kalyan in from the National
Dairy Development Board, Anand, as Executive Director to
implement the dream. Anita’s role was somewhat amorphous
initially though she too was trained as a social worker. They
had known Oona in Anand and also visited her in Amari
Mandali, so it was inevitable that Kalyan should have thought
of her when he began building his tearri. Jojo, their son, was
only about two as I recall and quite a handful. Oona came in to
initiate the forestry programme and within a year, became the
Team Leader for Forestry.
We drove Oona up in December 1987. It was a cold crisp
day. We had spent the night at Rudrapur to break the journey
s° that we would reach mid-morning rather than late evening
Slnce the days are short in winter and it begins to get dark soon
after five.
The sky was a clean washed blue with no traces of pollution.
We took the Ramgarh road past the orchards where our peach
and flowering plum were bought.
The forest beyond Bhowali up to the Gagar pass, the 9,000-
foot ridge that marks the entry into the Mukteswar region,
137 ONLY CONNECT

begins with a belt of sal, planted close together and growing

more than a 100’feet straight up. Gradually this gives way to a
mixed rhododendron and pine forest with some oak and other
temperate climate deciduous trees. Here the dark green of the
rhododendron predominates. It was not in flower then.
As we reached the saddle we came face to face with
the Himalayas. It was a moment of epiphany. All three of us
reacted simultaneously: there was a gasp, and a long drawn out
“Ooooh!” Automatically Gurbir stopped the car, Oona and I
did not need to ask. We stepped out and faced the mountains in
speechless awe, breathing deeply.
Known as the Central Garhwal Himalayas these mountains
are often called the Abode of the Gods. Nanda Devi presides,
flanked by Trishul to the west, Nanda Kot to the east and further
along the five sharp pyramid peaks of Panch Chuli. The legends
associated with the mountains go back to the Mahabharata, the
great epic poem which is the repository of the wisdom of the
Ancients and where the Bhagavad Gita belongs.
Before us the ground dropped steeply but the eye was
transfixed in the distance. The snow covered peaks sparkled
in the early morning sun. A dark ridge, it could have been
Binsar, and nudging it Almora, stretched beneath the snowline
accentuating the pristine whiteness. Below those ridges was a
sea of cloud. Thick chunky clouds, fluffed up like the cotton that
goes into a razai, rested snugly in the intervening valleys. And
beyond tire mountains was a pure, blue crisp sky.
The seduction was complete. Oona would choose to live
nowhere else other than in the shadow of these mountains.

Oona’s time in Chirag served as a learning period for her.

She bubbled with enthusiasm and spread her wings. She was
flying high, as Kalyan wished for her in his inscription on the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 138

H.G. Wells book given to her on her twenty-fifth birthday. She

was learning and she was thinking. She was in the process of
taking charge of her life.
When Oona joined, the health programme was to be
looked after by a young woman doctor who, most unfortunately,
died within three months. It was a great setback for Chirag.
The process of finding a replacement took some months and a
couple was identified, Sushil was one half of that couple.
However, as with Amari Mandali, some disillusionment
set in within eighteen months, aggravated by the uncertain
situation with Sushil. Oona did some soul searching:
Bad news. Both my cats have disappeared. Dimita went
first, and then Noxi. It is probably the Pine Marten. Well, I was
never in the habit of keeping them locked up and this is, I guess,
expected. I feel rotten and disoriented at times, specially when
I hear what sounds like a cat’s meaow.
It’s good to have Kanai and Lakshmi here. There have
been some interesting visitors. Representatives of the Swiss
Development Corporation, a Doctor couple from Bombay who
are also, incidentally, seasoned mountaineers, and recently a
young couple (an American with a Sri Lankan lady) who are
keen to volunteer their sendees. All good Visit’s. But I’ve not
been so sociable. That way Kalyan has a remarkable ability to
interact.
Sushil says that he’ll leave, but I am trying hard not to
believe it. It depends on how he is treated.... He is getting on
with his work in a quiet and sure way, often getting unbelievable
responses at times. At the Friday Gahena clinic he’s been seeing
over 40 patients from some far away village — they come in full
force. It’s nice to watch it grow.
Today an awful case came. One man smashed his head
and fractured some vertebrae when a boulder fell on his horse,
which bucked. The poor man was going to buy grass.... He’ll not
make it, perhaps.
The nurseries are ticking along, some well, and some not
so well. But we are at an interesting stage of attending lots and
139 ONLY CONNECT

lots of village meetings, and there are plenty of very varied

decisions which villagers are taking when their groups are
allowed to focus in an organic way on a certain issue. The issue
of forests is so close to their hearts that discussions are bound
to be polarised.
Any news from Rohit? I haven’t heard from him in months.
He should be in Bombay neck deep studying for his exams.
Book news. Kalyan wants: Magic and Mystery in Tibet -
Alexandra David-Neel and another Atlas of Planet Management
for die office.... I haven’t read for AGES. Feel quite dry’ in the
mind.

Six months later, when she had been with Chirag about
eighteen months, she wrote to us, introspectively. The letter is
dated 7 August 1989:
Just got lots of letters from you, the latest ones being full
of news and birdiday greetings. It was good to get them in
time, thank you for the presents. Kalyan has been reading the
Himalayas that he got from you, and he really thinks that it is
one of the best coffee table books he has ever come across.
These days we are all so busy, but with energy fast running
out. I’ve finally caught the bug today, myself. It started with a
bad tiiroat, but now I’m beginning to feel a littie buzzed in die
head and colder than usual. Let’s see how it evens out. Some
right care in time should halt it, whatever it is. At the moment
I’m sitting here in the ambulance writing to you all on my
favourite book these days — Arthur C. Clarke. Am waiting
for Sushil, Anita and the odier members of the health team to
finish with their weekly clinic at Buribana, far away from Sitla
I just
came to relax, and find out what was happening on the
front of private land planting.
Papa, I got your letter about die Inlaks scholarship and
have been thinking about it. Thank you for taking the trouble of
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 140

sending it to me. I’ll look at it carefully and send it down to you.

I’ve also been thinking about after-Chirag-what? I have
been forced to think about it. It is a pity but the resonance
is going out of Chirag slowly, seeping out. And I don’t know
how easily this proposition is going to get reversed. There are a
number of reasons for this, so let me just simplify it and put it
point-wise...

The assessment continued for two pages, clinical in its

objectiveness. But there were plans to look forward to—the trip
to Ladakh in September. “Could you put in a request for 10 kg
kagzi walnut and 10 kg good quality’ almonds for seed for our
nurseries here. The almonds are doing really beautifully. We’ll
pay for it of course... just ask someone expert to choose the seed
for us.”
The letter ended with the usual, “That’s all for now, lots of
love to all. I’m sending rakhi letters for you to forward ” ‘rh c
inevitable postscripts followed:
P.S. Please thank Dadiji very very much for her present
to me, which I appreciate greatly and will use for this piece of
land whenever it materialises — waiting for Uncle Ravi to come
back. I’ll write to Dadiji soon. I’ve been very bad with my letters
but I presume she reads mine. I haven’t even replied to Jasleen
yet. Bye, again and thanks again for the birthday wishes. Jojo’s
birthday tomorrow.
P.P.S. Saw two absolutely gorgeous Yellow Throated
martens at Raju’s house. Really pretty they were.

She learned fast, the martens were not held guilty. Last
year she remarked that the life span of cats in the house seemed
to be about one year. Beautiful Celadon, offspring of Surjit’s
Himalayan Seal Point and a Siamese, was allowed to live in
freedom in Satoli. With his shaggy coat, creamy white colouring
141 ONLY CONNECT

relieved by dark points, the colour on the tips of his ears and
tail, he managed to survive a bit longer. The pine martens must
have been puzzled.
She had asked for a replenishment of clothes.
I told her when she got married I would keep her in
clothes for five years, she didn’t even wait for five. Why did I
say that? She didn’t take a trousseau. She bought no saris or
jewellery. Not even her wedding outfit. “Why do you want to
waste money?” she said. “I’ll wear something of yours.” When
we went through the silks, she stopped at the apricot Banaras
brocade which my mother bought, for the princely sum of Rs
60 she remembers, when she went to England in the 1920s. It
was a lot of money in those days.
“This. I will wear this.” It has a broad, exquisitely worked
border, and flower motifs all over, gold zari on shot silk, a
double-shaded weave, widi the centres of the flowers in silver
and a deep blue. Oona thought the blue was tarnished silver
and we took the sari to have it polished. The man said it did not
need polishing. The gold was muted but not dulled. Then Oona
looked carefully and saw the blue as blue.
We did buy one new sari drough, on Aloke’s behalf. A
rose tanchoi, a silk brocade. She wore that every subsequent
occasion she had, including the wedding reception for Aloke
and Yasmir in America in January 1994.
Dadiji’s gift of money was made to all her grandchildren
when she gained control of finances after Gurbir’s father’s death.
Oona put hers away, saving it for the land she wanted to buy.

The Inlaks scholarship did not work out, just as the Rhodes
hadn’t while she was in Amari Mandali. She was dejected but I
had tried to tell her to look at it positively—at least she had been
short-listed for both. She wrote about her feelings and thoughts
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 142

at some length at the end of January 1990 from Sida.

Thanks Papa for your letter of the 19th which reached me
two days ago. Pm disappointed with the fact that 1 didn’t get
die Inlaks—I wonder what went wrong. It must have been the
person who wanted me to study in India. I really don’t know’,
but I don’t feel good about it at all. As it is, I’m cynical of the
intelligentsia of this country’, and doubtful of their capability
of recognising commitment for the needy and paying practical
attention to the real issues of the day. So these letdowns, the
Rhodes scholarship and the Inlaks scholarship, almost confirm
it. It may be petulant for me to think like this, but what else
can I think? You’ll be able to tell me if any faults lie with me;
whether I’m intolerant, or don’t put in enough effort, or am not
clear in my head about what I want to do, or what.
It is occasions like this which draw me to introspection
and may be a clear enough light isn’t thrown by this handful
of us here in the mid- Himalayas summing up die situation.
What do you think? Do tell me, both of you. You must be as
disappointed as I, considering the amount of effort that was
made. The essays were a good exercise. Everybody here enjoyed
reading the drafts, but I wanted Kalyan to read the corrected
copy, he hasn’t seen it yet.
As for the future, well, now I need to think it out again.
It seems a little insecure at present, and I’ve still not recovered
from my assumption that I may have got that chance to study.
I still need to answer all those questions in my head, need die
break, but don’t know’ how to set about *t- Things will fall into
place soon, I suppose. Yes, please do write to the University of
Sussex for me. May be I should apply to the Oxford Forestry
School directly too.
Shekhar Pathak, a fairly well known historian in Kumaon
University came, he showed a fairly long and involved
slideshow on the Himalayas which covered the geographical,
environmental and social aspects, so you can imagine how long
it was. The slides were great and he speaks beautiful Hindi.
Who knows what shape this organisation is going to take.
143 ONLY CONNECT

These last few days Kalyan and I have talked quite a lot, Sushil
and I discuss it at great length in any case. But one thing is sure.
That our earlier vision, of building a group revolving around our
dreams and moulding it to help us best fulfil them, is certainly
not on the cards. Kanai definitely wants to helm, and it’s going
to be in a corporate way he is used to.

The letter was finished a few days later. “It has not rained for
a month and that is terrible considering that there should be
lots of winter rains. The ground is absolutely parched and there
have been lots of forest fires as well. One in the IVRI forest,
one in Binsar forest, and one on practically every hill on the
horizon. I’m glad you stopped at Sat Tal. Isn’t it a dream of a
place? That whole forest is a Bauhinia forest.”
Bauhinia seeds she had wanted.
“Still haven’t planned my holidays for the year. Have you
any plans? Should I take up the Kenya offer with Pooji? I’ll come
down for a few days sometime soon. You can see I’m muddled.”
“Good for Nivedita that she got this break. It fits into her
scheme of things well.” Nivedita her friend since die age of eleven
who had taken a parallel path. And news of common friends,
the Rizvis: “I had a lovely letter from Janet recendy. Sayeed is
due to come to Delhi to the Ministry of Environment.” The
chinars flanking their building came from Kashmir, courtesy
Sayeed.
Then, a broad picture of die total funding scene in Chirag-
“This year it will be more. So, we are big aren’t we? It is funny
to know that the U.P. funding of forestry by the National
Wasteland Development Board is Rs 20 lakhs and of that 12
lakhs comes to Chirag!!!”
A special note for my mother: “Naniji, a very happy
belated birthday to you for the 10th.” And, finally, a definite,
“Yes, 1 shall write more.”
Despite all the odds, Sussex did work out for her in 1990.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 144

It was a British Council scholarship granted with the support

of the Ministry of Environment. Usually the nominees were
people in government.

“I have a lot of thinking and writing to do”, she had said to

Samina. Well, that won’t happen now in this world. But I will
do the next best for her and share what she had already thought
and written.
“Remember her,” Swami Bhoomananda had said to
me in November. “And continue to do whatever she Was
interested in...” That too we will do.
“Will you do as I ask?” he had then asked me at my
third meeting with him. Yes.
“Think of them. Hold them dear. And you will
find they are more with you now than when they were
physically alive.”
Strangely, it is true. They are with me as I write. They
145 ONLY CONNECT

are in my thoughts for the rest of the day when I am not

actually writing.
When people ask me what I ‘do’, I tell them the
externals of my life and also mention that I am writing.
Yes? “About Life.” That is too vague. They wait, and I add,
“and Oona.”
It causes some consternation: “Oh! Hmmm. That’s
good.” And they translate that to mean a kind of catharsis.
I can hear them think: “It is a part of the grief process.
Poor thing, how terrible for her...She can’t get away from
it.”
Others are more specific. They say, “You must move
on. Life goes on. ” Don’t dwell on it is what they mean.
They don’t wish to be reminded that unfortunate accidents
happen. People die. They get sick too. And some live
miserable lives. Ultimately we all die.
But they don’t know that I don’t feel depleted. I have
instead a great sense of fullness when I am writing, or
thinking. They don’t know I feel them with me, a part of
me. I don’t explain, merely smile a fraction of a smile. But
inside it is different, it is a whole smile.
Oona did what she had to. Now I am doing what I
must.
 7
The Bigger Picture

oday, 21 March 1997, is the spring equinox The

towering silk cotton trees, standing like sentinels
with arms akimbo, have a carpet of enormous
fleshy flowers, red touched with orange, beneath them. The
flowers hit the ground with a flat thud. There is one near the
gate and I have seen cows stop to investigate them and eat those
freshly fallen. The rest are squashed to pulp by passing cars.
It is also the time of leaf fall, specially the neem. The tree is
never bare because new leaf is almost instantaneous. The pipal
in the park has put out new leaves, a shiny copper, translucent,
turning opaque and rust-green within days. Ficus religiosa. It
is Shiva’s tree. Called the Bodhi tree, it is equally the Buddha’s.
And tradition has it, Vishnu’s.
All over the city the kachnars are in bloom. The deep pink
with large blooms came out first, then the smaller pale pink, and
now the white. The kidney shaped, twin-lobed leaves identify
them readily even when they are not in flower. Bauhinia.
Everything seems to take me back to some connection with
Oona.
Like a circle. A spiral of circles, some tight, some loose,
but there.
Exactly a year ago Oona asked me to collect kachnar
seeds for her, from the dozen trees in our part of the colony. It
is a good tree for fodder she said. She wanted to give them to
147 THE BIGGER PICTURE

the people in the villages at a lower altitude than Satoli, down

towards the river. I had already collected and given her a large
bag of seed, with pod. In May last year, when I was in the throes
of my unrest, I turned into the Lodi Estate house where we lived
while Oona and Aloke were at the University, in the early 1980s.
I remembered that I had planted a kachnar tree there. I would
get more seeds for her. White-flowering.
That morning suddenly burst into my memory like a
storm cloud. So far it had no more significance than had Ilya’s
crying spell on a spring afternoon, but taken together with so
many other incidents it looms disquieteningly.
I had turned in on an impulse without knowing who lived
there, except that it had to be someone in the Defence Services.
I was told the lady of the house was in and I wondered if she
would be suspicious of me, or of my request for kachnar seeds.
I was shown into the living room. From the decorations, some
pennants and a replica of a heavy spoked wheel, it was evident
that her husband was in the Navy. It was also evident that she
was a neat and tidy person. When she emerged a few minutes
later, I introduced myself as having lived in the house about
thirteen years ago, and she welcomed me almost as though I
were a friend she had not seen for a long time. Over a glass of
cold nimboo pani I told her why I was there, and we exchanged
notes about how lucky the house had been for each of us.
Lucky for me because that was where Oona had not
died, then. She was dreadfully ill with cerebral malaria and it
had been touch and go. I pointed out to her the place, in the
living room, where I had a havan done in thanksgiving when
she got better. There was just Oona, Shanta and myself. Shanta
had come to visit and so it happened, quite spontaneously. We
improvised with the ingredients but she knew the right prayers
and slokas. It was mid-morning. Gurbir was away at work and
Aloke at college.
It happened in the summer of 1983. Oona had gone with
Madhu and Khalid to Orissa, the southernmost bit close to the
Bastar area where the three states of Madhya Pradesh, Bihar
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 148

and Orissa have a trijunction. We had been quite concerned

after hearing Madhu’s accounts of earlier visits. He described
it as being perhaps the last tribal stronghold in the country not
contaminated by the twentieth century; the people there still
lived in a culture centuries old. They were forest dwellers and
hunters.
Madhu said one of the problems was that malaria was
endemic in the region. When I suggested that Oona take a
mosquito net how embarrassed she was. Firmly, and rather
scornfully, she turned down the idea. Really, Mummy! But
she did agree to take prophylactic anti-malaria pills at Gurbir’s
insistence. I can’t remember if Madhu and Khalid did. Obviously
they had not worked. Khalid brought her back. A day’s journey
by foot through the forest to Jeypore, and then a two-day train
journey at the height of the scorching summer. She looked like
a wraith when I saw her, she had been ill already for four or five
days.
I found myself telling my hostess all this. She asked me
which room Oona had been in. I pointed to the small room at
the corner, along the verandah, both of which overlooked the
lawn.
“That is a blessed room. The Guru of the Radha Soamis
stayed overnight in that room forty years ago.”
I gave silent thanks again to the powers that be and
we talked of one thing and another. She was unaware of the
kachnar tree. It was not in seed and none of the household help
knew whether it was white-flowering as I recalled it should
be. I continued to tell her more about Oona—her interest in
non-formal education, Ilya, the primary school in Satoli and
her search for resource people. Krishna, for that was her name,
was due to leave for America and we agreed we would be in
touch when she returned after three months. Krishna told me,
as I was leaving, that she was a numerologist and that she had
many engagements there. That was towards the end of March,
perhaps early April.
In September 1996 when we had returned from Satoli,
149 THE BIGGER PICTURE

and after the kirtan had been held on the 7th and Aloke had
recovered from his bout of high fever and returned to America,
I remembered her. I felt a strong impulse to let her know what
had happened.
This time we sat in what had been Oona’s bedroom, now
Krishna’s study. It was about ten minutes into the visit that I was
able to tell her.
“Mushrooms? But that is unthinkable. Didn’t they
know...?”
Incredulity, shock and horror are invariably the first
reactions.
Yes, they did know, but For me too at that time, it
was the finality, the irrevocability, which was so hard to accept.
And, of course, the questions: Did it have to happen? Was it
ordained? Or are we like flies to wanton Gods who kill us for
their sport?
She asked for Oona’s date of birth, and busied herself with
some calculations. While she was engrossed I watched and
saw her shake her head occasionally. “Too many sevens...,” she
muttered. “ Neptune...”
Neptune triggered another memory.
When Oona left Delhi on 17 August, after the Ramana
Maharishi talk, I was still unable to settle down to any kind of
serious work even though I wanted to get it behind me before
the three of them returned in September. That holiday was
planned because Sushil had to go to Orissa for his consultation
work, they would all drive down together. However restless
I felt I forced myself to concentrate on the Bibliophile work
because the orders had begun to come in.
I tried for three days but by Wednesday I gave up. It was 21
August 1996. It was cloudy and by the afternoon the sky became
dark grev, ominous, heavy with rain. There was that peculiar
kind of light, not the mellow gold of the sun low in the sky but a
deep dusk before its time, a brooding darkness. I was sitting in
the verandah when Raja Menon came by. He had called in mid-
August, he wanted me to help him out with some copy editing
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 150

work on his manuscript and I told him only after Oona left.
“Oh! Oona’s there?” he had remarked, and asked to speak to her.
Oona had spoken to him and he announced “Surprise!” and
handed the phone to Aditya who also happened to be visiting.
That was a lucky coincidence, Oona had commented. The
previous day I had been over to see what exacdy was needed.
“Come, let’s go to the farm. We’ll be back in two hours.”
We have talked about going to the farm for five years and never
done so. I could see that I would not get any work done, so I
picked up my binoculars and we went. By the time we were half
way there, about half past four, the rain came down in torrents.
When we turned off the highway on to the kutcha road he
had to use four-wheel drive as the jeep slithered in the mud
threatening to go off the road any moment. I was sure that we
would never make it. It reminded me of the time when we got
stuck in slush and mud in Borivili years ago, but then Pupsa,
Aditya, Aloke and Oona all joined in the pushing to extricate
the car.
We did make it though. The rain too stopped and there
was the promise of a good sunset. Raja’s treat at the farm is to go
for a swim in the seasonal lake, two properties away. After tea
we walked down together, skirting the standing crops. He left
his possessions—clothes, watch and wallet—in my care while
he set off into the water. It was idyllic; a large stretch of water,
quite calm, with no buildings in sight. There were a few duck on
the water, spotbills, and I also saw three nukta in flight. Weaver
birds flitted in and out of the millet stalks which were ripe with
seed.
In ten minutes or so Raja had reached the middle of the
lake. He swam smoothly without splashing or creating ripples.
As I stood looking at the expanse of water, I saw Ilya in the
shallows where Raja had picked his way in across the ooze. I
had watched him wade till the water came mid-thigh and knew
that it was quite safe. I did not worry about her. Then in the
middle of the lake I saw Oona’s head, with Raja’s a little bit
further away. Momentarily a thought flashed through my mind,
151 THE BIGGER PICTURE

“What if something happens to Oona?” Instantly I reassured

myself that she would come to no harm; that Raja was there, he
would save her. I saw the two figures quite clearly, not merely
imagined them, and I can hear the words still in my head. In
fact, when we were returning I was quite excited at the prospect
of having the use of this lovely lake. I told Raja that if he came
out again in the first week of September, he must tell me a day
in advance. If Oona had work she would schedule it so we could
all come out with him. I remember thinking how much all of
them, Gurbir, Oona, and Ilya, would enjoy the swim. The clarity
of this stayed with me through the evening and I told Gurbir
about the farm and the lake, and what I had seen. The next day,
Thursday the 22nd, we got the news about Ilya being ill and it
dropped from memory.
The mention of Neptune brought it back. Water. The
image of Oona’s head in the water merged with another. That
is exactly how the earthen urn carrying her ashes looked in the
distance after we had done the rites for her at Garhmukteswar.
The same place where Ilya had joined the elements, during a
lull in the rain. “What are they doing now...” Oona had asked
me then about her.
Sushil had transferred half the ashes to the urn, the rest
we would carry to Satoli. There were seven of us in the boat,
excluding the pujari. The details of the puja escape me but I
remember Sushil holding the urn, its mouth covered with the
usual checkered red cloth. The boat headed out where the water
was turbulent just past the piers of the bridge. I took a handful
and put them directly into the swirling water with some flowers.
Slowly the boat was rowed out of the turbulence towards the
middle of the river. In this surface quiet, Sushil gendy released
the urn into the water. The current took charge of it and it
bobbed gracefully on the water heading downstream. We were
the only ones out on the Ganga at that time in the morning.
As the boatman rowed back to the bank we watched the urn
receding into the distance. There was a sandbank on the right,
and we saw it slow down before it was deflected into the middle
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 152

of the river again. Past the sandbank it moved purposefully

on its journey towards the sea. How far along, I wondered,
would the ashes in the urn actually merge with the waters of
the holy Ganga. The Ganga that was fed by the streams which
drained the hills she knew so well. Streams flowing down from
the mountains under whose shadow she and Ilya lived, the
mountains she loved so much.
Krishna, when I told her about the lake, started talking
about the significance of water in dreams. But it was not a
dream. I don’t recall that I ever ‘saw’ anything earlier in this
way, and with such vividness. It had puzzled me slightly at the
time but the passing thought of danger to Oona did not frighten
me. Perhaps it should have.

The evening I was out at the lake with Raja, I discovered

when I pieced together the sequence of events in Satoli, was the
same evening when Kalyan and Anita, and Mohit and Annu,
drove Sushil, Oona and Ilya to Ranikhet.
Sushil had carried Ilya down to the mini-hospital to put
her on the drip. The others, including Oona, were to follow an
hour or so later and they would then carry on. Annu said that
Oona was quite weak but she was able to walk down herself,
stopping a few times to rest. They did not have to carry her. It
was raining and the hillside was slushy but they made it. The
drive to Ranikhet was slow because it started raining heavily
and they also had to stop frequently to allow all three of them
time to retch and for Ilya to use the potty. They reached the
hospital at about eight, the time I reached home from the farm
that day.
When I think about it I wonder if I was dense when
the thought of danger crossed my mind. I ask myself if I had
registered it as a warning could I have done anything? As it
happens, no, nothing. They had ingested the poison forty hours
153 THE BIGGER PICTURE

earlier, the most potent in the vegetable kingdom. As we came

to know action needs to be taken within two hours. They are
not on the phone. They are ten hours away by road. What could
I have done? Prayed?
Ever since Oona decided that she would live in Satoli,
our attitude had been one of trust. Trust that things would
be all right. Gurbir’s mother prays whenever anyone in the
family travels. May they reach safely. She keeps them in mind
for the whole duration of the trip and has a travel schedule
beside her. She prays again to thank God when they reach their
destinations.
It is her way of warding off the evil eye. The same nazar
of which Pratap Bhaiya had spoken in Satoli, the same nazar I
tried to avert in Delhi by burning the chillies.
The alarm bells did not ring for me. As they did not for
Oona when she pulled out the mushrooms from the refrigerator.
Nor for Sushil even though he had asked Manbahadur when
they were brought to the house, while Oona was in Delhi, “Yeh
thik hai?” picking up the white one. The other three or four
were brownish according to Bachi and Anandi. Oona trusted
Sushil. Sushil trusted Manbahadur. Neither of them used their
own judgement. Russian roulette, Aloke had called it.
“Did it have to happen?” I asked Krishna. She said that
this was the very question in her mind about a friend of hers
with a serious kidney problem who was on the brink of a coma.
“Strangely,” she said, “he was bom on the same date as Oona, 7
August, but a different year.” She had been exploring alternate
therapies and I shared with her whatever information I had
collected. In fact the homeopathic medicine that Dr Banerji
had given Oona for the kidneys was still in my bag. I gave it to
her along with his phone number and address.
To my question about Oona, she seemed to think, Yes, it
had to happen. I checked with her some weeks later how her
friend was. He was holding out well.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 154

The fact is that it did happen. It happened to Oona and

Ilya. It happened to others. In Satoli they told us of two families
a few years earlier where everyone died. They speculate now it
could have been amanita poisoning.
There was a news item in August, while Oona was in
hospital,
that two people had died of mushroom poisoning in
Germany— a father and his twenty-year-old daughter. They
had picked wild mushrooms while camping in a forest and
eaten them. Someone told me months later. Amanita, it was
assumed.
Aloke mentioned another case in California. I have a
cutting from the New York Times, of 22 January 1997, from
the section on The Living Arts. “Sam Sebastiani Jr, 32, of the
California wine-making family is believed to have died from
eating the wild death-cap mushroom (Amanita phalloides)”
The recent torrential rains in the San Francisco Bay area, it
mentioned, had led to a bumper crop of mushrooms, and nine
people were hospitalised in a month having eaten poisonous
ones they apparently picked themselves. “Fie was one of three
victims awaiting a possible liver transplant at the University of
California at San Francisco Medical Center when he died.”
If Sam Sebastiani died in a land where medical aid was
available immediately, what chance did Oona and Ilya have?
The report continued: “Eating Amanita is Russian roulette,”
exactly the phrase Aloke had used. It quoted Mr Gottfried of
Gourmet Garage: “It gives some people the same thrill as eating
fugu in Japan. Despite my years of collecting, I don’t play with
them at all. For all their culinary legend, I would just as soon
be safe.”
Anjolie told me that when she and Raja went picking
mushrooms in Russia, along with hundreds of others, they had
155 THE BIGGER PICTURE

to pay a rouble and show the harvest to experienced women

who would discard undesirables before allowing them to leave.
Occasionally, they would insist that the entire collection be
abandoned. Kabir, Surjit’s younger son, who was here from
Kathmandu last month, told us of a mycologist who died. So
even experts can be taken in.
In answer to my own question, Did it have to happen?
I begin to believe that perhaps it did. I begin to concede that
my mother might be right—that the mushrooms were only
the instrument that enabled the happening. How often I had
heard Oona caution Ilya not to pop strange berries into her
mouth. Poison! She was told about those very attractive red
ones, I forget which plant. Yes, Ilya understood that poison was
danger. She and Sushil had become sick earlier that summer.
I know because Oona had called from Almora then, she had
been waiting for them and they were two hours late. “That was
a mistake,” Sushil said when I reminded him. And this, was this
not a bigger mistake? I had asked. He said something about
negative forces. What on earth did he mean? What negative
forces?
“We have been very careless”, he had said to Gurbir when
they were on their way down from Ranikhet and Gurbir was
waiting in Haldwani. Ilya was already dead and both of them
were sick. I fumed. What right does anyone have to be careless?
Within me anger seethed, and finally erupted manifesting as
high blood pressure some months later.
So many people told me that they had warned them not to
eat mushrooms—Anita, Kalyan, Ajit Harisinghani, and a friend
of Sushil’s, Rajat, also a doctor who had been there that summer.
Warned them to be careful. Yet the local Aarohi staff in Satoli
said that they had standing instructions to collect mushrooms
when they came through the forest. At the office the Nepali
woman who cooks lunch for them had the responsibility
of vetting them. But these did not go to the office, they were
delivered at home.
In September, the question was in my consciousness
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 156

constantly, and I saw the Reiki Master, on the 9th, the day my
brother died. I wondered yet again what meaning there could
be to the fact that my mother had ‘seen’ him, along with my
father, on 22 August, a few hours before Ilya died.
I could not, would not, let the question rest.
I went to see an old friend who reads Tarot cards. I had
not met her for years but she knew what had happened. In
her professional persona as Ma Usha Prem, she asked if I ha(j
brought pictures of them; she had meant to call me and ask nie
to do so. I had, almost as an afterthought. It was the collage of
Oona at Pangong, Ilya next to the wisteria, and Oona addressing
the Fourth Annual General Body Meeting of Aarohi. She had
never met Oona or Ilya.
She settled me across the table and I noticed a crystal ball
on my left and a pack of colourful cards to the right. We talked
generally of common friends at first. Then I told her about the
unrest I had experienced all summer and about the bonus week
that Oona had spent with us in mid-August. I told her also
about my conversation with the numerologist and about seeing
Oona and Ilya in the water. And I told her how the whole thing
had happened.
She asked me to hold the crystal, in my left hand, and we
continued to talk. She asked about Gurbir and Sushil. As we
talked, I told her that I felt some vibrations in the crystal and
she paid no attention. I felt them twice. Then she asked me to
look at the crystal.
“It’s clear.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is.” Just as it was when 1 saw it on the
table.
“It is absolutely clear,” she repeated.
Since that meant nothing to me she explained. Usually,
she said, when troubled people came to her, the crystal would
become cloudy. Its opacity reflected the intensity of emotional
turbulence experienced by the person holding it. I had not told
her about the calm in the pit of my stomach when Oona went
into a coma. The calm, despite the questioning, despite my
157 THE BIGGER PICTURE

anger, had stayed with me.

She replaced the crystal on the table and smiled.
“Oona is fine. She was here with us. If you practice
meditation you have the capacity to communicate with her
directly.”
“For the fun of it”, she said picking up the pack of Tarot
cards, “let us see what the cards say.”
Trust was the first card I pulled. She interpreted the picture
on it as that of a Soul. Sympathy was the next. I can’t remember
what that showed. The last was Sorrow. She said I must beware
and not take that route. By being sorrowful I would only succeed
in creating agitation.
It seemed that her answer to my question was also Yes.

Most of the condolence messages we received talked of the

tragic event and empathised with our anguish. That we could
cope with, we would have to. Then another question arose.
What was the meaning of their lives? Was there any?
At the lecture, Moksha at Madurai, Ramu Gandhi had
also spoken about tolerance and social and ecological harmony.
At the kirtan, he paid tribute to Oona as a pioneer in her field
of work, to the values she epitomised, and said that she had
been claimed by Nature, the same Nature whose cause she had
espoused. He saw her as a ‘martyr’ in much the same way his
grandfather, Mahatma Gandhi, had been, living a life true to
firmly held convictions. He said there was a fullness, purnata,
to her life, a completeness. And so, too, for Ilya. That all children
have perfection by virtue of their innocence. That we must now
focus on the less fortunate children of our world. He chanted a
mantra which I couldn’t follow then but I have come to know it
now: Om Purnamadah Purnamidam Purnaat—
It speaks of the unity of life and whole-ness of existence, as
had the shabads at the kirtan. Infinity can neither be reduced by
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 158

subtraction, nor increased by addition.

All the Scriptures say, and it is evident, that what is born
must die. The only unknown is the time and manner of dying.
The time on earth for each person is an allotted span of life.
Predetermined. Dictated by one’s own Karma.
“We cannot choose the manner of our going,” Som had
written, “but we can choose how we live.” She lived where and
how she wished to live. She was fully aware of risks but would
have it no other way. When the Uttarakhand agitation was at its
height, she had remarked more than once that every time they
reached home safely she thanked God.
Over the years friends have asked whether we were not
scared for Oona. Of course we were, but we tried not to think
about all that could go wrong. We focused on the great joy that
they, and we, experienced in those surroundings.
When I had erupted about ‘carelessly’ to Sushil he corrected
me: “We lived adventurously, not carelessly.” Adventure carries
its own risks. Accidents, after all, can happen anywhere. If they
have to happen.

“You pick up the pieces at the bottom”, Oona said to me about

ten years ago. “You stay on the packed snow, I am going down
suicide alley.”
We were in the chair lift in Gulmarg. It was a dazzlingly
clear day. Behind us lay Pakistan and we craned our heads to
get a glimpse of K 2, the second highest peak of the Himalayas
after Everest, which is linked in my memory with that incredible
man, Herman Buhl, who climbed it solo, and without oxygen.
And whom the mountain claimed eventually.
This was in early 1988, our third and last skiing trip to
Gulmarg before Kashmir became too unsettled and the ski
resort shut down. Oona had been a year with Chirag and she
was brimming with ideas of what could be done in the Kumaon
159 THE BIGGER PICTURE

hills in the way of forestry. On our way in, at Jammu, we had

spent the morning with friends—Janet and her husband, Sayeed
Rizvi, the same S. S. Rizvi Oona mentioned as being out of town
when she visited the Environment ministry’ in 1992. He was
then looking after Forestry’ in the government of Jammu and
Kashmir. He gave Oona some introductions in Srinagar where
we would have time after our week on the slopes.
Suicide Alley was the name of the run between two spurs
which we were crossing over right then. We could see a few
people on it and some of them were sprawled in awkward
positions. The idea of Oona on those treacherous slopes, with
the gradient 70 degrees in some places, did not appeal to me but
I knew better than to try and talk her out of it. We had already
been in Gulmarg for four days and had our skiing legs back. She
was ready for the next adventure. So far her knee had held out.
I had neither the spirit of adventure, nor the confidence in my
ability to manage powder snow. I would be quite happy to stay
on course on the main run.
I couldn’t bear to see her take the final push when we
got off the lift. I did try a tentative “Let’s do the first one down
together” and got a brief No in response. She called after me as
I moved away from the disembarking area, “Remember to bend
your knees. See you.”
I managed that run without a spill. And so had she. That
look of exhilaration is what I remember when we met five or
seven minutes later. It was so typical of her—the simple capacity
for enjoyment.
“Once more!”
“Don’t push your luck,” I told her remembering the time
when Aloke had announced at the end of a long day in Tehran
“The last run.” In the last 100 yards he fell and sprained an ankle.
In Srinagar we spent a morning at the Agricultural
University, beyond the three Mughal gardens on Dal Lake.
Oona was interested in propagating some trees in Kumaon that
were common in the Valley. The chinar, the Oriental plane, in
particular and some fruit trees. On the strength of the letter
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 160

of introduction from Sayeed Rizvi we carried back two three-

year- old chinars, ten almond saplings and some walnut. The
Director told us that they were the best stock and normally
well-rooted three-year-olds were never given away.
Oona gave the almond and walnut to some of the farmers
in Sitla, and the chinars were planted on the flanks of the large
double-storey stone mansion which had been taken over by
Chirag as accommodation for the development professionals.
Anita and Kalyan had two rooms on the first floor while Oona
had the room at the eastern end. The generous verandah ran
the length of the building and there was the same glorious view
of the mountains. What joy there was when the chinars put out
new leaf a month or so later. They have done very well and are
now almost twenty feet tall. And spreading. A little too close to
the building though.
The following year Oona asked for a hundred plants.
Gurbir arranged for them to be sent on from Srinagar but they
were too long in transit. None survived. Oona’s annual holiday
in Goa was a treat they all enjoyed enormously. I remember the
first time she went there, both of
us joined Gurbir when he was on tour while she was still at
Sitla How she loved the sea. And how exquisitely she
swam. Effortlessly, with strong strokes that flowed one into the
other, her mouth just about clearing the water, pursed into a
loose O, just like a fish, when she took an in-breath. Water was
her medium, but she was exhilarated in the air, too, during her
flying days. And she was at one with the land and its creatures.
How much she enjoyed her name. It is the Singular, One.
At Kolva beach, which is very gradual and calm, she
struck out heading straight for the fishing boats anchored
perhaps about a mile out. Gurbir and I sat in one of the shack
restaurants on the beach, having done our splashing around in
the shallows where the weaves broke, sipping green coconut
water. I kept a watch, looking surreptitiously, to see w’here she
was. When she reached the boats her head seemed smaller than
the coconut in my hand.
161 THE BIGGER PICTURE

No bigger than the urn when it rounded the sandbank and

continued its journey down the Ganga.
“She is with you?” A man at the next table had queried. He
had been watching too.
“Champion hai,” he remarked. She was actually, at the
Junior State level. Swimming seriously was an activity she had
to sacrifice when she joined Sanawar. It was ten years before the
records she set were broken.
She loitered there for some time, no doubt making friends
with the fishermen. It was almost half an hour before she
returned, not even vaguely tired.
“Oh! That was so good!”
At Karwar, further down the coast, we had one afternoon
to ourselves while Gurbir went to inspect the new jetty which
the President of India was to inaugurate the next day. There was
much commotion everywhere. A makeshift helipad had been
built close to the beach where Oona proposed to swim that
afternoon and the security guards on duty were curious about
two women by themselves. We had been shown the beach by
our escort earlier and he had warned Oona, when she asked if it
was safe, not to go beyond the headland where the current and
the undertow might be tricky. I wanted to go to the forested
hill where the District Collector’s bungalow was located to look
at birds. I did wonder about leaving her alone on the beach. I
did not think the security people would be a threat of any kind
because of the official car that brought us. There was no one else
there. As for Oona swimming in the sea, my presence on the
beach, trying not to worry, would be of no help to her if there
should be a problem.
“Of course go,” she said. “Take my clothes and camera
bag but be back before sundown. ” My patch of forest was only
about ten minutes away and I was back as the sun turned into
a great fiery ball.
“Quick. The camera!” She spent the next fifteen minutes
taking pictures as the sky and the sea and the sand turned gold.
We watched the gulls bobbing up and down on the water and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 162

the terns flying, swooping low, plunging into it and taking off,
sometimes with a little fish, sometimes not. And she laughed
at the antics of the stints and plovers on the wet sand as the
water receded, hunting for little crabs, scurrying back as the
next wave came in.
Crabs.
When we went to buy seafood in August, a special meal
had already been planned for Sarindar and Surjit, the man
offered to prepare them for me. How? I asked. I couldn’t see
any hot water and I asked him. He was puzzled. He picked up
one, held it down firmly, and lifted the little machete with the
other hand... I understood he was planning to chop off the legs
and claws.
“I can’t watch this, Oona. Let Papa take care of this.” And
We turned away.
“Come. Let’s have gol guppas” she said.
“Why are you so squeamish?” she asked me, holding a gol
guppa above her plate, ready to slide it into her mouth. “He is
going to chop them up, and you would have put them in boiling
water. What’s the difference?”
Yes. What is the difference? Dead is dead.

It seems though that dead is not really dead.

“Who am I?” is the question that Ramana Maharishi
invariably asked seekers to ask themselves. Is ‘I’ the body?
When the body dies, does the ‘I’ vanish? Where to?
Science believes that matter is indestructible. That it merely
changes form. The common Hindi word for death is ‘dehant’.
Deh ant; deh being body, and ant, end. The end of the body. The
‘I’ that vitalises the body, they say, is the Self, the spirit, the vital
force. Or, if you wish, the soul. And the spirit is ever existent.
I read now from Oona’s book, above all else, Chapter 2 of
the Bhagavad Gita, verse 20: “The Self is never born nor does it
163 THE BIGGER PICTURE

ever perish; nor having come into existence will it again cease
to be. It is birthless, eternal, changeless, unaffected by the usual
processes associated with time. It is not slain when the body is
killed.” And I read verses 27 and 28 of Chapter 2:
For all things born in truth must die, and out of death in
truth comes life. Face to face with what must be, cease thou
from sorrow.
Invisible before birth are all beings and after
death invisible again. They are seen between two
unseens. Why in this truth find sorrow?
How did that physical calm come to me? Is it because
this knowledge existed within me and found expression even
in August 1996? The announcement we prepared reflected it
unequivocally. There was none of the verbiage of the usual
phrases: With profound Grief and Sorrow we inform of the Sad
and Untimely Demise of...., none of which is untrue mind you;
or heavenly abode.... It said simply: Two deeply loved souls...

The elliptical circle was my symbol of eternity.

It isn’t exclusively a Hindu belief. My brother, who is not
‘religious’ in any sense, wrote in terms of the same philosophy.
My mother tells me the same things are recorded in the Sikh
scriptures. And, by another set of connections, special Buddhist
prayers were chanted for Oona’s soul on the forty-ninth day.
The knowledge was with Aloke, too. In his first message
when he returned to America, he wrote: “Our souls and minds
are housed in a body.” It was a little homily, the rest of the letter.
It was his effort to draw us back to normalcy. “The body must
be nurtured and taken care of as well as the mind. Take our
garden in Hauz Khas, it is beautiful, planned, nurtured and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 164

provides pleasure, comfort and solace to all those who spend

time in it. This does not happen by accident, it is by inspiration,
by time and effort, and the availability of water. We should
think of our friends and family as the water but it is still up to
us to maintain our lives in an equilibrium, or in a manageable
state of disequilibrium, and supply the body and soul with
sufficient care and nutrients in order to live life with gusto. You
start with the body, then move to the immediate surroundings,
and outward, or both simultaneously like the Chunnel bring
dug from both sides to meet in the middle.”
He was reaching out from half way across the globe. He
flooded us with phone calls, messages by e-mail, and letters. It
made his presence immediate. It was his effort to lift us out of
gloom and in giving, to get solace himself perhaps. I often think
of his metaphor of the garden as the body. His message was, Do
not neglect yourselves.
“We are all webbed together by relationships and friends,”
he continued. “As any one person threatens to fall through
the webbing everyone else rushes in to pull a little harder and
the person is saved. The best we can do is to be perceptive,
communicative and supportive. That is how I think the game
of life should be played. And play we must.” Yes, Aloke. Plavwe
must.
Yet there is sorrow. And there is anguish. But overall there
is an immense gratitude. Immense gratitude that they lived,
and were given to us to cherish for whatever length of time they
were in the body.

Earl y on I looked actively for answers to the question,

Did it have to happen? Then the question became what the
purpose of life was, both Oona’s life and Ilya’s. Did they, and we,
happen to each other at random, or were there links other than
biological, links at unseen levels?
165 THE BIGGER PICTURE

When the answers began to trickle in I needed to do

nothing but be receptive and not dismissive. Gary Zukav
speaks of Earth as a place of learning for the Soul. Of learning
the lessons it needs to, so it can proceed to the next step in its
evolution. Specific life situations are the field provided for that
learning.
At thirty-three was she ready to go on?
In November Aloke had written another introspective
letter. I wonder if Oona would have recognised this Aloke. I
had passed on some of the things she enjoyed most to those
for whom they would hold most meaning. Her favourite pearl
tops, given to her by Diljit, went to Shaila. Her gold chain from
Sushil’s mother has gone back to her but I will ask to have it
back. And Aloke acknowledged those for Yasmir.
The pearl necklace of Oona’s, given to her by Dadiji, is
looking real good on Yasmir. She has been wearing it with
a black sweater and it looks really sharp. She also wore the
Gujarati ghagra a couple of times as well.
I was just reading a letter of Oona’s from June where she
writes: “Ilya is growing up to be very talkative, analytical and
curious. She’s a fine companion at this early age ”
The more one looks around oneself the more one
understands that quality and not quantity is what is important.
In this regard I think Oona had a full measure of life; she knew
the meaning of love of her friends, spouse, numerous suitors
over the years, parents, family and child. Shomi’s letter was
really touching, specially as he knew her so well.
Mytri was telling me about the way Peter died...
What is the bigger picture? That is what we are trying to
figure out, or is it just bad luck. Sort of like climbing a tree to
get the fruit. The sweetest fruit is furthest from the main trunk,
where the sunshine is strongest and the branches are thinnest.
Those people who fall off the tree are not the ones waiting
near the trunk for the fruit to fall into their hands but the ones
out there in the sunshine eating the best fruit, or throwing it
down to their friends waiting on the ground. In the Air Force
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 166

the guys who have the thrill of flying high and fast are the
most vulnerable. So we can only feel Sony for ourselves in this
situation. You can’t feel sorry for the guys eating the sweetest
fruit.
The interesting question is to find a purpose for living and
going forward. One purpose clearly has been to give birth to
and to nurture Oona and I. The Oona tree was the one which
bore fruit and provided shade for a lot of people, notably the
villagers of Kumaon and Gujarat....
This makes me weep. That we should have had the
enormous good fortune of having both children so sensitive
and understanding. And loving.

And I wonder what the purpose of my life now might be.

All I have done is write. Remember, and write. It is what Madhu
said to me in February when I showed him the beginnings of
this and he talked to me of Oona. I said that I had no plan, no
outline. Fie had responded with approval.
“Good. Don’t plan. Don’t think. Just write. And don’t
worry about where it is going, or length, or time. Just write.”
As he left he had said softly, “We all have our Oona fires.
You have the big one. Keep it burning.”
 8
The Soul Has Its Reasons

ONA, my involuntary remembrance of you

becomes increasingly linked to whatever is going
on in the course of daily living. It darts here and
there, delving into territory I thought I had forgotten, and
unearths images and feelings that I had taken so much for
granted.
I talked about synchronicity earlier. That is what it seems
to be. I think a thought and a connection materialises. The
amazing thing is that whatever it is that is happening now has
an uplifting effect rather than a depressing one. I hesitate to say
this to anyone because the reaction is usually so bound up in
the ‘tragedy’, and following that, the assumption that I am in a
state of ‘denial’. It is modern western parlance and means a non-
acceptance I think.
There is another western construct I find difficult to
understand. All the books that have been recommended to me
on How to Cope with Grief, begin with a standard reaction
which needs to be overcome: “Why me?” This, to me, smacks of
self pity. It is something that never crossed my mind, or Papa’s
I know. The fact is that it happened. Would one wish that we
had been spared but it is okay if it happens to someone else?
Why not me? What is so special about any of us that we should
be spared? No one is. Remember the story about the mother
whose son died? She was distraught with grief and went to the
Buddha begging him to restore her son to life. He didn’t say No.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 168

He asked her to bring him a handful of mustard seeds from a

home that had not known death. She searched long and in vain.
Ultimately she returned to him, having understood, and asked
to be accepted as a disciple.
Sometimes friends turn extra sympathetic if they happen
to remember that it is either the 22nd or 28th and try to be
‘encouraging’. Encouraging of what? A forgetting? There is a
kind of embarrassment; after all, unpleasant subjects, death and
grief, should not form the stuff of polite conversation. There are
only two or three friends with whom I can talk normally and
we can go on to discuss the mysterious ways of the Universe. Of
God. Of the Life Force. Consciousness. The Soul. Call it what
you wish.

That night, in the early hours of 28 August, Papa and I sat

in the garden of the hospital. The moon, the Raksha Bandhan
full moon, had just passed the zenith. It was the closest we
had been for a long time as we wept and tried to comfort each
other for the passing of our first born. Did you know I had
been determined to have a girl first, despite Dadiji knitting blue
booties? Thank you for not disappointing me.
We waited in the moonlight till the first wave of grief was
spent. Thirty-three years. How they had sped by.
We waited while they prepared your body. It would take
about two hours they had said. And we waited for Sushil to
come. When the paperwork was done and Papa had cleared the
account, they were ready to hand you over. Tightly swaddled in
what looked like broad bandages held in place by huge swathes
of sticking plaster. On one of them was written the time, your
name, and weight. Ajit, the Pune Ajit, and I waited in the porch
beside the stretcher while Papa went to bring the car. We then
manoeuvred you onto the back seat. I had your feet and went
in first backwards. Sushil had you under the shoulders, and
between pulling and pushing we got you in. I got out of the
169 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

other door and sat in the front. Did Sushil stay with you at the
back? Or follow in the other car? I don’t remember now. Just
the pulling, and how heavy you were. My poor little inert water-
logged baby.
On the way home, the moon was low in the western sky
and I caught glimpses of it through the trees. In a clear patch
near the Qutab Minar, I saw it again. It hung just above the
horizon, translucent, a faded smoky orange, ghostly. And yet
beautiful. It stays in my memory like a backdrop. Every month
I have been looking to catch it at just that moment but it has
never been the same.
You see, Oona, I did try to forget. At the next full moon.
It was in the hills—at Sitlakhet where I had committed
time for the end of September. How pleased I had been at the
idea of this camp. It would bring me back to the hills, where I
could be closer to you and Ilya; a week there, and a few days with
you before or after. And you were going to do a presentation on
ecology for the children. How exciting the thought was to have
an opportunity to open a window on nature for children from
various parts of the country. I felt I couldn’t abandon the camp
altogether, having made the commitment, but joined them for
a few days at the end. It was a group of about forty teenagers
from Kottayam, the fact that they were from the other end of
the country, in the Himalayas for the first time, fascinated me.
The night of the full moon coincided with the end of
camp festivities. They had a fire; sang songs and told stories
with much laughter and jollity. I slipped away after a while and
walked a little way down the hillside to escape the noise.
It wasn’t the smoky translucent orange moon, low on the
horizon, like a globe, sinking. I saw it rise. I watched it climb
and saw its brilliance through a network of branches, dark
shadows moving across its face. Grasping. I wrote to Aloke by
moonlight and shared my thoughts with him. I watched as it
climbed higher and was at last free of obstruction. I decided
that I had to let go. To let you go free, not to hold you in sadness.
After everyone turned in, I did too but found I couldn’t
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 170

sleep. I watched it again in the cool of the night and at two

o’clock said another goodbye to you. A month, I thought, was
enough. I must let you go. I must overcome the ache inside, the
tightness in my throat. I made a very firm resolve but it didn’t
happen that way.
Every full moon and the dates 22nd and 28th have both
become a kind of a new period for me. You used to call the pain
I had then psychosomatic; it is all in the mind, you would tell me
quite unsympathetically. Until you also began to feel it. I took
pain killers to cope, you resisted. What a sense of autonomy I
had when menopause came and I was no longer ruled by the
compulsions of my body.
Now you have saddled me with another notch in the
calendar. It is a different kind of flux. It is a sense that time
does indeed pass. And yet it doesn’t go far. The awareness goes
deep down into the depths of my being, and I find myself in an
inner world that only I know. There I allow myself the luxury of
savouring you both again, specially you as you were at different
moments in my life. The distant past, the recent present, and
the current present that will become the past, all flow into one.
Merging with the future that was already there. Is there. Your
lives are like a film that suddenly came to a stop. No one can
make it go forward, but equally no one can stop a replay.

You remember, Oona, the book I mentioned to you in the car,

when I asked Annu to give me her place at Garhmukteswar,
after Ilya’s last rites? I told you we would read it together. I had
no idea then that we would not have the time. I had it next to
your pillow on those last two days. Whoever went in opened it
at random and read to you. I asked Somi to read the bit where
Zukav talks about life cut short and how we cannot judge the
event. It is where he speaks of the workings of the Universe, and
how the important thing is our own reaction to events. Anger,
whether towards the world, or against persons, is pointless for
171 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

it harms only the one who is trapped in it. The feeling of guilt,
which is anger turned against oneself, is equally destructive.
I was angry, but it passed. Then another wave of anger
came threatening to submerge the equilibrium I had found by
the February full moon. Sushil chose to distance himself from
us and I couldn’t see why he should. For me he was a part of
you, the only part left in Satoli. I felt an enormous sense of
abandonment.
I buried my distress, but it surfaced as high blood
pressure. I resolved not to react, for they say negative reactions
create adverse karma, and there is no escape from karmic debts
however many lifetimes it takes. I resolved instead to focus on
you as the positive and to listen to those voices, people, which
might speak of you.
I wondered again about the message that Ilya had been a
her last life and had very little karma left to work out, d that your
role was to facilitate her transit. Was that the enant between you
both? I think often of what the possible ovenant between you
and me could be. I gave birth to you. Could it be to bring you
back to life now through words? To recreate you?
And if I needed to learn about anger need the lesson have
been so drastic?

When you came in mid-August you didn’t come with me

to Satjit’s house that morning. Papa dropped Naniji there and I
went later to bring her back. You wanted to relax at home rather
than be plunged into an extended family gathering almost as
soon as you got off the train. Unlike Diljit, you didn’t know Satjit
well, she is the religious one whom we had asked to organise the
raagis at your wedding.
That was 11 August. Let me tell you what happened
that morning. I started talking about Gary Zukav, I had been
dipping into it for about a year. My theme briefly was that the
quantum of matter is constant, that it only transforms, and that
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 172

the Soul is imperishable, it is ever-existent. This, I am beginning

to realise now, is pure Vedanta buttressed by ‘modem’ scientific
findings In quantum physics.
Zukav says that we see ourselves in a very limited way—
as the five-sensory personality rather than the multi-sensory
beings We are. That there is more to man than the evidence of
the physical senses, interpreted through the mind, reason and
logic. There are other channels of knowing, intuition being the
most lmP°rtant, but most people are not open to them. I had
them all absolutely transfixed.
Why did I go on about the Soul that day? Even then I Was
surprised at myself, I don’t usually sound off. One of the elders
remarked, somewhat perplexed, that I was a wise person, how
was it that he had not seen it all these years? I saw Satjit smiling
quiedy.
Before the month was over Life presented me with the
‘opportunity’, if you want to think of it that way, to test this
imputed ‘wisdom’.
Do you remember I asked you, in July, when I had been
feeling so out of sorts, who would look after me when I became
old and decrepit? Your answer was, “I will. And Aloke.” Naniji’s
answer to that was interesting, and off hand. “Go to Satoli,” she
said, and I remember feeling quite miffed. That option has been
well and truly overtaken. The strange thing is that I don’t worry
about it any more. And you? You didn’t wait around for those
stages in your life.
The prayer on the lips of every old person is that they
do not linger when the time comes; that they do not become
a burden on whoever the caregivers are. Dadiji, for example,
has seen herself as a ‘burden’ for so many years now. Each time
she projects that, I get impatient. Impatience is very close to
anger, it is a stifled form of it. You used to tick me off. “Why are
you so prickly?” I’m learning Oona. You had immense patience
yourself and I saw it grow, specially with Sushil. But you could
also be firm when you needed to be.
Ironically, the last personal letter I wrote, before 22 August,
173 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

was a letter of condolence, two years overdue, to Vikram Seoni,

my friend Shraddha’s son—our friends were not so tardy with
us. I had been planning a trip to her in Lesotho, mid-1994,
w’hen I had finished writing the General Bhagat biography, and
she dropped dead. She had a severe headache, collapsed, was
taken to Johannesburg, evacuated in a helicopter. They could
do nothing.
Well, when I was looking for help everywhere, I
remembered her mother’s brother, Prem, whom I had not met
for forty years. He had opted out of the corporate world to
become a sanyasi. I tracked him down in Haridwar.
I wrote a brief make-contact letter and he replied
promptly. “Your letter gives me the impression that you are in
a disturbed state of mind and that you are trying to find some
solace from some source... You say ‘it was like being hit with
a sledgehammer’ and ‘two generations wiped out in one blow’
but you do not provide any details.” I had forgotten to enclose
the Bibliophile list which had the details!
When he wrote again, he told me about himself. He had
done a doctorate on the Bhagavad Gita: “The Possibility and
Process of Human Freedom in the Bhagavad Gita”. His concern
and comments touched me, Oona. He explained in Vedantic
terms the covenant the soul of a child has with that of its parents
and its mysterious working out:
Our scriptures sav that destiny orders the form, nature and
womb for a body. The duration of our relationship, its texture,
and nature are all ordered by our disembodied soul from our
past life. The knowledge of its past lives and the pressure to
exhaust its accumulated karmas, guides the disembodied soul
to select the environment and life of a new body to enjoy and
suffer the fruits of its own actions from its past lives. Along
with it, the Great Architect of the Universe has granted a boon
to every jivatman, of Purushartha. With our Purushartha, self
effort, we can influence and colour the course of our destiny. But
this happens when we hear the inner voice of our Atma before
initiating any action. All this is understood when we clearly
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 174

understand the correct scriptural connotations of the Yedantic

terms, like atman, sutar atman, jivatman and paramatman and
their relationship.
I sincerely hope and pray that with your new-found
interest in Vedanta you will be able to overcome the scar of your
trauma from your jivatman. The very fact that you intuitively
felt that Oona was aware of the presence of her own near and
dear ones in her last moments before passing into the Divine
Glory, and when you yourself ‘realised the inevitable, and told
her soul to go in peace’ confirms it.
I want you specially to listen to this: “The bonds of love
between you and Oona were not of the ordinary clinging
attachment but of an enlightened ‘detached attachment’ which is
the right relationship, as it should be between the two Jivatmas.
Very few mothers can have this type of ideal relationship with
their own children. As you gave support to Oona when she was
a baby, similarly, like a true mother, spiritually you helped her
to walk into her own spiritual world.”
Are you with me, Oona? Did I help?

I wanted to start at the beginning and tell you about all

the various connections that were made for me, all without my
seeking. I have now understood that I didn’t need to look for
help, it was on call, all the time. I needed simply to receive it.
The mantra, Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo, for example, which
I was chanting for you those last two days in particular, was
sent to me.
Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. Nam-
Myoho- Renge - Kvo.
It is the essence of the Lotus Sutra, the last teaching of the
Buddha. Obeisance to the Mystical Law of the Lotus Blossom. It
works according to its own mysterious dynamic, a dynamic of
cause and effect that we are not able to see. The lotus is also the
arch symbol of purity, it grows in stagnant, murkv water, rises
175 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

above it, unaffected, untainted, resplendent in its own innate

glory.
The Lotus Sutra is considered to be the authoritative
teaching of the Buddha after he attained enlightenment and
chose to stay in the world to help others to attain their own
potential Buddhahood. This is the mantra of the Nichiren
sect, founded in Japan 800 years ago by the Master Nichiren
Daishonin. All this I know now. Then all I knew was that it
nSade a connection which would be for the good.
Then, in October, there was a note at home, dated the
13th, Papa’s birthday, from your friend in Kakanagar w hen you
were in your first year at University and she was a neighbour.
“It’s me, Rags, I came over to see you both—have been wanting
to call up but I just didn’t have the number. There is something
that I wanted to talk to you about in person.”
She had left a phone number and I called back. I hadn’t
met her for ten years and it must be a good six or seven since
you last saw her. She hesitated to say what it was she really
wanted to talk about. I reassured her that it would be okay,
whatever it w’as. She prefaced it by telling me that she was a
practising Buddhist, ever since her mother’s death about three
years ago, and that she had initiated the Prayer for the Dead for
you and Ilya when she heard. She and her small group had been
doing daily memorial prayers. Now, she said, the bardo period
was nearing an end and they would be doing the appropriate
prayers. Very tentatively, she asked if I would join them. She
was hesitant since she had no idea of my views on religion or
how staunch a Sikh I was, or whether a ‘believer’ at all. You see,
the bardo period is forty-nine days, the time when the soul is
believed to wander in a kind of limbo before deciding its next
course of action. The Tibetan Book of the Dead is a very well
known account of the philosophy and requirements for the
peace of the soul.
The forty-ninth day for you was on 16 October. I reassured
Rags that I did not consider the suggestion outrageous and told
her of the affinity I have always felt with Buddhist teachings,
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 176

ritual, and practice and that whenever I have the chance I go

to hear the Dalai Lama speak. When I told her about my own
chanting, albeit silently, of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo, she was
quite astonished. Firstly, that I was not sceptical of Buddhist
prayers, and secondly, by the fact of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo,
the essence of her own practice.
Would you concede that some power was working for you
and we were all puppets in its intent? The messages all seemed
to be that the body is temporary, the soul has its own purposes
and lives on. That is not all. Rags told me she faxed her friend
who is a practicing Buddhist and has been for twenty years,
who was in Japan on 28 August. She, without knowing you or
us, initiated a memorial service for you at the Jisshoji Temple on
Shikoku Island in southern Japan, and consecrated a memorial
tablet, a toba, for you and Ilya.
That day, on 16 October, I attended the full service
complete with the incense and your pictures, the collage. The
sounds were strange and I understood nothing, yet there was
a kind of peaceful energy in the room. Since then we meet and
pray for you collectively, particularly every 28th. Somi came
that month and Papa the next, for a short while.
The ritual is quite simple. It consists of the recitation of two
sections of the Lotus Sutra, five times, with a different prayer
after each recitation. The fourth is for kosen-rufu, world peace.
I like that very much. Then there is the chanting of the mantra,
for an hour. The last prayer is for the dead. We the living can do
this for you, as we can for ourselves too. The intention is enable
a better life condition in the next rebirth. They assured j^e that
as a beginner to chant with sincerity and devotion is enough-
Study comes later. The Object of Worship is the Eternal Buddha
embodied through the mantra itself in a scroll known as the
Gohonzon.
This month too, special prayers have been offered for
you both during one of their main ceremonies at the Nichiren
Shoshu Myokoji Temple in Shinagawa, Tokyo.
You see how things happen? The mantra was sent to
177 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

me. Rags made contact. And The Tibetan Book of Living and
Dying, was given to us at the end of October 1996, by Robyn
who passed through Delhi. How shocked she was that this
should have happened to you specially since we had all dope
so much mushroom collecting and eating together up in
Padampuri when Ilya was about eight months old. Then Swami
Bhoomananda, and in February the Buddhists again.
In the Bibliophile note I sent out in November I explained
why the delay and shared with the members the help that
came my way. I listed Sogyal Rimpoche’s book and by way of
explanation said that the right things were done for you. Listen
to what Sogyal Rimpoche writes about dying:

A dying person most needs to be shown as

unconditional a love as possible, released from all
expectations. Be natural, be yourself, be a true friend,
and the dying person wall be reassured you are really
with them, communicating with them simply and as
an equal, as one human being to another.

He continues in the context of people who are terminally

“People...long to be touched, long to be treated as living
People and not diseases. A great deal of consolation can be
given to the very ill simply by touching their hands, looking into
their eyes, gently massaging them...” You certainly got enough
of that, not only then Oona, but every night during that week
you were home. “The body has its own language of love,” he
says, “use it fearlessly, and you will find you bring to the dying
comfort and consolation.”
I tried this consciously in October with a cousin of Dadiji’s
who was dying, my favourite aunt from Papa’s side of the family.
I shared the book, my experience, and my thoughts with her
twenty-year-old granddaughter who was looking after her. She
reminded me of you and I was very gentle with her. I saw and
felt the change, over three days, from panic and distress to a
calm acceptance. I was there when the end was near and the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 178

discussion about rushing her to hospital took place with the

doctor. For what? I asked. To prolong the end by a few hours?
Why? Let her go in dignity and in love. The doctor agreed.
She died a few hours later, in her own bed, in the arms of her
granddaughter. When I told Dadiji, she held my hands and
thanked me. I think she was particularly moved by my effort
because my own experience was so raw.
You see, Oona, despite the limitations of the ICU the
silence and serenity he recommends happened for you. Aloke
and I both felt that you were registering everything after he came
and when we started on the homeopathic medicines. You were
already on the ventilator but we never stopped hoping for the
miracle to happen...not even until that last night. I recognised
the inevitable only on that last visit.
Sogyal Rimpoche ends that section with: “There is no
greater gift of charity you can give than helping a person to
die well.” He recommends prayer for the dead “to help them
begin their journey after death.” But most important for me is
the next bit about people who die in a state of unconsciousness:
One fact we have learned from the near-death
experience is that comatose and dying patients may
be much more aware of things around them than
we realize. Many of the near-death experiencers
reported out-of-the-bodv experiences, from
which they were able to give surprisingly detailed
accounts of their surroundings and even, in some
cases, of other rooms in the same hospital. This
clearly shows the importance of talking positively
and frequently to a dying person or to a person
in a coma. Conscious, alert, and actively loving
care for the dying person must go on until the last
moments of his or her life, and as I will show, even
beyond.

The italics are mine. I wouldn’t believe that you would die.
I bless Dr Dewan for allowing me access to you by permitting
179 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

us to give you homeopathic medicine. And I bless Rags for her

intervention for the ‘even beyond’.
My thoughts turn to Chari on his deathbed, to Purnima
and the two boys. All of them knew that death was imminent,
after all Chari and Purnima are both doctors. Mohit had
indicated to me that he was in a bad way; that is why Ilya and I
went to visit. 1 told you then how naturally Ilya had gone to him
and stroked his arm and how he had talked to her through his
oxygen mask. Sogyal Rimpoche says that “a child’s directness
and innocence can actually bring a sweetness, a lightness, even
sometimes a humour into the pain of dying ”
Chari smiling. “Oh! That’s Ilya.” Did she help him?
“Answer questions directly,” he says. What did you all tell
her? What did you tell her when the leopard lifted Papoose and
*he puppies were only a week old? I remember Sushil’s phrase
Was that Pap oose had gone to The Happy Hunting Grounds.
I told you perhaps that she asked me once, when we were
Walking back from school one day and she was too close to
the °uter edge of the path and I pulled her in to the middle, “If
I fall, I will die?” You must have been matter of fact at some
point. “Die?” I said to her. “There is no need to be so drastic.
You might get hurt. So let us be careful.”
Careful! And careless. The difference between life and
death. That is how Papoose w’ent. You told me that it had been
a very tiring day; you had taken Ilya up to put her to bed while
Sushil finished clearing up and locked up for the night. Except
that he forgot to bolt the door of the room downstairs where
Papoose had littered. In the middle of the night you were
woken by the sound of a scuffle and yelping and, from the attic
upstairs, you screamed and shouted trying to scare him off. By
the time Sushil got downstairs, she was gone. The leopard had
simply walked in through the door. All Sushil could see was
scuff marks.
Ilya and I did the careful routine in another context too.
It was the little nursery rhyme about Piggy on the railway line
picking up stones when she had become familiar with train
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 180

travel. “Ouch, said the Piggy, that’s not fair. Oh, said the engine
driver, I don’t care.” That was the cue to get her thinking. What
was the silly Piggy doing on the tracks? Didn’t he know the
engine was coming? Couldn’t he see it? Stupid Piggy!

So, Oona, we stopped at your favourite swimming getaway

place on our way up to Satoli with your ashes. Sushil and Ajit,
the Pune Ajit, Mohit and Annu, and the three of us, in two,
or was it three? cars. Kalyan and Anita had left earlier, soon
after the cremation I think, so they could let people up there
know we were coming up the next day. We left directly from the
crematorium the next morning. I carried your ashes next to me
in that purplish cloth shoulder bag. From it Sushil transferred
about half for the Ganga at Garhmuktesvvar and the bag then
aS less bulk)’. When we stopped at Sat Tal I took it out with
me It was lighter and it felt quite comfortable, like having you
along for a walk. The you-that-was. The you that remains is ever
present. Everywhere. Within us, and without.
I parked the you-that-was on the little ledge of the
amphitheatre beside the lake. I think we were all in a state of
delayed shock, it hadn’t quite hit us. I immersed some near the
bank and Mohit took a picture of the blue-grey bone and ash at
my request. The w’ater was clear and the sunlight filtered through
it making little ripples of shadow. Mohit and Sushil then took
a handful and swam out to the middle of that gloriously green
water of Panna lake which you loved so much. It is not called
Panna for nothing, the deep emerald of the water reflects the
forest around it rather than the sky. A jewel you always called
it. Then Papa and Aloke also got in and swam. I watched from
the shore, and after a while moved the bones from the shallow
water to a point a little further away so that summer visitors
would not stare down at them. Mohit took some more pictures.
I watched him compose one where Annu, wearing black, stood
at the edge of the bank near that point where I had put the ash.
181 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

He took another of Papa, standing waist deep in the water, with

the cross marking die grave of a Christian missionary, buried
perhaps a hundred years ago, direcdy behind him on the far
hank. Papa looked as though he was ready to give a sermon, his
hair open, as white as his beard, using a rock sticking out of the
water as his pulpit. He did actually. He made a little speech. To
you. To your life.
At Satoli I hung the purple bag on the maple tree. There
was a plan to go to Harsil, just beyond Uttarkashi, where Chari’s
ashes had been immersed the previous year. But that depended
°n when Purnima could make it, she was still in Muscat then.
Sushil transferred most of the ashes into the second
earthen pot he had bought in Garhmukteswar. I have a picture
of it sitting on the wall, the red checkered scarf tied over its
mouth, its outline a symbol of eternity with another eternity
as backdrop—the whole backdrop of those mountains. I didn’t
notice if Nanda Devi was smiling.
Before we left, the four of us, Sushil, Papa, Aloke and
I, put some around the maple tree. I can’t remember if Ajit
Harisinghani did. But I do remember him reading from Khalil
Gibran, pacing up and down in the guest cottage. “Your children
are not your own” Will the leaves of the Japanese maple be more
red? You will always be there, literally and physically, in the
maple tree. And in spirit everywhere in those hills.
I had kept back a small amount. I thought of chortens.
I thought of relics mixed with mud figurines that are placed
in memorial walls and stupas. Lekha, the potter, would make
them for me. Lekha, Brinda’s twin sister, and I had talked of you
all evening on 20 August at Jasleens’s home. It was Brinda who
brought the sapphire and diamond medicine for you. It is what
I came in to give you that night.
Why did I spend that entire evening talking of you? I even
had some pictures with me, I had taken them to show’Jasleen.
Both Lekha and her husband were so interested in knowing
more about you and Satoli that I showed them the pictures
instead. I didn’t know then that anything was amiss, but you
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 182

knew. Ilya was ill and you had begun to throw up that evening.
It was a day before I saw Ilya and you in the wrater and the
thought of danger crossed my mind. Was I prompted by the
future on its way to being bom?
On our way down the Kosi beckoned. When Kooka had
called from America, I had told her that a part of you would be
in the streams around your home. That the flowers and grass
would absorb Oona bits. I could almost hear her conjure up
images of vast meadows, filled with wild flowers. “I like that,”
she said.
I asked Papa to find a nice place and we would stop for
a while. “Here?” he asked soon, rounding a bend. The river
was just fifty feet below. We climbed down over loose slate
and mica-shining rocks. The spot was truly exquisite—deeply
weathered stones and boulders in the water, the coarse sand,
the hillsides closing in, trees on both slopes and foaming water
hurtling down only to subside in the next still, deep, pool. And
the blue, blue sky above.
Aloke, standing at the water’s edge, looked back towards
me. He didn’t need to ask the question. What was the point of
taking any of you back to Delhi? It was the hills you loved. That
is where you belong. He stretched out his hand for the bag and
I let him take it.
It was down below milestone 174, the fourth little bridge,
off the Delhi Almora highway. A little downstream of your
favourite swimming spots on the river. When I wrote to Sushil
later telling him about the place he said you both swam there,
and had even been offered some land on the hillside above the
southern bank.

Does anything in the universe happen ‘by chance’? Zukav says

No. Our own tradition says No. I begin to believe.
What brought you to Delhi in mid-August? All of you were
expected in September anyhow. You see Oona, that week you
183 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

vv’ere in Delhi, you gave us the opportunity for unconditional

loving. It was your week. I felt it during the week, and I felt it
later. The loving happened for you in hospital too.
I thought of all this that afternoon in February’ while
listening to Thich Nhat Hahn speak about love. The day my
feeling 0f despondency lifted.
Somewhere in my memory it coalesces with that morning
by the river. Instead of the rocks and the sand, it was die emerald
grass of the lawns of the India International Centre, the golden
late afternoon light sanctifying the gathering. Thich Nhat Hanh
sat on a dais which was draped simply in white. A thin muslin
screen ran along the length of the elevated platform. White. The
cloth rippled, as though alive, when the breeze touched it. The
nuns, bhikhunis, in brown robes, darker than the rocks, sat in
the foreground, chanting. There was one large vase of flowers,
yellow and white, for decoration. The light caught him so that
his ears seemed translucent and very prominent. They grew at
an angle to his head, just like Ilya’s. It was then that a renewed
feeling of gratitude enveloped me. For the love that had been
expressed, for the time we had been given.
When he talked of mindfulness a great weight lifted. I
saw mindfulness in your living life as the exact opposite of the
‘carelessness’ that had angered me.
Brinda and Lekha were there, and Sonia whom vou don’t
know, and we talked about it afterwards. They feel very much
for me, for us, for you. All those years ago, when you were
caught in that disastrous friendship in college, Brinda was the
only person with whom I could share my concern for. Also, and
this Brinda does not remember, when you had to decide where
to go to University’, whether in Bombay where Papa was posted,
or to Delhi which you would have preferred, the question of
where you would stay came up. I sounded out both Naniji and
Dadiji, separately, on the hypothetical situation. From each
1 got a polite brush off... too much responsibility’ to take on
of a young woman, or grown up girl, in University. But each
f them softened it by saying that if I came along as a package
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 184

deal it would be acceptable. Then the responsibility- for your

anticipated misdeeds, what else were they frightened of? would
be mine, not theirs. To give you an idea of how important this
‘responsibility’ was in their eyes, each of them agreed it would
be acceptable to them that 1 should leave Papa to fend for
himself in Bombay! In any other circumstance, that would have
been unthinkable.

I was very annoyed, in fact 1 was furious. And

I let them know it, politely of course. Brinda had
offered then that you could stay with her. She has two
daughters herself, fifteen years younger than you, the
same age difference as between Brinda and me. She
had trust, and generosity. As it happened the Problem
resolved itself because Papa got posted to Delhi.
My anger then took a long time to wear off because
185 THE SOUL HAS ITS REASONS

both Naniji and Dadiji compounded it two years later

when Aloke was in his second year at University.
You had graduated and were ready to go to IRMA.
Papa got posted out of Delhi and each of them was
willing to have Aloke live at home, without me in tow.
When we returned to Delhi from Satoli Aloke was not
well at all. He was feeling washed out, declined food, and
was actually running a high fever. Dhiraj came, prescribed
a string of medicines and tests and bed rest. Your room
became his sickroom. Shaila, Arjun, Ajit and Somi, and
George Varughese, who had come down from Kathmandu
to be with Aloke, all took turns to help nurse him or simply
provide some cheer. The first time he came downstairs
that week was for the kirtan on the 7th. He managed to sit
through that very gamely and I noticed he declined the offer
of a chair, or even a backrest. He was due to leave on the 8th
but Dhiraj advised him to delay it for some days. He did.

Was all well with you, Oona, in the early half of last year,
the same months that I was restless? I have been reading
your letters written during that period and I wonder if I
was not obtuse— you had said enough to indicate that you
were going through a bad patch. But bad patches come
and go. Moreover, I was so focused on my own mortality.
It is possible that I am registering it now only because
Kalyan mentioned that you had been talking about having
a second baby, something you never said directly to me,
and that generally there was some tension on that account.
But we had talked about a second baby. When Ilya was
three I had suggested that you begin to think about it if
you wanted another. We had also considered the adoption
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 186

route and discussed it threadbare.

And yet I remember two conversations about single
children families- Once it was at the Eswarans’ home,
in July, with Som and Rohini. And then, in August at
home, when Jasleen came over bringing something that
she had cooked specially for you. How she loved to spoil
you. She stayed for dinner and the conversation was quite
intense. She was talking as much for herself as generally,
and advised you to think seriously about having another
child. She explained that her own single-child family was
not by choice; that she had lost a child more than thirty
years ago, and I remember so clearly that she said she still
mourned him. How old was he? I had asked. Two, she
said wiping her eyes, her first child. I stayed very quiet
on the subject that evening, leaving the discussion to both
of you. Neither she nor I knew that you wanted another.
Thirty years! It frightens me. I have lived through
barely seven months yet.
 III
Many Worlds
Religion is not the descent of Divinity but the fulfilment
of humanity.
Rabindranath Tagore
189 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

9
Planes of Existence

here are many worlds, many planes of existence,”

Tsagaadai said to me under the neem tree in the
Rose Garden on 2 June 1997.
The sky was heavily overcast, as though the monsoon has
already arrived. But it is only unseasonal weather caused by a
western disturbance. The forecast is that the monsoon may be
delayed because we have had such a cool May. Gurbir is away in
America. Surjit and he have planned a motoring holiday on the
West Coast spending a few days with Arjun in Berkeley. Aloke
and Yasmir will join them in Seatde for the return leg through
Banff and Yellowstone and he will spend some time with them
in New Jersey. My mother and I are making a different journey.
“Bring me a picture of your daughter,” Tsagaadai continued.
“I will be able to connect.” He pointed to the centre of the palm
of his right hand which he then raised, palm up, to the cosmos.
“I will know which plane she is in, and I will give you a Mantra.
We will be able to help her reach God. We can help, you know.”
How did Tsagaadai come into my life?
About two months ago Gurbir and I had gone for a walk
together, usually he goes earlier while I prefer to wait for the
magic hour when the setting sun transforms the world. The
time when the birds start their evening cacophony.
We passed the Tushita Meditation Centre off Aurobindo
Marg and I thought of Renuka who runs the Centre, they look
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 190

after the Dalai Lama’s engagements in Delhi. And I thought

of her younger sister Ashma. I had not seen them for many
months. On our way back I suggested we visit. You go, Gurbir
said. He does not know them but I meet them when I take my
mother to visit their father from whom she borrows Punjabi
books. They live across the main road. Gurbir turned back at
the taxi stand and I continued even though I had not called to
check if they were home.
I reached to find six people sitting in the verandah, in semi
darkness, and heard one of them in mid-sentence as I entered
the gate. “Religion is...” There were no lights because of a power
failure. When I had been greeted and settled down I prompted
the speaker, “You were saying, ‘Religion is...’?” In the dim light
I recognised the head of thick white hair. It was Ren, Bulbul’s
father-in-law, son of my mother’s oldest friend, also a neighbour
further down the road. Leo, his Dutch wife, was there too. The
sixth person in the group was introduced as Ashma’s newly
wedded husband. I didn’t catch the name, but then I usually
don’t catch names easily. He was light skinned, with a close
cropped head of black hair, a smooth complexion, slanted eyes.
He was wearing a black tee shirt that accentuated the colour oi
his skin, it was not quite as white as Leo’s but a creamy golden.
When seated I turned to Ren, “You were saying...?”
His answer was that religion was a lot of poppycock, and
quite unnecessary in this day and age. The opiate of the masses,
in other words. That death was the end of life. There was nothing
beyond. “A materialist?” I asked as I rose in defence of the spirit.
Religion, I said, was a necessary aid and whatever method goal
was to kindle the inner light. The methods, whether storv
telling, reading or reciting scriptures, ritual worship, naam jap,
or kirtan, were as varied as were human beings. My voice came
to me as an echo of that other occasion when I had held forth
at Satjit’s house.
Ren had not bargained on a lecture. He shrugged and
refrained from arguing, but he did concede that some methods
were useful, for example meditation. Renuka listened intendy
191 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

and filled me in on what had gone before. They had been

discussing reincarnation, the best example being the Dalai
Lama himself.
Renuka had been talking about her own experience. After
her mother’s death three years earlier, she had recurrent, vivid
dreams of a child, a boy. They led her to England where she
located a family and the boy she had seen in her dreams who,
she was convinced, was a reincarnation of her mother. What
do you think? She asked me. Ren looked sceptical, I said that
I believed in my head, but in my heart I was not quite sure.
She explained that the conversation had been triggered by a
question posed by Tsagaadai, “Do you believe in God?” And I
came in just as Ren began to respond.
By this time the lights came on. Renuka’s father excused
himself and left for his evening walk. Ren and Leo also took the
opportunity7 to leave.
That left four of us. Not wanting to lose the trend of the
conversation I said I wished somebody would ask me. Dr
Tsagaadai Davaadorj, for that was his name, leaned forward and
announced that he was a follower of the Baha’i faith. I nodded.
Tes, I knew of them. Then, formally, he asked: “Do you believe
in God?”
“Yes. I believe. I believe there is a Higher Power, call it
what °ne may.” I have come a long way since Oona asked me
that question.
Tsagaadai is Mongolian. He was invited by the Government
of India to popularise alternative systems of medicine four years
ago. Despite the ruthless repression of Buddhism in his country
he was initiated by a lama and studied with him for many years.
He adopted the Ba’hai faith in his twenties, before he went to
study medicine in Russia. He also trained in numerous martial
arts. He is listed in the Guinness Book of Records. In return, I
told him about my own recent interest in the spiritual aspect of
life and that it seemed to have been triggered by the jolt I had
received through the death of Oona and Ilya. He nodded but
made no comment other than to amend that to ‘death of the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 192

body’. I told him that I knew the Ba’hai temple, had been there
frequendy and had even bought some literature a few months
ago. He smiled, and his eyes, green flecked with brown, lit up.
I asked earlier if there are other worlds. I have been
groping to know. Then I am led to Tsagaadai, who tells me with
both diffidence and authority that there are many worlds, many
planes of existence and he has the power to connect. He told me
that he shares his insights only with those who in his assessment
have the capacity to receive them—people who have faith in
God as the Prime Mover, the Supreme Cause of the Universe,
people who are able to accept that they are not the Doers. That,
he says, is the great delusion of the Ego. The Ego that Vedanta
tells us must be destroyed before it is possible to transcend the
world of duality to achieve that inner peace, that calmness, the
ineffable joy in the recognition of Oneness with the Universe,
with the Divine. With God, God as the Self.
Ashma excused herself and disappeared inside and I
looked at my watch. I had been there over an hour. It was past
dinner time at home. As I started tp leave, Tsagaadai asked me
to come inside saying he wished to check something. On his
table, next to the computer, was a little machine which looked
like a volt meter. Next to it were two metal plates, one copper)’
and the other white, with perforations. He asked me to place my
hands on the plates and to press down. He gave me the reading
as 20. It meant nothing to me but he remarked it wras low’, w
“I will help you,” he said and pulled out a square, bright green
plastic board. It w’as covered with a grid of pyramid forms every
square centimetre, sharp pointed forms. I le put it on the floor,
stood beside it facing west, and said, “Watch me.” He stepped
on it, (it took both feet comfortably with a few inches to spare
on all sides), and did a kind of static walk, lifting one foot and
putting it down and then the next.
“Now’you do that. For two minutes. It will hurt, let it. Don’t
stop.” Barefoot, I got on the board and an ‘Ouch!’ escaped.
“Never mind,” he said. “Just start.” It hurt quite badly, and
I am not particularly heavy. I kept going, tending to bite my lip
193 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

and hold my breath with the pain. He showed no sympathy,

merely saying, “Carry on.” He indicated when the two minutes
were over. Next, I had to sit and rub the sole of my left foot with
my right hand, as he had explained, and then the sole of my
right foot with my left hand.
The process was repeated for the hands. He picked up the
board, placed it on the divan, and showed me w hat I had to
do. Standing well back from the divan, I had to bend fonvard
to that level and, without moving my feet, put my hands flat on
the board. With my weight on my hands, I had to do five push-
ups. My hands were marked with purplish indentations from
the pyramid points; he asked me to rub them together and then
caress my face and head twice in a circular motion.
Then he put me back on the measuring machine. The
reading showed 45. I said that I was a fairly energetic person
so why Was the first reading so low. “This does not tell about
physical energy, it measures inner energy.”
“Do this once a day and you will feel better,” he advised.
I was late for dinner, Gurbir and my mother had already
started. Excitedly, I told Gurbir about the inner energy that
Tsagaadai had measured because he knew I had been feeling
disturbed and that I was struggling to bring my blood pressure
back to my usual 120/80.
“What is this inner energy?” he demanded, sounding a
little bit like Ren.
“I don’t know. I’m only telling you what he said. But I shall
find out.”
When I visited again a few days later we talked about
books. Tsagaadai wanted some tides by Lobsang Rampa: You
Forever, The Third Eye, and Doctor from Lhasa.
I remembered seeing one recendy in Oona’s bookshelf,
in fact on 28 April. That day marked eight months after her
death. I could not setde down to anything so I had dusted her
bookshelf. I looked again in the philosophy/religion section.
The topmost one was Lobsang Rampa: Three Lives. I spent the
morning reading it. The inscription inside, which I noticed
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 194

after I had finished the book, reads:

To Oona,
Wishin ya a Happy Birthday
With lots of love
Mumlus 1980

That was Aditya, in Bombay, Anjolie and Raja Menon’s

elder son. Aditya was among the many with whom Oona
happened to be in touch shortly before she died. He does not
live in Delhi.
Lobsang Rampa also talks of other worlds.
Hogy MacOgwasher, male, died unexpectedly. When
he reached the Other Side, he was greeted by his father but
admonished: “You must not call me ‘Lather’ any more...In the
last life on fe 1 was your father, but in some previous life vou
have been my father, or perhaps even my mother!”
Father MacOgwasher then explains to Hogy that on this
intermediate plane, just after death on Earth, people still have
a Fodv, a different body. “Our bodies still have a soul, the soul
goes all the way up to the Overself which is many planes above.”
Fie talks of ‘dimensions’ too. “If a ninth dimension person came
down here now he would be invisible to us and we would be
to him because we are so different. We progress from plane to
plane, and wherever we be, no matter the plane, no matter the
condition, we always have a body suitable for that condition.”
“Then there are many planes of existence, are there?”
Flogy asks with some incredulity.
“Oh, yes. There are as many as are needed. People go to the
stage most suitable for them. People come here to have a litde
rest and to decide what they are going to do, what they can do.
Some people may he hurried back to Earth to take a fresh body
there, others are sent upwards to a higher plane of existence. It
just doesn’t matter where one is, one still has lessons to learn
and conclusions to draw.”
The Reiki Master had talked of dimensions and I had
195 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

understood nothing. Ma Usha Prem had said “Oona was here

with us.” Could they ‘see’ things I couldn’t?
And a little bit further down I found: “Everything that IS
has a consciousness, everything that IS lives, even this bench is
just a collection of vibrations.... Everything has a consciousness,
everything that IS is in a state of evolution.... It has been proved
even on Earth that plants have feelings; those feelings have
been detected, measured and plotted by sensitive electronic
equipment....”
Reading this gave me goose flesh. The interconnectedness
of all life was stressed by Thich Nhat Hahn that day when the
moon was full for Ilya. Plants have feelings? I looked up The
Secret Life of Plants, it mentions that plants emit “empathetic
and spiritual relationships and show reactions interpreted as
demonstrating physical-force connections with men.” Bachi and
Anandi, neither of whom can read or write, merely recounted
what they experienced personally when they told me that all
the flowers in the garden at Satoli had withered on 28 August
1996. I saw the withered blooms myself. Is it so impossible then
to believe what Tsagaadai said to me the next day?
Again it was the echoes that increased my sense of
strangeness. Molygruber, is the trash collector of the block
where Rampa the writer, a crotchety recluse, lives. He is curious
about him and pesters a colleague with questions about what
kind of writer Rampa is. The colleague finds a book in the trash
one day and passes it on: “Here’s something for you, you’ve been
asking so much about the guy here’s something wot he writes.
Get your head into it.” And with that he tossed a paperback
book at Molygruber. The tide was I Believe.
Molygruber’s response was rather like Ren’s. “Don’t give
me none of that rot. When you’re dead you’re dead.”
The blurb says that Three Lives is Lobsang Rampa’s
eighteenth book, published in 1977, to which “he has brought
all the wealth of learning and wisdom that his long life on earth
has given him.” Presumably I Believe is one of the seventeen.
Twenty years later, there is not quite as much disbelief about
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 196

other worlds in the popular consciousness. Ghosts. Ethereal

bodies. Spirits. Guardian Angels. They pop up everywhere. Past
lives, life between lives, the afterlife, are all being explored by
psychologists for purposes of therapy.

It seems Oona did her explorations without any help from me.
Long before I felt the need to explore.
I did a little better with Ilya than I had with Oona when
she was young. Besides the bed time story Ilya and I had a little
routine. I taught her to sit in the Padmasana position, the half
Lotus position. Legs crossed, back straight, hands resting on the
knees held in chinh mudra, the forefinger and thumb making
a light circle. When she was comfortable with that, I explained
the deep breathing. Inhale deeply. Hold. Exhale slowly. This was
difficult as she tended to gulp in the air, hold it for a moment,
and then go into a slouch as she let it out forcefully. I didn’t push
her. We would get there eventually.
And God. How does one explain God to a three-year-old?
The Sikh scriptures lay great stress on Nam Japa, the
repetition of the name of God. That was easy enough. We
started from Esh Nana. Phonetically it led naturally to Ishwar.
And then, out of deference to the Sharmas, we went on to the
Hindu Trinity—Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva. Bhagwan she knew—it
is the same thing, Bhagwan or Ishwar. She would need a little
prompting, lips pressed together brought Brahma. Front teeth
over lower lip elicited Vishnu. “Shhh...” was enough for Shiva.
And we would repeat them together three times. Good girl!
Such a good girl.
Esh and she had a litde game they played together. It began
in September 1993 when she could barely toddle. It consisted
of her crawling through Esh’s legs as he stood with feet planted
wide, and then peering back, amused, as if to say, See? When
she was steadier on her feet, it would go on for quite a while and
197 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

Esh would cackle back in delight. This was their special game.
With Gurbir it was to sit on his ankles when he had his legs
outstretched, and that was the cue for him to swing his legs, up
and down. She would hold on tightly so she didn’t fall off.
That was the year when we couldn’t get away after the
Aarohi General Body Meeting. It rained so heavily on 12
September that there were landslides, the bridle paths on the
Satoli hillside collapsed and the main highway to Almora was
closed for a’-^ost a week. We attempted to get out on the kutcha
road but after clearing three roadblocks in as many kilometres
got stuck in a river of mud flowing across the road at a re-
entrant.
The three of us had been there a few months earlier too.
That time Oona cut herself and Sushil had to perform a minor
surgery. I remember most vividly that the electricity was at such
low voltage, in its usual brownout phase, that I had to hold a
torch for him to see what he was doing. I am not squeamish
about blood, but that whole episode churned my heart.
Oona cut herself when a bottle slipped out of her hand. She
must have tried to catch it but it broke and somehow a jagged
edge cut her between her ankle and outer heel. She was in the
verandah, the rest of us were inside. There was an urgency in
her voice as she called for Sushil.
We got her onto the bed in the makeshift clinic at home.
He assessed that the cut was deep enough to warrant sutures and
was looking for the appropriate things in the little emergency
cupboard. It had been so wet that the cupboard smelled musty
and he had to UM the torch to find what he needed. The girl
who helped in the house, Tara, was still diere minding Ilya who
was about six months old. Sushil tried to stop the bleeding by
putting pressure on the place but it didn’t work. He asked me to
hold it while he got ready to sterilise his instruments. He would
need help, he said, and I should get sterile. Water had already
been put on to boil.
“Scrub your hands, and let them dry without wiping them
on anything.”
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 198

That was easy enough. What next? Oona was whimpering

on the bed as Sushil poked and prodded the cut checking the
tendon. He thought he saw something white, and was looking
for it again. I couldn’t see it. All I could see was a mess of blood
and flesh. Ilya came crawling in and Tara, picking her up, put
her alongside Oona and she rooted for a nipple. I continued to
shine the torch so Sushil could see what he was doing.
I tried, and succeeded, in not saying anything, but I
wished desperately he would just stitch it up and worry about
the tendon later. Oona was squirming so much that he had to
give her a local shot before he continued with his poking and
prodding.
At one point he lost his temper and shouted at her that
if she continued to whimper he would do nothing. My blood
froze. I didn’t say anything to him but I tried to soothe Oona
and asked her to bear the pain as I told her he was doing his
best. Gurbir and Esh stayed in the living room. They didn’t see
how crowding around would help.
Finally Sushil decided that the tendon must be intact and
he put in the sutures. We were scheduled to leave the next day.
I offered to stay back but Oona insisted she would be all right.
She would not walk down to the office but work from the house.
The cut left a keloid scar to which she remained sensitive. She
would often ask me to massage that portion specially gendy
with apricot oil whenever I was doing her feet.

Tsagaadai liked the Lobsang Rampa books because they

articulated many of his own thoughts and reflected his own
experience. Since I first talked to him, I realise that he means
psychic energy when he talks of ‘inner energy’, the subde energy
which is held in the psychic centres of the body. Tsagaadai is a
pathologist. He trained and worked in Russia but a catastrophic
family circumstance caused him to return to his native
199 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

Mongolia. Then he switched from allopathic medicine to a

study of the ancient Chinese arts of healing besides martial arts.
Tsagaadai was teaching us a new system of healing,
Shangung, which had been evolved by a Chinese Master, Tian
Rushin, after fifty years of meditation. Tsagaadai was fortunate
enough to have been taught by the Master himself and part
of his life work was to propagate the system. Also called the
Fragrant Smelling Meditation of Shakyamuni Buddha, it is a
self-healing pranic mediation which works on the principle of
harvesting cosmic energy and of releasing negative energy. He
had assured me that it would help me. My mother and I both
joined the informal classes in the Rose Garden at six in the
morning and we have felt the difference. She is looking much
younger than her ninety- one years; she is more active and her
hearing has improved.
Dhiraj, to whom I had gone when I discovered the blood
pressure, has begun to taper off the medication and expects to
discontinue it. This after having told me that I would have to
take it for the rest of my life. I explained how it had come down
and his advice was to continue with whatever I was doing.
We meet under the neem tree at the far end of the garden,
the one with the beautiful shape and a full, dense canopy. It
grows in freedom, not thwarted by other trees crowding it.
Ashma remarked that it has good energy. We begin with the
Suryanamaskar, a salutation to the Sun, the primal source of
energy.
For about a month we were very regular.
Spring turned into summer and I watched the emergence
of life in the trees. The gulmohur, along the long end of the
Rose Garden, came into bud and then progressively the flowers
unfolded in an amazing range of red. While doing the exercise
I would watch the play of light on the reds as the early morning
sun caught the tops of the trees and slowly bathed them in soft
light. Just like Nanda Devi coming into its full glory kissed by
the sun.
One morning a rainbow straddled the western sky, direcdy
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 200

ahead of me, as I walked barefoot on the red gravel path, a

practice recommended by Tsagaaaai. The pot of gold, I thought,
under the rainbow. What was the pot of gold? Peace?
The sense of renewal, of rebirth, was not confined to
early mornings in the Rose Garden. It permeated the day if I
was watchful. One afternoon I was caught in a wind storm on
Safdarjung road which is lined with neem trees. It suddenly
whipped up and shook the sixty-year-old trees unleashing a
flurry of tiny stars that swirled around the car like dry snow.
Before they could settle, a fresh gust lifted them off the road
even as more came down. It died down almost as soon as it had
begun but for those few moments I had the feeling that I was in
the centre of a little cosmic display, a kind of private show.
Towards the end of May, when the laburnum was in
blossom, there was a furious rain storm preceded by heavy gusts
of wind which battered the laburnum flowers, blowing down
globules of sun-yellow. The wind howled in a manic frenzy then
gave way to the deluge. Others must have seen it coming for I
found little traffic on the road. I had set out just before the rain
and decided to continue slowly hoping no branches would fall
on the car. Tsagaadai and Ashma had also been caught in it.
They were walking in a busy shopping area she told me the next
morning, shaken by the memory, and a flying billboard missed
them narrowly.

The day after Tsagaadai’s offer I took pictures of Oona an Uya

with me to the Rose Garden. Oona by the ultramarine water of
Lake Pangong in Ladakh, Oona in the boat, wearing the orange
life jacket and that beautiful, open-hearted smile showing
her perfect teeth. Gurbir’s teeth. And I took with me three
motherhood ones, they are neither laminated, nor glass framed.
Oona in the Nursing Home bed with Ilya beside her. Oona is
covered with something pale blue, her head on one corner of
201 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

the pillow, looking toward Ilya who appears as a dark head, eyes
closed, mouth in a grimace, swaddled in a shawl. The light from
the window comes in from behind Ilya and falls on Oona. She
has the lightest of smiles, a broad expanse of the white of the
eye shows as she looks at Ilya who was twelve hours old then. I
took it the morning of Ilya’s first day in this life. It was their first
wedding anniversary.
Then there is Oona and Ilya, about two weeks later. Sushil
took that here at home, in the middle of the night with the
table lamp for light. Oona has something dark draped over her
shoulders, she is sitting up and feeding Ilya. Ilya is in full light,
looking rabbity, with one eye vaguely open. Oona is looking
down at her and the light just catches her nose, forehead, and
smile. The background is a less dense darkness.
Then there is Oona again, this time in daylight and
full face, smiling radiantly into the camera. She is wearing a
green-blue shirt and over it a maroon cardigan; she holds Ilya,
wrapped in an aquamarine blue cotton shawl, high up against
her chest, close to her chin. Ilya’s mouth is slightly open and her
eyes screwed up against the light. I remember Gurbir took that.
It was under the frangipani, the same place where the Granth
Sahib was installed for the wedding. Oona still has a fullness
in her face and I see the hint of a dimple in her left cheek. She
wears her favourite pearl tops and I see the glint of the silver
snake chain beneath the collar of her shirt. I can’t see the gold
chain she usually wore too, the one given to her by Sushil’s
mother. Oona treasured it as much because it was her last piece
of gold jewellery as it was a symbol of her marriage, a symbol of
their acceptance of her. Her mangal sutra.
Tsagaadai looked long at the picture of Oona against the
backdrop of Pangong Lake with the bare mountains on the
other shore. “This is like my country,” he said and I explained
that it was in the high cold desert region beyond the reach of the
monsoon. One half of the lake is in India, the other half sweeps
northwards across the border. He looked equally long at the
other Ladakh picture, with Oona in a full beaming smile. Then
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 202

I handed him the frame with the three infant-Ilya pictures, the
mother-daughter triptych as I like to think of it.
Tsagaadai took the frame and held it in his lap as I
continued to talk. Suddenly he closed his eyes and I stopped in
mid-sentence. He placed his right hand about 6 inches above
the pictures. After a minute or so, I saw his hand move away,
and at the same time he opened his eyes and looked directly at
me with a full throttle Oona kind of smile.
“You don’t have to worry,” he said, as he handed me the
frame. “They have reached God.”
I thought of what the Reiki Master had said about Ilya.
And now he was saying it so categorically, about both of them.
“Do you mean that they are out of the coils of rebirth?” I
asked.
“Yes.”
“Have they finished their business on earth?”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying that they have attained moksha?”
“Yes.” He nodded, and smiled again.
I had paper and pencil ready but he did not give me any
prayer or mantra.
“When I come back in December,” he continued, “I will
teach you the second stage of Shangung.” We met for another
three days after that. And each day I got that special smile.
“We will not be able to stay long in any one place,” Tsagaadai
said. “There is trouble in the world and we are needed in many
places.”
I have told only one or two people about this conversation.
I will send Aloke a copy of these few pages. Will he understand?
Will Sushil want to know? Shall we begin to communicate
again?

Had Oona really squared her karmic account, the positives

203 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

as well as the negatives?

I remember once I was very concerned about what I saw
as her arrogance, or more precisely her lack of humility. It was
in 1989. We had both gone for a walk in the Sitla forest. She
did not like what she saw as my ‘disapproving’ attitude to her
friendship with Sushil, and I could not understand why she
did not see that she was putting herself in a very vulnerable
situation in encouraging that friendship at that stage. She lived
and worked in a small community, a conservative society, so
how could she cock a snook at everyone? I explained it was not
Sushil, but the situation that bothered me.
She turned on me and told me that she knew what she was
doing. That she knew exacdy where she would be three years
hence. And she asked me if I had ever planned anything in my
life. I had to answer honesdy, No. Things had just somehow
happened.
Her brashness frightened me. And I told her the story of
Oedipus Rex apropos planning. “Call no man happy until he
is dead.” I had re-read it recendv and the ending had haunted
me. We then succeeded in losing each other in the forest. She
was resting on one side of the old cow corral, and I was in the
shade on the other side. I must have fallen asleep because when
I woke I couldn’t see her. I called and got no response. Well! I
knew the way out and left. We were both to have lunch with
Ravi Maira, Vikram’s father, who owned the property next to
Kanai and Lakshmi at Sida. I headed in that direction, calling
out occasionally: OONA. OONAAA. OOOONA
“Where were you?” She asked me in annoyance when I
reached.
“Right there. And you?”
Within a distance of 50 yards we had managed to lose each
other. When she called out to me obviously I had not heard and
she must have assumed I had gone. So she left. Whether I was
actually asleep, or in a deep think, or whether the wind had
carried away her words, I don’t know. But we lost each other. We
lost each other in both senses of the word in that period of time.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 204

But we did not lose communication. She wrote in July 1989, at

a time that I was depressed. I don’t know if she was speaking
of me, or for herself. Or just anyone: “I think it takes a lot of
courage not to feel depressed and ‘starved’ in these cluttered
lives of ours which often afford us little opportunity to seek real
happiness. But, there is a question of appreciating (in a humble
and human way) that which is Good amongst everything else,
and sustain oneself on that. My final justification for moods like
this is that there is so much to learn and experience that our
minds and bodies should be well prepared for it. And one of
the most important things in that is emotional stability I feel.”
Why was I depressed then? Besides the physical biological
factors there was what I saw as a great emotional vacuum. Both
Oona and Aloke had not lived at home for many years. I was
ready to let go there. In fact I had said to each of them that I had
had enough of the mother role and that I wished to relinquish
it. I suggested that they give me the gift of mv own individuality
and we would build a relationship as one adult with another
rather than mother-son or mother-daughter. I suggested that
they could start by using my first name. Aloke agreed. Oona
did not. “Mummy you have been, Mummy you shall remain.”
Three years she had said. Three years later she was married
to Sushil, had Ilya, was living in her own home in Satoli, and
had started Aarohi to do the work that she wanted to do. It was
exactly where she had wanted to be.
I used to worry if she was happy. By and large, yes. She
always wrote about ups and downs. The ‘ups’ were fairly obvious,
she radiated them. There were some ‘downs’ which bothered me
but it was something which she had to live through and resolve
herself. One day in Hauz Khas I stumbled onto a bad quarrel.
It was serious enough for her to accept help from me by giving
me permission to talk to Sushil on the subject. It happened in
1994, about a year after the time when she cut herself. Sushil
and I didn’t have an opportunity to talk so I wrote to him. In
this case the people involved are Oona and Sushil, but it could
be any two young people. The circumstances might be different,
205 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

but the cause of the quarrel is one of the most important, and
difficult, aspects of a relationship. I would say the same to
Aloke, to any young man, if there should be need. I wasn’t in
Delhi when I wrote.
Sushil,
I have been thinking a great deal of you both and your
lives together, specially as I look out of this huge picture window
over the manicured green lawns of the hotel and beyond them to
the undulations of the ranges of trees and their canopies with a
suggestion of hills near the horizon...
I have been thinking these past tew days about love and loving,
about men and women, and their needs. Oona and I had a chance
to talk a little about women, and herself, that night when the lights
went out. 1 am writing to you because we didn’t have a chance to
talk. And also because of your response, “What about me?” as you all
were leaving when I said to you: “The woman (Oona) needs loving.”
This time in Delhi I found that the little glow was missing
from Oona and also there was a certain constraint between you two
(which was confirmed by the unhappy quarrel over ‘jealousy’ and
name-calling which left Oona in tears).
Please take this letter in the spirit in which it is meant, to clear
the air so to speak, and as a continuation of a ‘dialogue’ between you
and me which started in Sitla four? five? years ago when Shanta and
I had come up and stayed with Lakshmi at the Dzong. I did not even
visit Oona that time, except on our way out, and you were generous
enough to come over to ‘talk’. Do you remember?
As far as I recall, in that conversation Oona was not
mentioned. You talked about yourself, about Alpana and you, and
how things went wrong, and about your own hopes and ambitions.
And life generally. It struck me as a little bit odd, at that time, that
you didn’t make ANY kind of declaration (‘intentions’ I did not
expect, but feelings, yes, I did).
I mention this in the context of your remark to Oona, at the
dining table: “I’ve put my cards on the table...you put yours down.”
Meaning, “I’ve made my statement, you haven’t”?
I want to remind you that she put her cards down—love for
you, commitment to you and a life together, both emotional and
financial, in an environment that you both wished to be in—long,
long before you even made up your mind, Sushil, that you wanted to
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 206

get married again, at all, or to Oona in particular.

This is just for the record. It is what I have seen and known
myself. No one has ‘told’ me.
In all seriousness, therefore, I say that Oona’s emotional need
is to be loved and cherished (she is worthy of both) by you fully, and
unconditionally, in much the same way that she loves you.
In answer to your question, “What about me?” vis-a-vis
loving, I can only suggest that you both stop to introspect a while. If
something has gone out of her loving, in your opinion, it could be
the build up of pressures (the baby so soon, work, and just the fact of
living and working together at a different pace), or it could be that it
has been driven out.
When she broke down and cried (because of what she saw as
verbal abuse from you), a picture came into my mind.
It was that evening, last year, when she cut her fool/ankle when
the beer bottle slipped from her hands. There was some amount
of panic, well-controlled of course, you had to find your medical
things, the possibility of an artery was there, or the tendon. Primitive
conditions, light, Ilya fretful, Oona whimpering. You were impatient
and in fact at one point said: “If you don’t shut up/behave (?) I am
NOT going to do anything.”
I was absolutely stunned. To me even the threat of
abandonment, specially under those circumstances, was horrifying.
It was a sophisticated type of violence. I have never mentioned this,
nor in fact thought about it after the relief of seeing you do such a
competent job and get everything under control. I agree Oona wasn’t
making things easier for you by whining, but your impatience and
those words shocked me.
So whether it is harshness when she is vulnerable, or
uncaringness when there are a hundred and one other things
that demand your attention, or accusations of being jealous and
pathological or whatever, all this will eat into the fabric of her love/
commitment. I am quite sure that is not what you would want to
have happen.
Therefore, I ask you to stop and think a little. She put her cards
on the table, she in fact put her life in your hands. It is for you to
cherish it, to nurture it, to enjoy it, and not by heedlessness destroy
it.
Your own needs/desires as you expressed them three or four
207 PLANES OF EXISTENCE

years ago were for a kind of spiritual striving and you feared that
another bout of domesticity (re-marriage) was ‘contra-indicated’.
But, when Oona left for Sussex, within a few months you indicated
otherwise to her (as far as I remember). At a time when she could
have made a fresh emotional start, she was drawn back to you. Made
the extra trip out, etc. Fortunately, you both were able to get your
act together and had a tremendous start with the most beautiful
wedding I have seen.
Work wise, things looked up... In short, you both had the home
of your dreams, in a place you both wanted to be, you were travelling
the same path in the same direction. You both had/have everything
going for you. For God’s sake don’t blow it — not by insensitivity or
coarseness.
Any two people who live together have to be making
adjustments ALL the time. Just hang on to the core of your
relationship, love for each other (that includes tenderness, affection,
sympathy) and the other problems will resolve themselves. Whatever
the pressures you are both under, make time for an expression of
what this entails. And it doesn’t have to be orgasmic sex only. It
should permeate everything you do.
So, Sushil, when you say to Oona in anger, “Don’t you know
I love you?” the answer will be, “No, I don’t.” If expression, verbal,
tactile, etc., cannot be loving, then there is no love to express.
Read Women Who Run With Wolves. I loaned it to Oona.
Love,
Jasjit

That letter was written two years before Oona and Ilya died. I
wrote it with a great deal of thought and I kept a copy in case
we should need to discuss any point. There was no discussion.
Neither of them raised the subject again and in those two years
I can remember only two instances when I needed to be as
outspoken.
Once it was to Oona. We were all in Satoli, Ilya was not
yet three. The fire was lit in the fireplace and dinner was being
cooked. We were sitting in front of the fire when a tussle of wills
developed between Oona and Ilya. Oona was trying for a point
of discipline and using complicated, conditional sentences to
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 208

achieve that. Ilya was having none of it. She continued to do

whatever it was that she was doing. I explained to Oona that
she was too young to understand, and that if Oona wished
her to do something else, the way to achieve that was through
distraction. To offer her an activity which would deflect her. A
confrontational stance between the two of them, I explained
to Oona, would do neither of them any good. And it would be
devastating to Ilya. Oona was always ready to listen; what I said
made sense to her and the situation got resolved.
The other time it was to Sushil; perhaps around the same
time. We were all driving to Ranikhet to spend time with Kalyan
and Anita. Ilya and I were sitting at the back in the Gypsy but
she was resdess. She wanted to be in front, either in Oona’s lap
or in Sushil’s. I tried all the tricks I knew but I wasn’t able to
hold her attention. This was on the narrow, winding road down
to the Quarab bridge and it just wasn’t a good idea for her to be
sitting in the front. Nothing they said made a difference either.
Finally Sushil raised his voice and threatened her: “If you don’t
behave yourself, I’ll stop the Gypsy and leave you here.” Saying
which he stopped. Ilya’s face shrank in horror and she became
quiet. At that point, I had to say to Sushil that one should never
threaten a child. In particular a threat that you cannot carry out
if it comes to the crunch. Not even threats of the imagination
such as “If you are not a good girl, the bhalu will get you,” or
whatever else lives in the forest. That such threats only succeed
in undermining self-confidence and trust and are very insidious
in their effects.
Whatever the cause of their quarrel at that time must have
resolved itself because I never saw such on outburst again. But
I did see in Oona the development of immense patience. And I
marvelled at it.
 10
In the Forest

ona, May merged into June and June is well along.

Naniji and I are planning to go to Uttarkashi
towards the end of the month before Papa returns.
She wants to experience ashram life and I want to know more
about the teaching. God willing we will go. I used to get
impatient with Dadiji when she said that whenever anyone was
travelling. I used to get impatient with Pooji too who prefers the
Arabic ‘Inshallah’. It means the same thing.
I need to catch up with you first. Madhu came back from
Holland. I had been thinking about how things were with him
and that I had not called his mother to find out about the baby.
One morning I picked up the phone and who do you think
answered? Madhu.
“How did you know I was back?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, I got in an hour ago.”
Ellie was well. They have a baby boy. Bom on 9 April. I
shall remember that. It was the first day we had people over
since the kirtan for you. The mulberries were ripe and we had a
party for Pooji’s sixtieth birthday. I saw a paradise flycatcher in
the garden that day. Imagine that, a forest bird passing through
the heart of Delhi and I got a glimpse of it!
He came over again before leaving for his forest. Once
again we shared memories of you. I asked him what it was about
you that made people remember you. Incidentally, I ran into
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 210

Dr. Rajagopal the other day and wondered if he knew.

I introduced myself as ‘Oona’s mother’ and asked if he
remembered you. “Of course,” he replied. Why ‘of course’? He
must see hundreds of patients. Thousands since he saw you.
When I told him, it was the same reaction of shock and horror.
Many people have also written in to share their memories. One
was a lady who travelled overnight with you in a train. Just that,
yet when she heard she condoled with Pooji who suggested she
tell us directly. She had been impressed by your composure and
your tidyness, the way you folded everything and put it away,
the way you brushed your hair and attended to the details of
getting ready in the morning. She saw everything you did as the
mark of a disciplined mind.
Madhu, too, tried to explain. I think it was as simple as
the fact that you just fitted in, quite
naturally, into whatever situation
you were in. For example, in the
forest there was a self-imposed code
which required all the trappings and
attitudes of a twentieth century urban
culture to be abandoned. City clothes
were shed and local dress adopted—
the loin cloth and the gamcha, the
multipurpose cotton cloth which
serves as a towel, upper body cover,
or a carry bag as the need maybe.
His discipline was to carry nothing
into the forest. Not even matches,
let aside a torch. You were equipped
with two lugas, the short-width sari
worn by the local women without a
petticoat or a blouse, a kind of one-piece wrap around garment.
“Change into this. Find a woman to show you how, and
bundle up your other clothes,” Madhu told you. He remembered
the colours. I do too. One was a bright yellow and the other a
deep restful green. Each with a narrow, shiny fake zari border.
211 IN THE FOREST

The material was not quite cotton, but had a heavy texture, like
linen.
You walked off into the forest, upstream, without asking
any questions about how, or saying that you didn’t know, or
voicing any reservations. He doesn’t know how you figured it
out, or whether you found anyone to ask, but you reappeared
some time later appropriately dressed, with your hair knotted
up high on one side of your head, and barefoot as they were.
Your jeans and shirt and sneakers were put away into the orange
rucksack, the one with the metal frame.
The village customs included communal cooking and
eating and everyone helped with whatever they could. For some
reason I told him about your week with us here in August and
about the crabs for the fancy dinner when we splurged on so
many delicacies. “The best meal I’ve ever had,” you said. Madhu
smiled. “Yes, one of the great delicacies there, too, were fresh
water crabs which she enjoyed eating.”
During the day you spent time separately. He and Khalid
did chores with the other men, while you went off with the
women into the forest. I don’t think they cultivated anything, as
I recall, but simply collected food, whether it was fruit, berries,
or tubers. They also collected medicinal plants.
He told me of a fine young man, Chuku, who took a fancy
to you. Apparently he was tall, immensely good looking with
his dark glistening skin and lean well-
muscled body. He gave the impression
of being lazy, of being laid back, but
Madhu said he was very alert, his
senses fine-tuned to the dangers of the
forest where bears and leopards were
not infrequent. “I’m half in love with
Chuku,” you yourself had written.
In explaining why it was comfortable to have you along, he
said that you did not cause any tension. You did not fuss or fret,
just took whatever came in your stride. That you had the knack
of disarming people with your non-judgemental attitude, an
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 212

attitude so natural that the other did not feel threatened and
therefore had no need to respond in aggression. He talked
about the first time this became apparent to him. The three of
you were on your way down, by motorbike, on the first trip and
stopped at a wayside dhaba where half a dozen trucks were also
parked for their lunch break. He didn’t feel very comfortable
seeing a large collection of truckers who are notorious for
their coarseness as a group. You were not fazed. There was a
certain amount of curiosity as you washed and setded down.
Apparendy you threw out a friendly greeting, in your heavily
accented Punjabi, because the group was obviously from the
north. It was the usual how-are-things-with-you and where-
are-you-from variety of greeting. There were smiles all around
and you instandy became the Bibi, the daughter. Sacrosanct,
instead of a strange female to leer at.
“I can’t think of anyone else who would have reacted like
that,” Madhu said. “It came naturally to her.” And I told him
what SP had remarked of you in Bombay when he first met you,
that you identified, merged with, whatever you focused your
attention on. Can one quarrel with oneself?
We talked of fear and I told him I had seen no trace of it
when you were ill and dying. He nodded, and told me how he
used to fear for you but you yourself were quite oblivious. The
time when you insisted, one evening, on going to a particular
place in the river to bathe. Except that the path to this spot lead
past the toddy collection point where the men used to gather
in the evening and get happily drunk. You were certain that
you would be all right and went ahead. Passed the ten drunken
men, greeting one or two by name, announced your intention
and carried on. Having had your cool-off bath, secure in the
knowledge that no one would follow you, and they didn’t,
you returned the same way. I think that speaks as much for
their own code of honour, morality if you like, as for your
fearlessness. “She had a mind of her own. She was very much
her own person.”
And he told me of the time when you got ill and both
213 IN THE FOREST

he and Khalid thought that you would not survive. You could
not keep anything down, not even the anti-malaria pills that
Papa had made you promise to have. You were running a high
fever and were delirious. Madhu, fearing for you, asked for four
people to help carry you out of the forest settlement. Dev, the
Headman, declined. He said that among them anyone who
walks in must walk out. “We will cure Little One,” he said and
sent for the old medicine man, Dasheru.
Dasheru stayed up with you two nights, chanting and
burning incense. After the first night the diarrhoea stopped.
And after the second night the fever came down. Limp and weak
you left with Khalid. You walked out, as you had walked in. But
they said your cure would be complete only if you returned the
next year to sacrifice a white goat.
It reminded me, I told Madhu, of your illness in Satoli.
Kalyan said he was wondering how they would carry you down.
But you walked down the hill yourself. This time there was no
return. We had to do that for you, for your spirit.
The next year, when you returned for the sacrifice, Madhu
told me of an incident at a small station in Orissa where you
had to change trains. It was in the middle of the night and there
were lots of policemen on the platform. They seemed very
suspicious that two young men should have with them one girl
and Madhu began to feel uncomfortable about the wav they
looked at your litde group. It got to the point that one of the
policemen aggressively questioned their bonafides. He took out
the letter that Papa had given him, in which your identity was
stated and both Madhu and Khalid acknowledged as your travel
companions. Seeing the Army Headquarters crest and the rank
beneath the signature dispelled any peculiar notions they may
have had. He laughed as he remarked that the situation was
reversed then and they showed instead some deference.
That year Madhu said all of you went to the Sun Temple
at Konarak and spent some time by the sea and then continued
south to Kanya Kumari, before visiting his grandmother. Both
Khalid and you got ill there but it was a minor attack of malaria.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 214

The luga then served as a sari, no doubt you wore it inelegandy,

inches off the ground. He remarked how easily you adapted to
a conservative Tamilian household. How you did not need to
be asked, but you would pick up the water pot when you went
down to the river to bathe and bring it back, filled with water,
for the household. The fact that you spilled a fair amount on die
way did not matter.
“She was just sensitive to the needs of others. It didn’t
matter whether they were tribals belonging to a totally alien
culture, or it was my old Tamilian Brahmin grandmother bound
by her own strict rites and regulations. Oona just fitted in.”

Khalid has not been to visit yet. He wrote from

Shantiniketan, I have no idea what he is doing there, teaching
Theatre perhaps.

I just heard from Laila of Oona and Ilya’s passing. I wish I

could write something to lessen the devastation but I know this to be
impossible. I remember your daughter looking radiant in a luga in
dappled sunlight, seemingly a tribal with an unusual nose...until she
started to walk, trekking fashion, swaying like a slightly tipsy macho
sailor. I have a very clear picture of eating gol guppas with her at a
Lodi Road comer which comes back almost every time I eat them.
I remember how she cried for her mother when very sick
during a storm in Kodupar and her joyful astonishment at getting
well quite contrary to her and our, (Madhu and me) expectations.
My last meeting was during her wedding, or perhaps on a
subsequent visit of hers to Delhi when we went exploring and
scrambling in Hauz Khas. My promise of a visit to her home in the
hills will ever remain unfulfilled.
I will cherish always memories of that sweet, uncorrupted,
joyful, sometimes thoughtful, caring friend—someone I never saw in
a bad light.

Gol guppas is what we had when we left Papa to buy the crabs.
215 IN THE FOREST

Come to think of it, you did have them whenever you were
here. I can see you popping the crisp rounds whole into your
mouth, head back so the zeera pani didn’t squirt over your
chin, or body bent forward a little bit so that it didn’t fall on
your clothes. I used to have one off your plate and watch you
demolish the rest which the man put there, one by one. Then
you would slurp the extra liquid, and ask for more.

You know Oona, I tell you things as though you did not
know. I’m sure you do. I had this feeling that knowledge crosses
the boundary of death very strongly at the time Masi Kartar,
Satjit’s mother, died and her family had a very elaborate antim
ardas for the peace of her soul. Everybody looked so solemn
and earnest, and people had come from all parts of the Punjab
for it, including some who I’m sure never gave her the time of
day when she was alive. Well, that was seven years ago, and I
was convinced that she was in the room with us, watching it all
cynically and laughing.
The winter she died she spent a month with us. It was
the first time she really opened up about her life and we had
wonderful conversations. Masi Kartar produced four children.
The youngest son was gunned down in that dastardly attack
on the farm in Shivpuri, Madhya Pradesh, along with six other
members of the extended household. It was summer, everyone
was sleeping outside and the intruders came and opened fire.
Apparently it was local rivalry. Sardar Sant Singh, her husband,
ran the farm with an iron hand and impounded stray cattle.
That was the only reason that was ever proffered. Perhaps it was
a move to drive the Punjabi setders out of the area. She was
there, but in all these thirty-odd years since it happened I have
never heard her talk about it.
The conversation that I remember most clearly from
that winter was about how Masi Kartar came to be married,
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 216

as the third wife, to Sardar Sant Singh who was then the Chief
Minister to the Maharaja of Nabha.
“No, not the third, the fourth.” Naniji interrupted. “Don’t
you remember the first one? She was really beautiful.” That was
a bit unfair I thought. Masi Kartar had very prominent front
teeth. “She left him just a few months after their marriage.
Before there were any children.” Masi Kartar stopped for a
moment and sort of tossed her head as though to say well, that
doesn’t count. What happened to the other three? The first, not
counting the beautiful one who ran away, died in childbirth,
the second of tuberculosis, and Masi Kartar lived to be eighty-
four. Mother, collectively, to the nine children from all three
marriages. She had no health problems and remarked that
cancer for two months was a light price to pay at the time of
going. It took just two months for the feeling of unwellness to
be identified as cancer and for her to let go.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, I have been most fortunate. What
does it matter if there is some pain now,” she told her daughter
Baljit in Ahmedabad with whom she stayed. Naniji says that
within her family, Masi Kartar was the favoured daughter
because of her twin, the only brother they had. He is still alive
and lives up in Solan, alone.
Satjit has travelled all the paths of enquiry and devotion
and finally come to the conclusion that it is only the present
moment that has any meaning. She had written from Dubai:
“Death is a social phenomenon. It happens only for others. The
Real one never dies. She has only moved on, maybe to a better
place. And we must learn to let her go, for that is the flow of
nature, the rhythm of life. The real essence shall live in your
hearts, forever. I don’t know if I make any sense, but I wanted to
get in touch with you...”
She had some advice. “Don’t fight your grief. It is good
to accept the sadness whenever you are sad, so that you can
transcend it. For surely this too shall pass.”
Shaila was here too. She is still fighting. She was such a help
when she came in September, just with her sensitivity and good
217 IN THE FOREST

cheer despite all. It was all a front for the benefit of Aloke, Arjun,
and Ajit who were more fragile in their grief. “Brave and fluffy
as she was in Delhi, she came home and fell apart,” Diljit wrote.
“She just weeps. Aju and I have no words of comfort for her.
She knows them all but cannot apply them....” We talked about
you a great deal. She told me how close you two had become in
the year you were in England and the many conversations you
had about your future with Sushil, a future which at that time
seemed most uncertain. But you were determined, determined
yet miserable because of the very sporadic contact between you
both. She was very annoyed that you felt compelled to return to
India in your autumn break, to see where you stood with Sushil.
We also did not understand your compulsions then since you
were due to return in November anyhow. Diljit told me that of
the stack of Christmas cards they received last winter, the only
one she kept was yours — Ilya’s potato-print helicopters.

Oona, it was so good to be back in the hills. Never mind

if it wasn’t Satoli or elsewhere in Kumaon. It was a ten-day
camp. Swami Nikhilananda of the Chinmaya Mission was
taking Chapter 18 of the Bhagavad Gita. It is the last chapter,
a comprehensive treatise on human nature. It talks about the
three types of character, ranging from the base to the pure, the
gross to the subtle, and the desirability, the necessity, of striving
for the highest. There is a mix of each in every human being
but the point of living life is to strive for the purest. The best.
The good. Living merely at the level of animal nature, or as a
slave to sensual desires, is to waste this precious human birth.
The scriptures say that the goal of human life is the evolution of
the soul, its transcendence to Godhead. To put it another way,
to merge with the Supreme Consciousness which exists in its
innate perfection unaffected by change, or time or space.
The full moon in June happened on the 21st, the tenth
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 218

full moon. I watched it rise from behind the hills on the

other side of the Bhagirathi, as the Ganga is known there.
It was so bright, so big in the clear mountain air. The trees
on the hilltop were etched against it while it continued
its path along the crest of the hill. The river flows rapidly
there and I could see the moonlight dance on the waves.
The water was actually quite muddy, it had been raining
off and on, but at night it did not matter.
The next day, the 22nd, I got a message from the
resident Swami that a bird had fallen out of its nest, could
I have a look. You see that my interest in birds has become
known! The poor fledgling, unidentifiable, was dead by
the time I saw’ it. I collected it in your green silk scarf and
took it upstairs. Each evening we went down to the river,
in our only free time, and I thought we would say a prayer
for it before consigning it to the Ganga. The teenagers
in the room were curious so I entrusted it to them. They
knew more prayers than I did.
I told them the bird was called Ilya and they should
pray for Ilya and bring back the scarf. Later that night I
told them about Ilya and they hugged me and cried a little
with me. I didn’t tell them about you. How could I burden
them with so much?
On the 23rd, our last day at the camp, we had a
ceremonial aarti of Ganga Mata. All seventy of us went
down and Swami Nikhilananda performed it. The lamp
was lit and offerings were made, including a sari, flowers,
jewellery, even bangles, as befits a feminine deity. I was at
the outer edge of the group and had to crane to see what
was going on. I couldn’t hear much either because the
sound of the fast flowing water carried away the prayers.
I thought instead of the time when we all had gone
up the valley with Jean and had that marvellous trek to the
219 IN THE FOREST

high meadows, Draupadi ka Danda. Papa squelching his

way through the bog, waving to us frantically to stay away,
“The bog is bad.” He lost a shoe, you had to retrieve for
him. The glyricidia was in blossom, and the high altitude
mauve rhododendrons. I thought of how you wanted to
catch one of those horses and ride. Then the herdsmen we
came across told us how the bhotia dog had chased away
the leopard the previous night. And I thought of you and
Jean going down the slope ahead of us and you calling the
dog and petting it as though it was a litde lamb. When
we reached, the man warned us to stay clear of the dog
at night. That it would be merciless to anyone whom it
thought might threaten the sheep. When was that? Eleven?
Or twelve years ago? Your knee had held out.
I watched the red sari slowly get wet and unfurl like
a serpent, the wet bits dipping into the water, the dry bits
ballooning and riding the litde waves. It swirled with the
current, and I watched it recede and wondered if someone
would recover it, or would it get entangled in boulders and
the force of the water eventually wear it down to tatters.
The group was then to take Ganga jal to the temple in
the town to do the ritual bathing of the deity, the abhishek.
I didn’t know how far that was so I thought I would not
take Naniji there. Instead we walked over to the Sivananda
Ashram where I had met Swami Chaitanyananda earlier
in the afternoon. I had asked if I could talk to him, and
told him about you and Ilya. He said he would leave the
gate open and I could come at any time in the evening. He
was holding a class on the Brahma Sutra, which I sat in on
along with thirty sanyasis in orange robes. The gist of the
class, as I gathered, was that the Ultimate Reality has to be
experienced and that intellectualisation, logic, reasoning
are of no avail.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND

We were with him for more than an hour. I told

him how it happened with you and Ilya. Mushrooms? I
explained. Yes, he said, he had heard of such things. He
is from Andhra and is a contemporary of J Krishnamurti
and Swami Chinmayananda. A sparse, lean man who lives
very simply. Then Naniji took off. She began quoting the
Sikh scriptures to him to the effect that all that happens is
the will of God. He listened, and nodded, and said “Guru
Nanak” identifying the quotation. When I got a chance to
speak again, I told him about your last day in Delhi when
we went to hear the talk on Ramana Maharishi at your
insistence. He sat up and took notice. He explained what
the scriptures say about destiny. That each soul comes to
earth with its allotted span of life which is controlled by
prarabda, a kind of predetermined destiny. This is not
arbitrary, it is dictated by past character and actions, one’s
own karma. He gave the example of the devotee who steps
into the Ganga for a purifactory bath and is then prompted
by the ego to venture further out into the current. If he
should do so without using his own discriminatory power
to know that it could be dangerous, he runs the risk of
being swept away. And if he is, then two things happen.
If his time is up he will be carried away and lose his life,
either drowned or dashed against rocks. But if his time
is not up, perhaps another current in the water will push
him towards the shore, or some other intervention will
save him.
I described the circumstances that caused you to
cook the special dish, because Samina was the unexpected
guest, and he shook his head. Finally he veered to the
stance that in the larger scheme of Life it doesn’t matter.
“Do you think you are here by chance?”
I kept quiet.
221 IN THE FOREST

“You had to be here.”

I think about how we had signed on for the Retreat
on an impulse. How I had passed the Ashram twice and
wondered if I should go in. How I had, on the third day,
and found out about his classes. The first day I went for the
class, a special mat had been placed for me, alongside him
but on the floor, the others obviously had their appointed
places facing him. I think about how he gave me the liberty
to come back at any time that suited me.
Oona, I think about your life and how purposeful it
was. I think about Naniji who asks why she is still around,
and regrets that she did nothing much Math hers. And I
think about mine and about where you have led me.
Naniji and I both contributed some money to the
Ashram in your name and Ilya’s. I hope we can continue
to be in touch.
On our way back we had to wait at Haridwar station
for about five hours. There were hundreds of people on the
platform. Naniji was in the hot and stuffy waiting room
and every now and then I would walk on the platform to
get some air. On my third round, a man came up to me
and said he had seen me before. I couldn’t place him. “In
Delhi,” he said. “At Batra Hospital. Last August.” He was
the man with the litde boy in the bed next to yours. The
boy lived.

Dadiji didn’t. She had a crisis while we were away. When I saw
her on the 25 th she was not looking well at all. She was in bed,
extremely drowsy and lethargic, and her face was puffy. She told
me she was paralysed. That simply meant that she did not have
the strength to use the walker to come into the living room as
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 222

she used to do. The problem had been identified as a urinary

tract infection and she was on antibiotics. Yet on the 26th she
was in a good mood and chatted to Somi and Ajit. Hoping to
encourage her I told her it was only another five days for Papa
to get back from America and that I had asked him not to try
and change his reservation. I didn’t want her to think that there
was cause for alarm, but she had lived on the edge long enough
and perhaps knew. She said that I should tell him to enjoy the
last few days of his holiday and not rush back. I was with her on
the 27 th morning but in the afternoon Tauji called to say that
he thought she was gone. He checked again and amended that:
“Going. On her last few breaths.”
It took me five minutes to leave. In that five minutes it
started raining. By the time I shut the gate, I was half drenched.
The rain came down in torrents. The windscreen misted over,
the wipers could not keep pace with the rain and the road
was like a river. I reached in ten minutes. Dadiji’s cousin, who
lives nearby, was already there. Gita and Sunil came soon after,
followed by Ajit and Somi.
It was terrible, Oona. She was in breathing distress and
lay limp on the bed. Slowly, her breathing became shallower
and shallower. She lay like a great fallen matriarch, struggling to
keep her system going. After an hour she was literally reaching
for air with her mouth, like a fish gasping out of its element. A
coldness had begun to creep up her limbs despite the hand and
foot massage we took turns in giving, and despite the torrid
weather. At half past five her tongue emerged and lay, pink and
flaccid, closing her mouth. She shook her head slightly and that
was it. She had used her last breath.
I had told her, during those two hours, that she was to give
you lots of love and how good it was for her to have a reception
committee waiting at the other end.
That night I sat up with her as she was laid out on blocks
of ice in the living room, surrounded by huge arrangements
of flowers. Masses of tuberoses, which she loved, and gladioli
and lilies. When everyone else had left and I put on the shabad
223 IN THE FOREST

kirtan for both of us. I also took out the pictures of you and Ilya
from the window sill where she kept them, along with those of
Dadaji, Jasbir, Charles and her own first born, big Pooji, and put
them on the table next to her own. Yours was the pensive one.
Sushil had sent that, from you, as his 1996 Christmas greeting
to Dadiji. Somi had put it in a frame. Ilya’s was the happy one
against the wisteria with the Satoli forest in the background.
Ilya was just over three and you had sent copies to all of us.
I dwelt with you three that night for three hours. Tauji
came down around midnight to see if the ice needed replacing.
I told him it would last till six. It was around two in the morning
when I returned to Hauz Khas, the 28th. Exacdy ten months
since your heart stopped beating. Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo.
The Mystic law runs its own course. Life and Death are part
of the same process. One is the great cosmic inhalation, the
creation. The other is the exhalation, the dissolution. And the
cycle goes on.
The cremation, too, was at the same time in the morning
and at the same place as yours. Her head was covered sedately
with her dupatta. I thought of your thick mass of black hair.
Defiantly, I had left it open. Only two white hairs which you
couldn’t see. It would have been the first to frizzle, to be released
to the elements.
At the end, the raagis did some kirtan. For you we had had
it in die house before taking you out. The flowers next to you
had been two blossoms of zephyranthes, like a delicate white
crocus, from the garden, from the plant you had given me. It
was the first to bloom that August.
It was Sunday, 6 July 1997, my birthday, when we set out to
take Dadiji’s ashes to Garhmukteswar.

Arjun received the news of Dadiji within hours of writing

to me. He also sent me a copy of your rakhi letter as he had
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 224

promised. What a lovely flower you drew for him. And another
for Kabir too.
Berkeley
Friday, June 27, 1997

At long last I grabbed a few moments this morning and dug

through my files to find whatever letters Oona wrote. I don’t know
if the enclosed are the extent of our correspondence as I have not
looked for mine or tried to piece the history together. Perhaps
sometime I’ll allow myself to take the time and feel the pain. Right
now I scan her letters, glance at the photograph you sent and feel
tremendous warmth and loss, more of the abstract sense of pain
rather than the absolutely crippling pain that I have known too well.
Mosdy, at this time in my life, I feel an incredible sense of pain for
you and Mamaji.
Seeing Mamaji was truly wonderful and hearing the joy in his
voice about their road trip allowed me to live that trip somewhat
vicariously. It was good to hear from you as well and to know that
your trip with your mother was much of what you hoped. When you
mention the spiritual path I think of how much my life has changed
since I toppled off that building more than ten years ago...
Oona was living a life that I certainly fantasise about—actually
doing the kind of work that myself and all my colleagues in this
ever-expanding environmental field admire more than any other
kind of work. I believe that I admire it so much because I had a small
taste in Kenya and Nepal and know how hard I find it. Difficult in
a completely different way than stretching my brain to understand
new data from my research, staying up too late too many nights in
a row getting a paper done, running a marathon, building a house,
working on a relationship with a significant other. More difficult
than any of the other aspects of life I’ve known and are considered
difficult.
No, for the duration of the more intense correspondence I
shared with Oona, I’ve been completely impressed and in awe of
her for doing what she was doing. We had debates about it, specially
during that time revolving around my trying to consider whether to
do something at CH1RAG, and then whether to go back and work
on something with Oona. The debates centred around the concept of
personal effectiveness. We believed very strongly in the same things
225 IN THE FOREST

and believed also in the ways in which people like us can be effective.
I remain unsatisfied with my personal justification for not
living in some remote village really doing the work I believe in, but
I accept the justification because I know I won’t be happy doing it. If
I’m not happy I’m not going to be effective irrespective of what it is
I’m doing.
So, the very simple fact that Oona was able to be happy doing
what she was doing, overjoyed even at times, bears witness to a very
important realisation about her work: she was content and happy
with the decisions she made for her life. She embraced her path with
a fervour that few can be fortunate to even encounter in their lives.
In doing so Oona radiated energy and warmth, to say nothing
of the very rare quality of optimism, to people from so many
different haunts of the world.
I must say that ever since I went to visit Kanai etc. at CHI RAG
and learned more about Oona’s interests and work, I’ve been able
to imagine working there. I don’t really believe that it will happen
anytime soon, but it’s an amazing feeling for me to actually be able
to believe that there’s a cause and a conduit that I believe in over
there enough to devote my life to it. I am doing it in a different way
here and now, but believe a great deal in the concept of soothing the
many facets of life. Oona’s work helped ease so much of my cynicism
revolving around grass-roots work and perhaps sometime I’ll be able
to get back to it, explore one of the many dreams I have for life. If I
do, I’ll know it was made possible by Oona creating and following
her dream. Exposure to so many people who have absolutely no idea
what they want to do with their lives emphasises how special that
quality is in a person.
Then, Oona, he goes on to express gratitude in much the same
way you did in your anniversary letter, and the way Aloke did:
And, in case you and Mamaji, and Surjit for that matter, forget
it, we have all learnt this quality from you all and it is certainly a
cause for admiration and praise. I know that Mamaji is specially bad
at taking compliments and somehow whenever I try to convey how
much I respect and admire Bibiji my words are misinterpreted, so
at least now, to you, I can convey the important roles you have all
played in all of our development.
I know I’d love to stay in closer touch and would also relish
thinking more about Oona’s work and how it fits into what I consider
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 226

to be a very important place in the global environmental movement.

I also hope that Sushil is finding some peace, some understanding. I
think of you all a great deal and will hold thoughts close during the
summer.
In the same mail was a letter from a friend of yours whom
I met just once, to give him directions to reach you in Sida. I
suggested he walk down from Mukteswar through the forest. I
should have had better sense because he must have been at least
seventy and looked quite frail. Sensibly, he took the taxi from
Haldwani instead. It is a Bombay address.
I have heard with the deepest regret and sorrow about the sad
death of your dear daughter Oona. She was one of my dearest friends
and I remember very vividly the time 1 had at Sida as her guest. I
heard about the sad event from my friend Premila Pandit who knew
Oona and I still don’t believe she is no more.
We had like interests in the field of cottage industries and I got
to know a lot from her. I am sorry I could not write to you earlier
because I myself had a passing stroke which kept me in bed for several
days. Please let me know the details of her passing away in the kill
bloom of life.
We used to correspond regularly and even when she left for
England she would write to me of the work she was doing there. When
I did not hear from her for some time, I thought she was far too busy
in her work which she did with great zest, very quietly and sincerely.
I can well understand how you must be feeling at this time, but
take comfort in the thought that dear Oona will always live in the
thoughts and minds of all who came in contact with her.
May God rest her soul in peace and may he grant you the
strength and courage to bear this great loss with calm dignity and
peace of mind.
May I request you to kindly let me have a photograph of Oona
which I would like to keep with me always?
Yours in sorrow,
Minoo Chhoi

Shall I send him the Ladakh picture, or wait for Kalyan to send
me the negative of you planting the sapling, your hair held back
in Ilya’s red hairband?
 11
Guru Purnima

ou complained, Oona, in your letters to Arjun and

Aloke that Kabir never wrote. But you invariably
senthim a rakhi anyhow and your annual letter.
He wrote. But you did not see it:

Oona,
The orca is a silent message of death
But when this whale glides past
there is great peace
A realisation of impermanence which
gives power and beauty
To the life which we yet lead.
Kabir

The envelope is addressed to ‘Oona and Family’. The postmark

says: Seattle, Washington. 28 August 1996. He ends, “I hope,
with luck, to see you soon.” Is that line addressed to you? Or
to Us? Kabir is a really private person. He studied comparative
religion and wanders in the mountains of Nepal and Tibet
whenever he can create the opportunity. I think of him as an
declared Lama bom in the wrong country, at the wrong time.
We received it while Aloke was still here, on 5 September.
The card is a lithograph and depicts a killer whale, a symbol of
the great passing? The embossed whale itself is without colour
beneath it is a suggestion of water. From its back rises a fin,
shaped quite like a lingam but tapered and curving backwards.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 228

Or seen upside down, like the keel of a boat. In the fin is a seated
figure. Black, red and white. Above its head is a white oval. The
moon? Not round, but slightly elliptical like the symbol on the
card we sent out.
Arjun too sent a card. It has a rectangular cutout framing
a drawing of the fruit and leaves of the common European
Walnut. Juglans Regia, our akhrot.

Thursday, 29 August 1996

I chose this card yesterday for Oona as a get-well symbol and
to thank her dearly for the Rakhi that arrived the day before. Last
night I read the Aarohi annual report and felt the wonderful strength
emanating from the Satoli hills...
I cannot come close to adequately sharing my grief and sense
of complete disbelief. This card must now convey my terrible sadness
and sense of loss in addition to the strength for all of you coping with
this tragedy.
I think of the mountains, of the people living with the land, of
the trees struggling to take root and of the cascading streams bringing
energy from mountain to village — I think of Oona and know that her
energy will always inspire me unlike anyone I know.

The envelope is addressed simply to ‘Mansingh’

postmarked Oakland, California. The card was delivered on 6
September. He arrived before that.
Remember Talib Ismail? We met him at IRMA when I
came as babysitter for Ilya in April 1993 when you had your
workshop on Gender and the Environment. He sent a Sufi
poem:

The universe
is a kaleidoscope.
Now hopelessness, now hope
now spring, now fall.

Forget its ups and downs

do not vex yourself.
229 GURU PURNIMA

The remedy for pain

is the pain itself.

Pooji and Papa returned, as scheduled, in time for the

kirtan for Dadiji on the thirteenth day.
In July the full moon was on the 20th. I was restless, not an
agitated restlessness but a fidgety unquiet. I took Naniji to the
meditation at Buddha Jayanti Park early in the morning. It was
so peaceful with the serene golden Buddha looking benignly at
us. There was a reading from Thich Nhat Hahn, some chanting,
and quiet meditation. Red munias were released, bought from
the bird market and given their freedom. They didn’t fly far.
I noticed them perched, like so many little jewels, on the
bottlebrush tree. Plump rubies. Males. Glowing in the early
morning sun.
It was Guru Purnima. A day of dedication to the ultimate
Teacher, represented in various ages by spiritually evolved
people. These preceptors represent a continuous living tradition
and derive their authority from the Teaching and their own
direct realisation of the Truth, the unity of being.
I think the Uttarkashi experience moved Naniji profoundly
ar»d she is ready to venture out with me. Up there, people told
1116 I was brave to bring her. I rather thought it was brave of
her to make the effort. She says, “I did not see God, nobody can
see Him as He has no form. But I had a vision of Him. He is
where Love, Harmony and Beauty are.”
And she talks of her ‘divine experience’. Is it moksha?
Is it what the book talks of: “The perfect knowledge that the
jiva (individual) gains when he is completely free from the
bonds of ignorance and has realized his inherent purity. This
knowledge is direct, immediate, and independent of the senses
and the mind, and can only be felt and experienced. It cannot
be expressed in logical terms. This knowledge of the soul is
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 230

equivalent to the transcendental knowledge of the Upanishads

and the nirvana of the Buddhists.”
Among the Sikhs it is the same tradition. The Scripture
itself is worshipped as the Guru—the revelation of the Word of
God. It is, in fact, called the Guru Granth Sahib. There are no
idols, no rituals. The emphasis is on Naam Jap, the repetition of
the Name of God, on the remembrance of God, and on sangat,
the being together in worship.

Ik Onkaar
Sat naam, Karta purakh
Nir bhau, Nir vair
Akaal murat, Ajuni
Saibhang, Gur parsaad
Jap
Ad such, Jugaad such
Hai bhi such,
Nanak hosi bhi such

This is the mool mantra, the Japji.

There is but One God, Om

Truth in name, the Creator of all
Without fear, without enmity
Beyond time and form, Unmanifest
Indestructible, Attainable only by the grace of the Lord
Remember Him
True when Time began, True through the ages
True in the present
And will be True in future time, says Nanak.

This is our own translation. There have been hundreds.

“Ad such, Jugaad such, Hosi bhi such”, could have been simply
‘Ever-existent’ but I like the idea of the three worlds of Time
Past, Present and Future.
The repetition, with sincerity and devotion, will itself
kindle the Light of Knowledge, of God, and this then has to
231 GURU PURNIMA

be nurtured to keep it alive. Remembrance, simran, serves this

purpose. The knowledge is not outside, but within, in the heart
of the devotee. It is a God-consciousness. They say it needs
constant effort to reach this state, and more, to remain in it.
Did you know that Guru Nanak’s mystic experience
happened during an August full moon? In 1S07. He was in the
throes of a resdessness and wondered why he was wasting his
life doing accounts for the local Nawab. Three days before the
full moon he went to the river to bathe, he and his companion,
Mardana, the Muslim rebec player. He didn’t emerge. Mardana
panicked and told the townspeople that Nanak had drowned.
Daulat Khan Lodhi, his employer, was distressed when he
heard. “Nanak was a man of God besides being an honest
accountant,” he said. “Let us dredge the river and rescue his
corpse.” They found no body. Then, on the night of the full
moon, Nanak appeared looking transformed. Effulgent. He had
been in the presence of God. He had been given amrit—the
Word: “This “will give thee power of prayer, love of worship,
truth and contentment.” And he had been blessed with release
from the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.
Naniji read out for me the message he heard. “He that
sets eyes on you will be saved; he that hears your words with
conviction will be helped by Me; he that you forgive will be
forgiven by Me. I grant thee salvation. Nanak go back into the
evil world and teach men and women to pray, to give in charity
and to live cleanly. Do good to the world and redeem it in the
age of sin.” He started preaching then.
People called him mad, bewitched. They couldn’t
understand him. They knew only two ways—the ways of
Hinduism and of Islam. But he had another way: “There is no
Hindu, no Mussalman,” he declared and repeated it. You have
no idea what a revolutionary statement that was for those times,
or now for that matter. For him there was only the brotherhood
of man, and praise of the Lord, the message he was to preach
the rest of his life. He was then thirty-six. The 900 hymns he
composed form the first portion of the Granth Sahib. Naniji
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 232

knows them well. I admire her rootedness in the faith.

Esh, in a very unobtrusive way, has the same quality of
rootedness. I see it specially when he talks of Bharat who died
at the age of twenty-one. Girija and he have been devotees of
Anandamayi Ma who has a large following all over India. They
sought comfort in her wisdom at that time, and received it.
She indicated that he had started the next stage of his spiritual
journey, the Ascent. Grieving was of no consequence.
Both Naniji and Esh are sensitive to my full moon unquiet.
There was to be a full moon meditation at Aurobindo Ashram
that evening. Your friend, Eera’s in-laws told me, quite by
chance, when I called to ask how they were. They have been
going regularly. It is the Pranic Healing Foundation, the Delhi
chapter, which meets every full moon for a collective meditation,
the twin heart meditation. Its founder, Chou Kok Sui of Chinese
origin, one of the Healers was telling me, was inspired by an
ancient Indian method of Shakti Path where the Healer draws
power from Divine sources of energy and uses it to increase
the energy body of the patient. The good energy helps the body
overcome negative energy thereby eliminating what causes dis-
ease, or, as we see it, disease. I must tell Papa. The headquarters
of this society is in Manila, where incidentally Papa has gone for
a conference on Land Mines with the International Committee
of the Red Cross.
We had to visualise Light and bathe the world in it, direct
it towards our own hearts and to those of others. Feet firmly on
the ground, eyes closed and hands open on our knees to receive
cosmic energy.

For you and your generation personally the whole Muslim-

Hindu antagonism is irrelevant. It was not so for those who
lived through Partition. And for us, the in-between generation,
it is a matter of luck that we are not trapped in it. You had a
233 GURU PURNIMA

brush with it when you were very young, when we, as a family,
ran into trouble. It was in Kashmir in the summer of 1969. We
were going in Papa’s jeep, the Commander’s jeep, from Patan
to Gulmarg. Papa was in uniform and we took the short cut
through various villages to reach the main road to Gulmarg.
There was a strange silence in the countryside and we had to
stop twice or thrice to remove branches of trees across the road.
It did seem peculiar but I don’t think anyone considered them
as roadblocks. Nor were we stopped. Returning the same way
that evening, it was a different story. The branches were back
in place, this time along with stones. We removed the first lot
and continued, until we were waylaid. We had with us another
family, a lady and her two children, slightly older than you both.
There were about a dozen people, armed with axes and
lathis. They wanted credentials, but would not believe either the
driver or Papa. They claimed we were saboteurs and that soon
after we had passed in the morning some houses had gone up
in flames. I used reason. I asked if, indeed, we had done that
would we return the same way, and with four children instead
of two?
They had surrounded the jeep and were flexing their lathis
on the canvas top. I was afraid one of them would swing an axe
on the windshield, or, worse, at us. We managed to stay calm
but they insisted that both the driver, a bright Maratha lad, and
Papa get out of the jeep. They looked inside. Looking for guns?
There weren’t any. They saw my handbag and asked for it. Why?
There must at least be a handgun or grenade in there, I expect
they thought. I opened it and said / would show them the
contents. Out came the lipstick. I swivelled it up and in mime
showed them its purpose. Eyeliner. Explained that. Perfume.
Wallet, and so on.
I sensed a litde easing of tension and decided that we had
somehow to appeal to the humanity bit. Hospitality, I thought.
Can’t go wrong with that. I told them, in Hindi and through
mime, that I was thirsty. There was some consternation, then
one of them peeled off to the field—the paddy had just been
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 234

transplanted—and brought some of that standing water in a

tin mug. I had no choice but to drink it. Slowly. Then I said
the children were hungry. Would they take us to the headman
of the village? I remember clearly, there was not a sniffle or a
question from either you or Aloke. The lady was getting a bit
agitated as she tried to calm her two who were crying.
They agreed but they took no chances. Papa was made
to walk in front of the jeep which Matkar, the driver, perforce
drove at walking pace. We were questioned, quite politely, and
they gave us tea and biscuits. More questions. Finally, one man
from the back of the group spoke up. He confirmed that what
Papa claimed was true—that he was indeed the Commander of
the Engineer Regiment at Patan. His word was accepted, and
because his attitude was not hostile, we were allowed to leave.
But the mob did take a parting shot at the vehicle. They swung
their axes and slashed both the rear tyres. Matkar decided
this was not the time to worry about damage to government
property and he pulled away as fast as he could. We bumped
along, hoping there would be no more roadblocks, and limped
into Patan late that evening.
The man who spoke up for us, it turned out, was the dhobi
for the unit, a Kashmiri Muslim.

Then there was October 1984.

That was soon after the last time that we all lived together,
in the Lodi Estate house. You had already gone to IRMA
and Papa was due to leave for his new posting, to Western
Command then at Shimla, and Delhi went berserk following
the assassination of Indira Gandhi on the 31st.
It happened in the morning but I heard about it only
around noon. The assassin was her own security guard, a Sikh.
The news bulletins did not confirm till late that night that she was
dead. It seems they kept alive the fighting-for-life-in-hospital
235 GURU PURNIMA

fiction during the day while the succession was secured. Like
the Kennedy assassin, he too was shot dead by other security
men. Apparently he was motivated by the backlash of Operation
blue Star, the storming of the most sacred shrine of the Sikhs,
the Golden Temple, Amritsar, in June 1984 to flush out the
terrorists who were believed to have taken sanctuary there.
To the Sikhs, this was desecration of the worst kind. Firing,
shelling, tanks, and soldiers in boots—sacrilege in a place
of worship— all over the place. And bloodshed. I remember
Naniji’s wild, almost virulent, reaction: “They deliberately used
Sikh troops!” I don’t know if they did, or if it was deliberate, she
remains convinced it was. It is her own persecution complex on
behalf of the community. She can be extremely rabid when she
gets started on the theme.
By late evening, the announcement was made and, at the
same time, the appointment of Rajiv Gandhi as the next Prime
Minister. The next day the madness was unleashed. Sikhs all
over Delhi were targeted as victims and stories of horrendous
happenings began to do the rounds—looting, beating, burning,
and everything abominable. It was like reliving the horrors of
Partition. But this was not communal violence in the sense of
one community versus another as happens sporadically, but a
political assault. It came to be believed that the party in power
itself was instigating the violence.
Even though we lived in central Delhi, Lutyens’ Delhi, we
felt threatened. Aloke took charge. He forbade Papa to step out
of the house, his hair and turban would identify him all too
easily. Since Aloke himself is clean-shaven, he would walk the
dog and do whatever outside chores needed to be done.
Naniji lived alone in Hauz Khas, we were in touch with
her on the phone. She was worried sick about Niki Mama
who was due to come to Delhi from Patiala for a meeting on
1 November. He did come but he had the good sense to call a
colleague to check if the meeting was still on. He was advised
not to attempt to travel in the city and he took the next bus back.
By the evening the violence had spread to the neighbouring
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 236

states, and by the next day there were stories of people being
dragged out of buses and trains and set on fire. As a rule he does
not telephone, nor did it strike him to do so that morning. We
did not know what had happened to him. I told Naniji that no
news was good news, that worrying would not help.
By the 2nd, Delhi was aflame, the air acrid with the smell
of the burning. Kerosene and cloth. And flesh. The brutality
was unbelievable. Dadaji called from Defence Colony to say
that the house in the lane behind theirs had been torched, they
could see the flames.
Salima called morning and evening. Just to be in touch.
She too lived in Defence Colony then. Single, and without
transport. She joked, “Hey. I thought we (meaning Muslims)
were the only ones.” To be targeted, she meant.
Papa called a family conference.
“If there is trouble,” he said, “no heroics please.” I remember
that so clearly.
“Split. Get away, and stay away.” He’d be the hostage. He’d
take the rap, is what he was saying.
“But...” I started.
“No buts.” I was going to ask if they wouldn’t listen to
reason. But I knew the answer. No. I remembered his advice to
me after that jeep episode. “If you see a mob, turn around and
CLEAR OUT.”
In the Punjab one backlash led to another and the State
was in ferment for almost eight years after that. In Kashmir
the real trouble began in the last decade. When you went to
Ladakh, you wrote to Aijun about that. But now it is the North-
east which is in trouble. All lessons of brotherhood forgotten.

On 4 July, though we did not know it that day, Sanjoy Ghose

Was ‘arrested’ by ULFA, the terrorist/liberation group in Assam
depending on which viewpoint one takes. For days nothing was
237 GURU PURNIMA

heard, just a statement accusing him of being a government

agent. For a week or so there was nothing further from ULFA.
Then there was a report saying that he had been released, and
was escorted by two ULFA people, but the boat had capsized
and all were drowned. The Brahmaputra is in its annual spate
and Majuli, where AVARD worked, is an island, the largest
riverine island in the world, and apparently also ULFA territory.
This report was then denied by ULFA as not having been issued
by them. The family made appeals for his safety and release but
no one knows what is going on, and it is almost the end of the
month now.
He too wrote, Oona, from Jorhat:

We heard... Words always seem inadequate, but we want you

to know that our thoughts, good wishes, and prayers are with you,
to give you the strength to bear the loss and the pain. She was a good
friend, one whose company and advice we respected, and valued. We
will always treasure her memory.
We were talking amongst ourselves about the idea of instituting
some kind of an award in Oona’s name — in case you decide to do
something on those lines, we would like to contribute in whichever
way we can. We would also be grateful if you could send us a brief
sketch, with a photograph, which we would like to publish in our
newsletter.

With deepest sympathy and condolences,

Sanjoy Ghose, Sumita, Sunil Kaul
and Renu, David, Jennifer and Ritu,
AVARD, P.O. Box 91, Jorhat.

Papa replied. I’m afraid it was some time before I saw any
messages properly then.
Things do not look hopeful. There have been too many
contradictions. It will be two families now for whom 4 July will
be unthinkable.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 238

Aloke has recently had a narrow escape. His attention strayed

and the car went off the road. Fortunately some bushes stopped
it before it plunged off the cliff.... Yasmir and he were on holiday
in the Carribean.
Oona, I used to write to you in detail about the various
goings on. It seems I can’t get out of the habit. Rohit came again.
He has twisted his knee and I took him to Dr Rajagopal. Then
Vidya came and it quite unsettled me. And Theo looked in. He
came to ask if Jean and I would join Mallika’s trans- Himalayan
trek for the last stage in Ladakh. Some of it Jean and I have
already done. But time is short and I am in no condition to scoot
off, they would be thoroughly acclimatised and toughened.
Besides August is around the comer and I have to be here with
you.
I write to Aloke too. He pays attention to what I tell him
and takes the trouble to follow through.

I just acquired the Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav and the
Tibetan Book of Living and Dying is being held for me at the book
store...
I remember Uncle SP very well from our Bombay days. He
himself is such a warm relaxed person and was one of the few people
who swam with us during the monsoon. I remember he was also with
us when Oona got stung by a Portuguese man-of-war.
Last night, in the kitchen, I knocked over a glass botde, spilt
some wine and I quickly righted it. The thought which immediately
came to my mind was when Oona knocked over the sugar bowl of
Naniji’s china set it broke immediately. The other day I dropped a little
crystal gift on the wooden floor and it again was unscratched. Each
time I thought if Oona had dropped it, it would have surely broken.
Not that a gl ass bauble or bottle is anything of significance but the
symbolism of it seemed to recur. Oona was incredibly unlucky in
certain respects. But with the benefit of hindsight of her work, and the
couple of shots she had at the scholarships, including the Rhodes, her
life seemed to have so much more meaning than the guy who perhaps
239 GURU PURNIMA

uses the Rhodes to get into an investment bank.

I don’t know whether I sent these pictures or not, from our trip
in 1995 including those at the ceremony for the new guest house they
built. She is so radiant and glowing and looks so beautiful. It is quite
something.

Aloke sent the pictures, he hadn’t sent them before.

You carrying Ilya and Sushil walking behind you. You had
to go around the house three times, I have forgotten whether it
was before or after the havan. The officiating priest was the same
person who sold you the property. The room on the ground
floor was still stacked with planed pine planks, getting seasoned
for use in the hospital building. It is the room intended for a
resident handyman when you get one. Or for the horse you
intended to keep for Ilya to ride to school. The lower fields
would grow the fodder for the horse you said. And the huge
pit from which the stone for the house had been excavated was
to be a pool where Ilya would be able to swim. Water would be
trained into it from the spring at the head of the ravine to the
east.
That is where the apricot trees are, where the langurs
come when the apricots are ripe. Papoose would set up a frantic
barking, and Ilya would join Bachi in making loud noises to
frighten them away. There had been many discussions with
Papa on how the excavated pit would be waterproofed. Whether
the sturdy black plastic, the low density polyethylene lining
which was being used for the mini-irrigation ponds, would
be thick enough or whether it would also need some kind of
padding, clay or jute perhaps. The pit was shallow at one end
and reasonably deep at the other. Perfect for Ilya.

Unlucky, Aloke said. The botde slipped out of your hands

but how did it gash your foot? Then the week you were in Delhi
you were so upset when you lost your favourite silver jewellery,
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 240

the thick chain and the two bracelets.

“It’s not like you to be careless,” I had remarked.
“No,” you replied, “usually I am quite careful.”
Were you preoccupied with some other thoughts?
And then, just days later, in Satoli the night you cooked the
mushrooms. Samina said you had been busy on the computer.
Had you been preoccupied again and did not think straight?
Mindfulness is what Thich Nhat Hanh stressed.
Listen now to something else he says: “People usually
consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think
the real miracle is...to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged
in a real miracle...a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black
curious eyes of a child—our own two eyes. All is a miracle.”
Well, Oona. In the hospital I asked you for a miracle. I see
now that you yourself were, are, my special miracle.
 12
Bridges

teady and gende rain. We have been waiting in

Delhi for the annual miracle. The thunderstorms
of May and June were an unexpected bonus.
The period of dry scorching heat has been barely two or
three weeks. I remember walking down with Oona, many years
ago, on Khel Gaon Marg when it was so hot that the asphalt on
the road was soft under our feet and we could see little bubbles
of bitumen sizzling on the surface of the road. The hot wind
stung our faces and she smiled that wonderful smile of hers.
“I love the sheer intensity of it,” she remarked. “If it has
to be hot, let it be really so.” I think that was her distinguishing
quality. The ability to extract the most from a given moment,
to live fully in the present and yet be aware of the befores and
afters.
The monsoon came on 9 July. The atmosphere had hung
heavy with moisture for days before that. It was in the afternoon
again, as on the day Gurbir’s mother died. But unlike the fury
of that rainstorm, this was a leaden sky which could hold its
load no longer. It started as a medium drip of fat droplets and
the pace quickened as a light breeze rose. It continued for about
an hour and left no doubt that this was it. No drama this yeati
just a plain statement although we did have a few streaks of
lightning followed by the drumbeat of thunder. The rest of the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 242

evening became quite bearable as the temperature fell by five

degrees to a mere 35 rather than hovering close to 40 degrees
Celsius. Bliss. Until the stickiness takes over again.
I shall remember 9 July as another of those days that mark
an intertwining of contacts and circles, as another of those
synchronicities that have directed these last few months. It was
a Wednesday. Vidya, who gave Oona An Anthology of Indian
Literature, came to visit. I had never met him though I recall
speaking to him on the phone over the years as he would ask
about Oona’s well-being and whereabouts. I had written to
him in March wondering if he knew. His friendship with her
was during a period that I did not recall much about, her time
at IRMA, Anand, when she was home infrequendy. He had
replied immediately and also spoken to Gurbir who gave him
some details:

I feel honoured at your request to share my perceptions of Oona

with you. This I promise to do. In fact, I can think of no better person
with whom to share those perceptions than you, because no one else
would have known her better than you. Oona was someone very, very
special as a person.

We introduced ourselves. He had an athletic build, strong

shoulders, and was tall and dark. His face was lean, a crease
between the nose and the lips, a square jaw and firm chin and
deep-set eyes. His forehead was broad, the hairline showing
signs of receding.
Completing the introduction to my mother and to Gurbir,
who were both in the verandah, I asked if he would come in for
a moment. I wanted to show him the pictures of Oona and Ilya,
i.e. insisted on removing his shoes before entering the house in
spite of my assurance that it was all right to come in shod. They
were muddy, he said, and best shed. As he entered, in his socks,
he remarked, “Yes, I want to see Ilya.” I noted the omission of
Oona but did not query it. He looked at all the pictures that I
have around my work area, but kept returning to those of Ilya.
243 BRIDGES

I found out why later in the evening.

He declined a drink. I asked if he was a teetotaller. No,
he said, just that he had given it up recendy for some time. He
accepted water. I poured for Gurbir and myself and we settled
down outside. I asked about his brother, and his father who I
knew had cancer. They are well, he said. Then I asked after his
wife, and he dropped his bombshell.
Shubha was dead.
She had been unwell, off her food, for three days; they had
to cancel a trip to Shirdi, where she had been very keen to go for
some years. The evening before their departure, he found that
she was having difficulty responding to simple questions. Got
her to a hospital. She went into a coma. And within days, died.
Hepatitis, they said. Hepatitis B. Fulminating. It happens
one in a thousand cases.
“She was so fit. At forty she was still playing national level
basketball. She held a full time job. And she looked after all the
needs of our son, and the joint family home...I don’t know how
I am going to cope. She had never been ill all her life...”
Their trip was scheduled for 28 April 1997. She died on 6
May. He was concerned about their son, Vinayak, who refused
to go to the hospital. He refused to have anything to do with the
pre-cremation rites, or to light the funeral pyre. Vidya worried
that the trauma was so deep and that there had been no release
through either talk or tears. He told me that Vinayak was very
reserved and that Shubha and he had a very close bond.
He told me also that Oona was one of the three or four
persons whom Vinayak went to spontaneously as a child. He
was not that free with his own uncles and aunts. Pixie, as they
called him then, was about five when Oona came into their lives
about twelve years ago.
I found myself trying to give comfort yet again, as I had
earlier to Diljit. I told Vidya about Oona’s lucidity, about Gary
Zukav, and about Ramana Maharishi. I told him also about
Tsagaadai and showed him the book by Lobsang Rampa from
Oona’s bookshelf, Three Lives. In fact I found him a passage to
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 244

read. And then I asked whether he believed. “I don’t,” he said,

“but Shubha did. She believed very strongly. It had been a deep
desire with her that we should all go together to Shirdi, but I
kept putting it off. And now...”
He was prepared to dispense with all rites and ceremonies
and take the body straight from the hospital to the cremation
ground. But Shubha’s parents objected and said that only beggars
were treated with such scant regard. “It was very difficult for
me. I had not recovered from the shock of hearing about Oona
and Shubha went. They were both extraordinary people.”
After a quiet, simple dinner at home, I asked him to tell me
how he met Oona and what it was about her that contributed
to the friendship and also whether she had kept in touch. I
reminded him about the book I had found with his name in it.
He remembered, he chose it specially because the editor was a
friend of his, John B. Alphonso-Karkala.
They had met at Anand when his company secured the
contract to install the computer system at the Institute of Rural
Management. He remembered the others in Oona’s batch too—
Sylvy to whom she was very close, Shiny, Daman and Manjul.
friendship started on the playing fields, he himself was a
Star basketball player though he said not in the same league as
Shubha.
Had Oona kept in touch? Yes. She wrote quite regularly.
“I don’t suppose you have any of her letters?” I asked
tentatively as I told him about my work and showed him the
letter I had received from Arjun a few days earlier.
“I must tell you something. It is my habit to go through my
personal mail once a year and, having made sure I have dealt
with everything, I destroy it. I do this regularly. Every year. It
is my way.”
“Oh. Yes, I see.”
“But I kept Oona’s letters. I was thinking earlier this year
that I should dispose of them after reading them one last time.
Then your letter came. Shubha had actually asked me how long
I was going to keep them. She was also in shock when she heard
245 BRIDGES

about Oona. She then collected all the letters and put them in
a packet. I have actually been to Delhi twice since you wrote
and each time she would ask me if I had been to see you. ‘You
must go,’ she said before each trip. I am sorry, I didn’t have the
courage to make contact.”
And then the sledgehammer got him.
“For ten days I could not think straight. I just did not
know what to do. And I worried desperately about Vinayak.
He is not prepared to talk about it at all. Not with me, or with
anyone else.” I asked if Vinayak knew about Oona and Ilya. Yes.
They had told him. Did he remember Oona? No.
Then Vidya asked if he could have a picture of Oona and
Ilya and he showed me a picture of Shubha on his computer
which was in the small bag he was carrying. The likeness was
startling. They could have been sisters. They had the same open,
radiant look and very similar features and colouring. It is the
look that invites warmth, a look that says there is nothing to
fear. He explained why he had been so keen to see a picture of
Ilya.
“You see, Oona told me once that if she ever had a daughter,
she would like to send her to me for fifteen days every year.”
Perhaps she was only repaying the compliment that Vinayak
paid her, in accepting her presence without reservation, which
both Shubha and Vidya told her was quite exceptional. I could
see why Oona had been drawn to them. She had the highest
regard for excellence, for her sheer magnificent athleticism was
a kind of physical perfection.
I asked Vidya if he would share her letters with me. Could
he photocopy them? Yes, he would be happy to share the letters
now that he knew what I was doing. But photocopying them
might be a problem.
“Many of them are written in pencil and I don’t think that
will come out.”
He got up and went towards the dining table. He looked
in his computer bag, and came back holding a light grey manila
envelope, 12 inches by 8.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 246

“I have them with me.”

We did an exchange. I loaned him the collage and he left
the letters with me. He had only one request. That I please
return them to the same envelope when I was done with them.
“Shubha put them there,” he offered by way of explanation.
In addition he asked for a copy of the picture of Oona sitting
on her haunches, face turned to the camera in a broad smile,
leaning forward to plant a sapling. I promised to get him a copy.
Something strange happened the next day.
Vidya dropped in, unexpectedly, carrying another bag.
He was on his way to Haridwar. He pointed to the bag and
said that Shubha had asked for her ashes to be immersed in
the Ganga there. I recommended Rishikesh as a more peaceful
place. While we were talking, a sadhu arrived at the gate. He
had come from Shirdi and was passing through Delhi on his
way to Vaishno Devi. I’m afraid I allowed him to come in. He
reminded me that he had come the previous year too, in July.
He had. He had talked about future prospects for my ‘beta’ at
some length. Thrice I cued him for Oona, my ‘beti’, but he said
nothing. It was as though he had not heard. He returned to
‘beta’ each time and said he wanted to meet ‘babuji’—Gurbir.
It struck me as strange then but I had put it down to a typical
mindset which assumed that I as a mother must necessarily be
interested in my son and that a married daughter was not of
much concern to me. I wonder now if it is possible that he did
not ‘see’ a daughter in the future and therefore said nothing.
I remembered the conversation clearly and that I had also
mentioned it to Aloke on our way up to Satoli in September. He
had said, in gist, that life would be plain sailing for Aloke and
he also made some predictions for me. Mostly health-related.
He talked at length to Vidya about his past, his work
interests and his future prospects. Vidya listened impassively.
We had said nothing about either Oona or Shubha. Finally, we
told him and he insisted on doing some prayers for them.
Was it simply another coincidence? Vidya was not
scheduled to come, he took a chance since he had some time in
247 BRIDGES

hand. The sadhu had not been by for one year. In a way Shubha’s
desire to go to Shirdi, the Sai Baba’s birthplace, was fulfilled. She
could not go herself, a Shirdi representative came to her. Was
this perhaps a kind of release for the Shubha of this life? Vidya
scoffed when I suggested it.

The teaching is that unfulfilled desires remain after death;

along with firmly held convictions, they determine the next life
condition. That is the basis of reincarnation, the return to the
plane of Earth-body experience until at last they are played out,
however many lifetimes it takes. The law of cause and effect,
karma, governs the how and the where. The teaching also is that
they can, and should, be transcended, burnt out, in this very
lifetime itself.
In Uttarkashi I bought two books recommended by
Swami Nikhilananda. They are both by the great modem
Seer, Swami Tapovanji Maharaj, who was the Guru of Swami
Chinmayananda, himself now the Guru of the Chinmaya
Mission for World Understanding which has over two hundred
centres all over the world. I had asked for his blessing and he
inscribed on the tide page of Wanderings in the Himalayas :
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 248

As I have come to understand, the Self, the ‘I’, is not the body, or
the mind, or the intellect. It is the Spirit, the Soul, which cannot
be seen. The teaching of Vedanta is that one must look inwards
and work towards the realisation that this ‘I’ is the eternal
universal force which en-livens, or manifests in, the physical
body and we call it Life. So long as the individual identifies
with the body and the mind, there is sorrow. Transcending that
identification brings with it freedom. Release from bondage.
Swami Tapovan intersperses the account of his wanderings in
the Himalayas, to places imbued with the spirit of the ancient
Rishis and Seers who meditated there and the temples and
places of pilgrimage, with his insights.
On the soul, he writes, that unlike the things of the objective
world, spiritual truths cannot be perceived by one’s senses or
even by mere intellect. Only those disciples who possess the
249 BRIDGES

necessary qualifications and who, having learned the Truth

from noble preceptors, constandy meditate upon it, realise it.
These qualifications, and the method, are mentioned in many
texts.

The soul is not born; it does not die. It is eternal. Body

perishes, but soul survives. It is devoid of attributes; it
cannot be heard, felt, seen, tasted or smelt. It is self-
luminous. It is smaller than the smallest grain and
bigger than space. It shines in the cavern of the intellect
of all living beings from Brahma to the ant. It is the
chaitanya (Consciousness) that enables living beings to
see, taste, smell, etc. It is what illuminates the objects of
waking or dreaming or sleeping. It is the same atman
that, dwelling in the body, makes it inhale or exhale,
etc. It is the basis of the whole universe. Coloured by
the power of Maya it is called Ishwar; particularised by
the body, senses, etc. it is known as Jiva.

Just as fire assumes different shapes so the Universal Self, the

One without a second, appears variously when it associates
with different bodies. PRS it seems, was expressing exactiy this
when he said that Oona and Ilya’s spirit had merged into his.
There is only the One.

It is as free as space. Perceived by the mind and the

intellect, it is imperceptible to the eye, the ear, etc., yet
it is not mere nothing. It is Truth unaffected by time. It
is the limitless ocean of bliss, of which the pleasures of
the senses are but an infinitesimal part. It is beyond the
power of words to describe.
He who perceives this truth directly and without doubt
crosses the sea of samsara and attains salvation. No
more does he return to this miserable existence of
births and deaths, sorrows and sufferings.

When I used the expression ‘Oona died’ to Tsagaadai, he had

corrected me gently, adding ‘in the body’. When he did not
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 250

give me a mantra to help Oona and Ilya in whatever world they

were, he suggested they had escaped from the cycle of death
and rebirth. They had reached God is what he said. Had they
crossed the sea of samsara and attained salvation? Had all
desires been burnt out?
Mohit mentioned that in the car, on their way down
from Ranikhet on 22 August, Oona had not spoken much.
She had explained her silence by saying that she needed to
focus, to concentrate. When we were in the car on the bridge
at Garhmukteswar while the rest of them went out in the boat
to consign Ilya to the Ganga, was she aware of the dreadful
danger she was in? Was she trying to ride the pain? Or was she
absorbed in grief for Ilya?
Someone loaned me a book, Fire in the Soul, by Joan
Borysenko, The subtitle is “A New Psychology of Spiritual
Optimism.” I found in it a passage that seems to explain what
Tsagaadai was trying to convey:

Tibetans, in their ancient spiritual literature, discuss

the ‘yoga of the dream state,’ which was their term for
cultivating lucidity in dreams. Since life itself is viewed
as a kind of dream, the cultivation of lucidity was
desired to allow people to awaken within the dream of
life and thereby act with fearlessness and compassion.
According to this philosophy, if one can remain lucid
upon leaving the body at death, then the soul can travel
through the Bardo states and discern their illusory
nature, always orienting toward the real Light. In this
way, the soul’s karmic chains are broken and there is no
need for rebirth.

Was Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo a bridge for Oona? And all

the other prayers that were said for her just as Shirdi seemed to
be for Shubha?
How do I account for the tangible calm in the pit of my
stomach? I have since wondered when Oona’s soul might have
left its cage even as the body continued to breathe with the aid
251 BRIDGES

of the respirator. And we had to wait for the brain death, wait
three days, to be confirmed.
Sogyal Rimpoche talks of a three-day period when the soul
stays close to the body before the golden light that connects the
two is finally severed. It was about three days from that time of
my calm till the ultimate release on 28 August, the night of the
full moon.
I mentioned these thoughts to a friend and he asked if I
had read The Tibetan Book of the Dead. He was familiar with it
and he told me his experience when he was critically ill after a
heart attack. He described a great Light beckoning him and his
memory of looking down on himself, his body, in the hospital
room.
Anjolie, too, told me of a similar experience when Pupsa,
her younger son, was born. She saw herself on the table, the
doctors crowded around her body, but she was drawn to a Light
at the end of a tunnel, overpowered by a wave of bliss, and a
great desire to reach it. The baby’s cry stopped her. She says it
was painful to give up the journey to the Light and to return
to her self on the table. “Don’t kill me again,” the doctors told
her she had said, struggling to sit up when they thought they
had lost her. She had been clinically ‘dead’ for over a minute
and they were trying to revive her. My friend, who was familiar
with the process of dying and knew about the bardo states, is
convinced that he was brought back into his physical body by
the strong pull exerted by the love of his wife. Just as Anjolie is
convinced that it was her baby’s cry that held her back.
Something had changed for Vidya too who was not
quite as sceptical when he returned from Rishikesh, despite
the fact that he had cautioned me not to be taken in. “There
is no soul. There is no God. These are merely ideas, quirks in
the brain, mirages in the mind.” His own preconceptions had
been demolished. No pandas mobbed him as he feared from
a previous experience in Varanasi. There was no scramble to
fleece him. When he explained his purpose he was merely
directed to the right person.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 252

He was deeply touched by the majesty of the Ganga, and

the quiet assurance of those who live in faith.
 IV
“With Love, Oona”
Nothing passes from existence to non-existence.
Thich Nhat Hahn

“I don’t thnk there

is much chance that
we can save the
Himalaya,
but I’m going to
spend my life trying.”

Oona 1993
255 BRIDGES

13
Evolving at IRMA

ircles within circles.

Touching lightly, intertwining,
sometimes meshing and then gently separating.

Khalid came in from three directions. Aloke mentioned

that he had seen the film, Kamasutra, in which Khalid had a
role. Madhu mentioned he was in town, and so did Deepika,
with whom I had renewed friendship. It was she who gave me
the seedlings last winter.
Khalid apologised that he might not have the time to visit
since he had paperwork to complete before leaving for Poland.
“I could meet you in town,” I suggested, wherever he has
work, and waiting, to do.
“No. Perhaps I can come for a little while on Monday,
around lunchtime. I might manage that.”
He came looking like a character out of Peter Brook’s
Mahabharat. Dressed in a flowing black kurta, black jeans, his
hair, pepper and salt now, framing his face like an enormous
fuzzy halo. He always had the face of an imp; that hadn’t
changed at all. He held me in a warm hug. Releasing me, he
asked briskly:
“You wouldn’t have cigarettes, would you? Charminar?”
“No, not Charminar.”
“I’ll be back. Where is the nearest shop?”
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 256

Neither Oona or Aloke smoke. Was Oona tolerant of the

fact that Khalid did? Did he, when the three of them went to
the forest? Khalid reappeared soon and setded down in the
verandah. He didn’t want lunch, just a cup of coffee. We talked.

“Before I forget, let me give you this.” He pulled out of his

satchel a folder.
“I found Oona’s letters. Use them, but I want them back.” It
is a faded blue University Students File, MANSINGH in block
letters, written neady and boldly with a thick black felt pen
along the spine at the top left edge. It is numbered 10 on the
right flap of the foldout cover.
“They are not in order, but they average about one a year.”
I felt elated that yet another friend kept her letters, and cared
enough to share them with me. I told him about the letters Vidya
had left with me, those that Arjun and Aloke had sent recendy,
and all those I had besides whatever PRS was sending- I filled
him in on the conversations I had with Madhu. He nodded, and
the smile grew deeper. I don’t think I’ve seen Khalid without a
smile. I looked inside the folder and the salutation caught my
eye, ‘My dear Mutak.’
“Mutak? Is that a pet name?”
“No, not quite. It is Durva, it means Venerable Old Man.”
257 EVOLVING AT IRMA

Oona and I used to argue about letters when we lived with my

mother years ago and Oona had the room upstairs where her
bookshelf still is. How often I told her not to leave her letters or
her diary lying on her table. My mother has no sense of privacy
and I warned Oona that she would have no compunction in
reading both.
“Put them under your pillow, or under the mattress,” I
would tell her.
“Why? I have no problem. If she wants to read them, and
if she gets upset, it is her problem.”
The trouble with that was that then it became mine. I had
to take up cudgels on Oona’s behalf and reassure my mother
that friendships were a part of growing up, a part of learning to
be independent. It was hard work to try and decondition her.
She would counter with real life stories she knew and it wasn’t
pleasant. I’d had to battle for myself as a teenager; then I had to
battle for Oona. She is different now, though she hasn’t stopped
looking at whatever letters she finds lying about.
Just the other day, in class, straightforwardness was
mentioned as an essential quality in a seeker, exemplified in the
Bhagavad Gita in Arjuna—no hidden motives or deviousness.
It is a quality I associate with Oona. Her letters to us were
always community letters. She will understand that I need to
share these also.
The letters start soon after Oona left the University and
had to decide what next. I remember the misgivings she had
about the course content when she joined IRMA. We had made
a deal. That she should try it and not prejudge it. That if she
really felt it was not for her, she could withdraw. There would
be no pressure to stay the course and we would honour the
financial commitment. I can’t remember if the period of trial
was to be three months, or six. I think that was fair since it had
been her idea to begin with.
The first, the earliest, is not dated but Khalid has noted on
it: Received 11.8.84.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 258

My dear Mutak,
What a wonderful message. I miss you and Madhu quite a bit.
It’s always an experience going to a new place and there is lots to leam.
But the course does not please me at all. At first I couldn’t bear it,
studying accounts and being referred to as a ‘manager’—I don’t want
that. Now it doesn’t matter, I’m not involved in the work and can’t see
it becoming a part of me. Let’s leave this...
Some of the courses are very interesting (the rest of the people
sleep in those classes!) like Rural Environment and Management
Analysis and Communication, and Individual and Group Behaviour.
They are more personal, and sometimes just reading it is sufficient
to relate to it. Often in the turn the class discussions take the point is
lost. It’s weird.
Anand is a wonderful place. We are way out of the town and the
countryside is just beautiful—lush and undulating somewhat. It is fun
to walk through the villages, or bike along the mud tracks, passing
small canals and hedges covered with dark blue flowers. It is really
very pretty.
I look at this place more from a day-to-day view, not as an ‘asset’
or education. Once again, it is people who matter.
1 had a lovely birthday. At midnight I was dozing (on the 6th)
and someone yelled for me to come down. There were about 10 people
from my class downstairs and many others came, so we sat on our
green lawns next to the living blocks and sang songs and listened to
the flute and appreciated ‘shers’ till about 4.00 a.m. It was so relaxed, a
community celebration. Normally on birthdays I feel a bit depressed
and very sensitive, but this wasn’t like that.
Then, in the evening, another surprise. The girls had ordered a
cake and we made a bucket of nimboo pani; it was fun! And when I
was alone I thought of all the people far away, wondering how things
were with them.
No pool here, it is suffocating. So, I run. And watch the Olympics
on TV. Have found some ideal canals, may be I’ll go there one day.
Keeping such late hours robs me of the joy of a fresh early morning —
I wake up with just enough time to change and eat an early breakfast
before the latecomers come rolling in.
When are you coming to Anand? Madhu must have left by now.
..I’ll write to Orissa. I’d love you both to see this place. There is just
nothing in it, but since I’m here at the moment it is home for me.
259 EVOLVING AT IRMA

Bye, Kaling, jiwar and lots of love,

Oona

I must ask Khalid what Jiwar means. Kaling is what the

tribals called him, they could not pronounce ‘Khalid’.

IRMA 18
August 1984
My dear Kaling,
I got your letter today — lovely to hear from you and it makes
me feel close to you even though you are far away. What is there to say
in these matters... Only the eyes can express that, I feel. But when one
feels low, one always feels the other extreme too. It makes one treasure
those moments more.
Today is Saturday night and not so much strain as far as shortage
of time goes. That is a bad thing here, it makes one regard time as
scarce; one has to fight it inside.
The days are full and its great to be alive. Oh, nothing is perfect
and today I really felt doubtful about why I was here; but that is
secondary to my being now. We spent the afternoon with the person
who teaches Us Rural Environment; an informal tutorial which met
for no reason, tried to discuss ‘surplus of capital and the exploitation
of labour’ (whatever that means) and ended up talking about human
relationships almost all the time. I was struck; sometimes listening to
a person just fills me with wonder. It was very, almost, theoretical, but
may be only the language was so.
And then I played table tennis till 9; and I’ve just come back from
a lone walk down the wet road and through grass which is growing
diamonds from the evening rain. Strains of music from a hut made
me sit a while and sequences of body movements just started running
through my mind. I feel so incapable when all I can do to capture the
beauty of it is a handstand!
The seniors are trickling in; they have been away on their
summer training. I haven’t spoken to any yet.
It is good to hear that Turon has given you a fellowship.
Wherever one is, any new place, new people, there is something to
enrich one. Sometimes I wonder whether I am too accepting and it is
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 260

just a convenience to think so strongly like this. Coming straight from

Koduppar I would never say such a thing, never. But now I do.
On Independence day Indira, another girl with a bicycle, and I
went cycling to the Mahi river about 18 km away and I swam. It was
so wonderful, but I used to keep getting startled because whenever I
tried to head towards the other bank (it is about 3/4 km wide and with
strong red monsoon flow) I’d see a snake about 15 feet away. From
the bank they look like pale Loch Nesses causing subtle wakes in the
smooth water. It didn’t bother me after a while.
There are lots of snakes here, many have seen them but I’ve only
seen ones smashed on the roads. Two or three boys know a lot about
them; one of them, Jai Krishnan, used to catch snakes and foxes.
Madhu will have gone back by now...and you’ll feel better with a
sort of routine. Take care Mutak, miss you.
Lots of love to you,
Oona

About six months later she wrote about a trip we had all done
together to the Kinnaur valley.

The Hindustan Tibet road starts from Ambala and from above
Simla it meets the Satluj and follows it till it comes to the Spiti river.
That is way above the tree line of those parts. By that time one has
seen some of the most wonderful deodar cloaked hills and valleys
full of fruit and clear mountain streams. It gets all bleak and windy
thereafter. We went into Sugar Sector — a literal translation of ‘Chini’
— which is now inhabited by people of Tibetan origin and the army.
We covered a lot of road-ground which was quite tiring at times but
normally had the whole afternoon and evening to wander about
wherever we were... Sometimes we’d go into those pretty side valleys...
It’s a dream. Those mountain waters! They really shock the life out
of one! We swam where the river flowed gendy. It is electrifying, the
iciness of that water. All these areas are not open to tourists because
they fall in the Inner Line. I hope they never are.
The weather is beautiful here. Chandimandir is on this plateau
and at the moment, Khalid, it is blowing with gale force. I haven’t
witnessed such strong winds in the plains before, the house is
261 EVOLVING AT IRMA

shuddering, God knows how many others must have just got whipped
from their foundations. We had walked up to the pass of Shipki La
while at Sugar Sector, and there the winds are fierce and icy and they
chum up die sand which stings; one can feel its pressure even through
one’s clothing, to say nothing about the state of one’s eyes and mouth.
I’ve started flying again... This terrain is quite varied. The other
day Papa and I saw a sambhar just 100 feet from the lake in the golf
course here. Everybody thinks that it is like the khud in the Doon
valley. Whatever it is, I have spent many an early morning or late
evening wandering through the dried riverbeds and charred thorny
scrublands.

One of the earliest successes of what could be done with the

type of land that Oona describes is not far from Chandimandir,
at Sukho Majri where the community came together and
decided to do something. It was collectively agreed that grazing
of goats vv°uld be stopped, a natural depression was dammed
to collect rainwater, and regeneration of the natural vegetation
was facilitated over a couple of seasons. Grass grew plentifully
and a system of harvesting it for their own use evolved. We
went to visit. We were shown around with evident pride while
Oona asked questions about the increase in productivity of
dieir milch catde and how much they used at home. To attain
prosperity did not need government schemes she saw, just
a generous amount of collective cooperation. Himachal was
evidently more progressive than her part of Kumaon but it was
just a question of time when the idea would spread.
She communicated concerns which touched her most
deeply.

You are right. Love is an extraordinary phenomenon which I

find so impossible to really appreciate until I am in love. What a funny
thing! That all three of us have for a while found new companions
who have taken us so totally, probably at the cost of committing an act
of sacrilege by generalizing such a thing, something else emerges too.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 262

Perhaps those who we care for now are so completely new to our lives.
Me with Vidya, a person who I met at Anand who is already married,
(not that it threatens that, that would certainly not be right) but who
I feel really warm and comfortable with. Madhu with his friend Elbe,
and you with Joanna. Such is life! But I really look forward to when
we will be able to share fragments of our life, whether they be of the
past or in the future.
This letter, I hope, should get to you before you leave Poland.
Have a wonderful holiday in the hills.
Love to you, always.
Oona
The 14th of May has passed. May you find joy always.

Oona had done her first term management training segment,

to initiate milk cooperatives, in Madhya Pradesh. She chose to
do the second training segment with the Haryana Dairy Board
at Ambala, an easy commute from Chandimandir. It gave her
the opportunity to spend time with Gurbir while Aloke and I
continued to live in Delhi, in the Lodi Estate house and then
with my mother, because Aloke was in his final year at the
University. Gurbir’s work brought him to Delhi about once a
fortnight and I would go for a long weekend once a month.

We have to do a project, and I will be with the Cooperative Milk

Union at Ambala. We had our fieldwork January-March and that
was excellent I thought, I really enjoyed it and we made cooperative
societies in Ullages in Jabalpur district. It sure gave me an insight to
the type of work the Daily Development Board is trying to do, and I
have begun to respect it a great deal compared to what I felt when I
joined IRMA. I have a feeling that this MTS may just reverse it...
My project at Ambala interests me a lot. I spend a good part
of the day travelling with the veterinary doctors, and the extension
workers of the Union going to the villages in Haryana. Predominantly
Sardar blood. And there is lots and lots to learn; it’s good to talk to
folks there; I’ve located a brother of my grandfather’s so I shall be
spending a few days there too. Still, the forests and hills are the places
263 EVOLVING AT IRMA

to be.

Part of the reason she chose this project was that it would give
her the opportunity to continue her flying. She was able to
transfer her accumulated flying hours from Delhi to the Flying
Club at Pinjore.
I heard about Vidya on one of my visits to Chandimandir
when I went with her to the Club. We sat on a grass tussock
waiting for the person before her to land. The Siwaliks loomed
up beyond the. runway and the Kasauli ridge filled the
skyline. Monkey Point, the highest part of the ridge, was quite
unmistakable. She started to talk of ‘this person’ that she had
met at Anand and how good it was to know someone like that.
Before she could tell me more, it was her turn.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said to me as she waved cheerfully.
It seemed an easy routine. She climbed in, a scarf around her
head, taxied and took off. I watched the little plane against the
sky and the sporadic clouds, its drone sounded as though it
was a large dragonfly. She circled a few times, widening circles,
and then came in low. When she was about abreast of where
I continued to sit I saw her concentrating, then nose up, she
pulled away. The next time she touched down, gendy, and came
to a halt in good time.
As she stepped out of the plane, beaming with delight,
she signalled to me, and I understood she wanted me to come
across and meet the instructor.
It turned out that ‘this person’ was Vidya, newly come into
her life. Oona’s letters to Vidya span ten years, concentrated in
the first five or six years and some of them are addressed to
Shubha. I do not think Vidya will destroy them now.
They are written on all kinds of stationery—white foolscap,
blue airmail, pink file paper, sheets from a diary, scraps of paper,
blue inland letter forms and aerogrammes when she was in
England. It seems they were written whenever there was time.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 264

The earliest is in its envelope, addressed in orange felt

pen. The postmark is quite clear: Chandimandir 22.6.8S. It
stayed in its envelope because it is very fragile—pink beige with
transverse thick brown lines on it in long dashes. It is dated
a month earlier, obviously written during the same trip to the
upper reaches of the Saduj valley she wrote to Khalid about.

Ever got a letter of bhojpatri before? It is that silver white bark

which you must have seen at high altitudes. It is morning and we have
just come back from a walk—went to the ammunition centre. It is
so thickly wooded that we saw a paradise flycatcher within twenty
seconds of entering. Have you seen them? They look like this.... Milk
White. Beautiful light flitting tails. Quite ironical that the place where
songbirds thrive are those which are so well camouflaged because of
their extreme explosive power.
We went to such a pretty valley, the Sangla valley about 8,000
feet, and hills covered with Deodar cradled in a bowl of jagged snow
clad peaks. The Baspa river flows there. We swam, the water was
freezing, it makes one numb. After that you feel all tingly. Beautiful.
There was a trout farm there too.
Last night we saw Saturn through the telescope. The sky is
brilliant, bright. Enclosed is a uniquely coloured bit of mica type stuff.
The rocks here glitter with it.
With all my love,
Oona

I looked carefully in the envelope, it is still there. A flake,

burnished bronze, shiny and smooth, an irregular circle about
a centimetre across. All these years and it is not lost, nor has
it disintegrated. I have refolded the bhojpatra back into its
original folds and put it back safely in the envelope.
A month later: “Been ages since I’ve written, and since you
have too. And these phones have been rather sick. Conversation
is just ‘Can you hear me? Hallo. Hallo.’ And then dead. Spoils all
the joy of imagining that it is YOU who is talking.”
That was the best the military exchange could do.
265 EVOLVING AT IRMA

“I wrote a letter to you earlier but tore it up. I was angry

it wasn’t flowing. No point in writing jerky letters.” And news
about her friends:

Som and Vivek had come up for a few’ days and it was super
having them here. We went up to Kasauli and walked around for about
four hours to all my favourite spots outside School before w’e hit the
main road, the Shimla one, to take a bus back. It was such a beautiful
day and that sunset in those pine trees was so breathtaking that I was
filled with this overwhelming sense of nostalgia remembering four
years of these sunsets and golden evening glows.
Harbinder has been coming over off and on. I went to his home
near School with him the other day, we drove back to Chandimandir
later. He is also leaving for the States in two days time — EVERYBODY
has gone. It is very lonely here specially after having tasted good
company but there is so much else to do.
I’ve been concentrating on my flying, the whole day revolves
around that. Am reaching solo stage and becoming better and better
at controlling the aircraft. These are crucial days for me. I’m so excited
that it is difficult not to get all jumpy.
Mummy is here these days. She still hasn’t got the card you sent
her with the books you wanted on it.
Thanks for your card, it was a “you” card! Well. I had a very
ordinary day on the7th, at Ambala, but Papa was there for those two
or three days so I was staying with him.
Have been reading about Birds and Flying, not much else. The
swimming makes me sleep long though I’m not sleeping well. Unless
there is certainty (or an indifference to it) sleep doesn’t come easily
to me. The foolish mind rushes into the void of sleep too soon after
waking up and leaves too reluctantly at night.
Mummy gave me a book, The Road Less Travelled, on the
psychology of love. It says some remarkably true things. Shall talk
when we meet. What are your plans?

The full subtitle is “A New Psychology of Love, Traditional

Values and Spiritual Growth.” It is on her bookshelf. Inscribed
simply, ‘To Oona, with love. June 1985.’ That summer was the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 266

summer of problems in the Ramdas family, when she said to

Kausi, “You are not listening.” I remember because I gave them
a copy too. I should read it again myself, now.
Oona was learning to spread her emotional wings, to
embark on the flight of Life itself. Vidya was older and provided
a companionship which it seems she did not find among her
peers.

22 September 1985
Lots of things happened after you left. I won my Table Tennis
match, that being the most trivial of the lot. Beat M quite hollow,
perhaps she was nervous. Amitava partnered her in the doubles
against Dilip and I and we lost. One night A and I were talking on the
lawn (the day you had gone) and by 3:30 or so he said that his sole aim
in life was to test people and see how much power he can have over
them, and that I was just a tool in that. On the whole 1 felt weird as
being seen as an instrument.
Anyhow, the fact of the matter is that the relationship on his
part was too centred on the medium, rather than the communicating
of thoughts or ideas, or just plain and simple togetherness. And that
gave it a falsity. So the next evening he asked me to walk with him,
and since he stuck to his viewpoint, I said that it was time that we
terminated communicating.
It left me faintly pained but that too is how my mind has
reconstructed it to be. It is, for me, difficult to make a person
non¬existent but that is precisely what I am doing. As a result, I am
on my own more, seeking refuge in my room, music, a lot of reading
on Environmental Science, and chess. It is easier now and good to be
learning instead of wasting time in inane talk.
Bastard Ar.. killed a snake today. It upsets me to the point of
tears when I witness or visually see such a thing. But my focus of
feeling is so fickle that I think of it only after two hours when I sit
down to write to you.
Seven of us went to Tametar, caught the last day. It is too touristy
now, but still quite something just to be amidst that vast congregation
of brilliantly dressed, utterly fine looking people.
Have you read the article on the Narmada Sagar Dam in the
Indian Express by Ashish. What do you think? How does one resolve
267 EVOLVING AT IRMA

the problem the development of the country’s base and ecology?

Written on pages from a diary: 5 September. I expect 1985.

It has taken me a long time to write this letter, you must

be feeling a bit uneasy like your last letter indicated, and a lot has
happened since en- So much so that I needed to pet it straight in nry
head before I could tell you.
After you left, things were fine, and there was something or other
to do. For a week I was emptying my head of all the peculiarities of A.
and how it is so tough to make out exactly how a person is. Perhaps
the truest thing is what you said — gut feeling. There is nothing which
can go wrong with gut feeling. It initiates communication, and it is
also something which does not depend on circumstance to develop.
Something happened about two weeks after you had gone. I
developed a gigantic crush on ... It was, in a mundane sense fairly
baseless, but of course it eroded my peace and composure. It was like
a school girl crush, everything totally centred about his being, his
actions when I’d not even exchanged a word with him. The only time
he probably registered me was when I was examining the snake which
some one had killed. As I got up, after flinging it into the bush, he was
standing there. It was so weird Vidya, and I can’t tell you how much I
had to wrestle against it...

Oona continued to describe, over a whole page, her feelings

and the dynamics of the initiation of that relationship—“if my
instincts had built up an artificial edifice it must die. Or else,
grow”. She continued with an analysis:

It felt very comfortable because it was just so nice to feel needed.

I believe more and more that this is the common denominator in my
interactions. Needed in the sense that it should have a meaning, a
unique meaning to the odier person, at a level at which I am also
capable of deriving meaning.
This time it is upsetting the freedom with which I interact with
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 268

you because he thinks it improper for one person to be involved (in

spirit) with two people in as intimate a manner, whether they be here
or not. And I feel that if I am to be true to my relationship with him,
I should respect his thoughts, because otherwise it would be viewed
by him as a case of a substitute which it is not. You and I don’t have
anything to break. We will always wake with each other. I know that
you exist for me and we have an understanding which is unique. I also
know that I can come to you whenever I want. But I’m going to try
and give myself to someone with whom there is something to break,
and let’s see where we enrich ourselves or where we fall into the dry
rut of being steady.
Am continuing more than a week later. What stops me from
writing is that it may cause a temporary break in our communication.
That is something I don’t want. It is too seldom that one can find people
in the world with whom one can feel completely relaxed. Anyhow, the
future is quite immaterial and true friends are certain to meet, no?
I am happy to live stably in a place like IRMA which is, as you
know, so void of beauty and cerebral sustenance. It is good to have
someone to walk with, and who gives me a base that so that I don’t
waste innumerable hours on the task of just composing myself and
figuring out how to face things alone.
We are really busy nowadays—chess, plays, songs, football,
basketball, volleyball, throwball matches, projects by the dozen.
Everyone here is up to their neck in IRMA, IRMA, IRMA.
I’m going home after the term ends. I know that I have the
freedom to write to you, or call you whenever I want. So do you but
you should know this change in my life here. We are too close to each
other for other things to matter, and so...write!

She had talked to me of ‘exclusivity’ once, when we were in the

forest at Sida and lost each other. It was in the context of marriage
and the thought that it implied abandoning, excluding, all else
in the attempt to be everything to the other. She saw it, as I
understood, as possibly being limiting to oneself.
The chess matches continued. She wrote a month later:

I have been losing all mine except the first one. Just inferior
269 EVOLVING AT IRMA

playing but still I love the game. It embodies my whole thought

process practically. Today I will play again.
Your letter has made my day. I was feeling so hesitant and
blocked up, because of some sense of loyalty I guess, but now I feel
much more fluid after having read your letter.

She reiterates that they stay in touch: “Whenever you

feel strongly enough about writing or talking to me, you
MUST. It is not that I feel we will stop communicating,
but, because of long breaks the intensity and the amount
that we share gets diluted. We just don’t know what we are
missing out on.”
And soon after: “Thinking of you and sorely missing
the days when I’m free of work and don’t have your
presence. How is it possible that one hasn’t found, in
two batches, someone who one can have interesting and
meaningful conversations with?”

January 1986. The course is almost over. The last training

segment was at Amari Mandali: “I really had a great time,
the place is young and growing, and I am stretched full by
the challenge of the work as well as the mental strain of the
new ground I cover in my work. The responsibilities and the
impact of what one does is so apparent that I feel quite naked,
either high with the experience, or humiliated by the snags and
hitches which sometime come in the way of things.”
As the time to leave IRMA approaches”she assesses it: “It is
looking like a paper model. Green green grass, grey buildings,
lovely foliage below and shaded glass windows above. But dead.
Silvy is a wonderful person to take long walks with, to talk to.
The junior batch is not there, and I don’t feel inclined to talk to
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 270

many of the teachers as well. I’m fine, really. Quite stable once
I am outside IRMA, but as you know, when I am there I get
moody, disoriented, and feel so much at a loose end. There is
just no calm there, it’s the people.”
Then pink paper. And pencil. The date startles me. It
is exactly eleven years earlier than the day I wrote about the
synchronicity I experienced.

19 February 1986
How beautiful it was to get your letter. Honestly I had
forgotten how close we are to each other and this long stretch of
time makes such distorted conclusions come into my mind. I’m
so self-indulgent...It has been such a long day, and tomorrow
and the day after are terribly busy, that I thought I’d write now.
I got a lovely letter from Shubs in the evening, from Calcutta.
It was really easy and chatty, we talk like old school friends
through letters and it makes me feel so warm. I am planning to
come to Bombay, haven’t decided when though.
Aloke, my brother, is here. Our coordination was lousy; he
didn’t even know your phone number. It would have been good
if he had met you. You both would like each other.
Things are quite beautiful nowadays, and my life is getting
sorted out professionally. I know where I want to go, what work
I am going to do and am looking forward to it. The people I will
be with I get along fine with. I’ll have a chance to experiment
with tree growing, and environment education, and eventually
Vidya I want to specialise in trees and forest management
through local institutions.
It is the first time that I have been quite decisive with what
I am going to do with myself and I feel very good. Though
waves of uncertainty come because security, or ambition, is not
at the end of the rainbow. The voluntary sector is really growing
and is more competitive than one thinks.
I also want to do something else, steadily and seriously. If
I could have I would have studied physics; but now I think of
either reading physics (Feynman’s lectures from the start) and
271 EVOLVING AT IRMA

philosophy; or dance. I think the first is a better, more feasible

option though I would love to learn classical dance. If there was
a place to swim here, I would not have needed anything else.
What has been on your mind for the last so many
months? I’m so foolish that there is no point my coming to any
conclusions about what disturbs you. Can you write about it?
I just can’t imagine you passive, ‘Vidva. Shubs mentioned it
as well. Please tell me. Let’s see if we could at least share our
thoughts.

Pink paper for Shubha too. Once again the date is an echo.
Eleven years earlier than the day Sogyal Rimpoche spoke
in Delhi about the nature of the mind.

28 February 1986
Dear Shubs,
Hi! Finally I’m getting a free moment to write to you! We have
finally finished our course. The last exam got over today and it is like
an explosion in my head which is now over. I had to work off some
energy and so I went to play badminton. Am back, hot and sweaty. It
feels great, to be free.
The last two days have been a nice routine. Two exams a day,
then sleep till dinner. Study till about 3:30, go for a walk—it is so
cool and windy at night. Yesterday there were three rabbits who were
playing at night, skipping after each other, bouncing away and then
stopping. It was such a joyful sight. I just love animals. We’ve got a
great puppy dog at home as well—a pointer, black and white and a
real delight.
Vidya’s plaster must be coming off today. This will be the worst
day, the look of a shrivelled ankle is absolutely torturous to me. I had
an injury on my knee in 1980. The day the plaster came off I cried and
cried, the leg was bone thin. Give my love to him.
I’m feeling so empty and nostalgic now! There is some lovely
music playing in my neighbour’s room and I just got a letter from
home, so my mind just keeps going back there. I think I will go back
on the 3rd or so. Then we are going to MP to see the working of the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 272

forest department and travel with them. I am looking forward to that.

After that back to IRMA for the convocation and then to Amari
Mandali to settle down to some honest to goodness hard work. I won’t
take my eye off the ball for a good few months then. Life is good!
The Chairman, Dr Kurien, is going to talk to us on the 3rd.
The class went absolutely bonkers today, all the boys were dancing
(they never do!)—only the girls do here—and bursting bombs and
generally acting rowdv.
Have no idea when I’m coming to Bombay.... I’m enclosing the
only picture I have of me. It is really hopeless. I think the other two
are still lying at your place, the ones from which Prithvi made the
stippling.

The stippling was a portrait, three-quarter face, on a ceramic

tile. Prithvi,Vidya’s younger brother.

In a sense Oona was part of what came to be called the White

Revolution and ultimately Operation Flood which promoted
milk production in new areas. This was Dr Kurien’s brainchild
and great achievement. It was at Anand that she got to know
both Theo and Kalyan who were then with the National Dairy
Development Board. She began to focus on the link between
the quality of peoples’ lives and their ecological environment.
Each step she took subsequendy was to do with natural resource
management.
We went to the convocation. The huge shamiana was
packed with the faculty and students of IRMA, and colourfully
dressed farmers of the region. In March 1986 Rajiv Gandhi, then
Prime Minister, was the chief guest. He still had his Mr Clean
image and seemed to be the hope for the younger generation,
full of the promise of leading the country into the twenty-first
century on the wings of modern technology. When Dr Kurien,
273 EVOLVING AT IRMA

the champion of the dairy farmers spoke, it was as much to

the thousands of farmers as to the forty or so young men and
women who were expected to go out there and become catalysts
for change.
That ultimately Oona did value her time at IRMA I judge
also from the fact that, unlike the various track suits with
University colours, Tennis, Swimming, Rifle Shooting, which
she dispensed with, she kept the clothes she wore for the
convocation—a white khadi kameez and churidar with a cream
silk angavastra, neither a scarf nor a dupatta, with the IRMA
logo screen-printed on it. I have them still.
I look at the wedding card in Khalid’s file. The invitation is from
both grandmothers. Gurbir’s mother, Oona’s Dadi, merits being
the first, and mine, her Nani the second.

Mrs Dler Mansingb & Mrs Devinder Assa Singb

request you to grace the marriage of their grand daughter
OONA
daughter of Ueutenant General Gurbir Mansingb & Jasjit Mansingb
with
SUSH1L
son of Mr & Mrs Parusbram Sbarma of Pune

On the reverse Oona added a note, adding Sushil’s name.

My Dear Khalid Mustak,

Is there not even a slum

chance of you being here?

With love,

Oona
& Sushil

The last letter in Khalid’s file is a note on thick handmade paper.

Rose pink. Dated 11.4.92. “Small note to thank you for the wedding
bells. We’ve settled in beautifully... We’ll be down early June for a few
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 274

days.” It was during that visit in June that Oona saw the gynaecologist.
She had so wanted a baby before she was thirty- The miracle of
creation, of new life, was happening for her.
 14
Refractions

feel as though I’m in love,” I found scribbled on a

sheet of paper, “though I have no one to show for
it.” Oona was wrong. The state she commented on
was love in its broadest sense, and there were many to show for
it. It is the force that has brought so many people together, from
such different walks of life both while Oona was in the body
and after she left it. It continues.
Swami Bhoomananda remarked recendy when I met him
at the conclusion of his lectures on the Uddhava Gita: “You are
smiling!” Yes. I smile. “Remember you have lost nothing.”
That is why I smile, I know that. I have not lost Oona,
perhaps I am just beginning to find her. Thank you Khalid,
Vidya, Arjun, and Aloke, for keeping her letters, and for sharing
them.

In Oona’s bookshelf I found a packet of letters, addressed to her

neatly labelled 1985-1986. I know that her work papers, Varies
and perhaps more letters are also in a cardboard box under her
bed in Delhi. I had asked her to take charge of them in July
1996. She didn’t have time. “Just let them be here,” she had said.
I haven’t opened the box yet.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 276

I recognise Madhu’s handwriting. It is dated early

1985, addressed to Oona at IRMA. He too had malaria: “My
unwelcome visitor came riding a gundi again.. .the earliest I can
leave is end March.... The Spirits seem to be conspiring against
me.” He shares thoughts about his work: “The immensity of
the forces one is working against hit me—reading about tribal
movements all over the world, specially Latin America and
Bangladesh, actually, everywhere. Because of this I have been
thinking of my kind of involvement in a slightly different light.”
I smile when I see the last bit in another letter of March
1985. He explains it as an extract from his diary:

“Chuku had asked me for mango seeds from my land,

as those mangoes are a larger variety. Oona got him
some the last time we came together. Chuku planted
one of those and now the plant is knee high. He said
he’d water it through summer. Everytime he feels like
seeing Oona he goes and has a look at the plant.”

He ends: “I think I’ll go and have a look at the plant too.”

We, Chuku, Madhu and I, are cultures apart yet it is
exactly what I do. I look at the flowering plum, the green and
white grass that grows nearby, the violets which have survived
this last summer when it was viciously hot. And I wait for the
zephyranthes to bloom.
Madhu’s next letter, dated 23 March 1985 is from Bastar,
in red ink. He addresses her as Nuni—Litde One.
277 REFRACTIONS

Dear Nuni
Namaskaram.
Drunk and drums and dancing. And the breath of saal. I’ve
been reviving my starved spirits after about three months. I returned
this morning from a village about a day’s walk away, where there
was a ceremony. I met a lot of nice people even though these villages
are not as remote as our hills are. There was a lot of hope towards a
better future...
I felt very low when I wrote to you last, getting along only
because I knew things couldn’t get worse. Things had to brighten up,
and they did. The Ecologist has replied... apart from that I might get
a regular column in the journal, a kind of a Letter from the Forest.
I spent a morning with your mother a couple of days before I
left Delhi. It was very nice to talk to her and watch the first birds of
summer in your garden.
How are things in your land, Nuni? Often, Life’s trails lead one
to nothing but undergrowths. Most do nothing about it—they just
clear a bit of space around and setde down; fear of venturing ahead
keeps them confused, preventing them from even thinking. A few
push ahead and find trails on the other side, which lead to better
company gathered around warmer fires. You seem to have pushed
ahead...
A couple of nights ago I was taken for my first all-night hunt.
You could compare me with a sick man trying to run a marathon.
We hunted by moonlight. It was cold and wet, and the forest fearful
and majestic. I came through the whole ordeal alive and in one piece,
but it will be some time before I go for another all-night. It isn’t all
fun, though. There are times when I have my depressions and take a
long Walk to sit by a stream, wondering whether it is worth it.
I miss you quite often here—specially when I come across
those marvellous mountain streams, rushing ahead without waiting
for anyone. And at night, sleeping under the sky by a fire, when
I watch the constellations taking their well-defined paths above.
Reminds me of Dudwa, and the star gazing we did there.
Have been thinking about expectation myself, though in a
different context. Mainly about how I can ever repay the many
people who have been so nice to me. When you travel so much you
come across fantastic folk—who take you for just what you are, no
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 278

past and no future. Feel unworthy of such goodness shown to me.

Oona’s ideas about her future work had crystallised, as she had
written to Vidya. “It is good to know that Nuni is liking and
getting involved in work of the Land. Warms my heart.” But
at the personal level their paths had begun to diverge. Madhu
continued:

The New Year has begun well. There is no easy way out towards
even a semblance of perfection, and there is absolutely no point in
remaining or competing within mediocrity... Shall let you know what
my writing, travelling plans are. And you, Nuni, don’t ever mistake
my silences as a slight against you in any way. So many times have I
sat with pen and paper, written Dear Nuni, Namaste, and then found
no way in which I could continue. It might sound absurd, but it is
true. Maybe when I have the Totaplas fixed and Part B is a little more
stable, then I can explain these matters in that detached and aloof
manner which you seem to have mastered.

Totaplas? The integrated being? I don’t know. Madhu is still

away in the forest.
There is a letter from Saachi, dated 13 January 1986, one
of the friends Madhu mentioned whom he planned to meet in
Bastar. I remember him, a strong build unlike both Madhu and
Khalid, a thick beard and he rode a heavy motorcycle, throbbing
with energy. He came the other day.

Valekum Salome for the New Year. Thank you very much for
your letter. It was a pleasant surprise. Dialogue—communication—
should continue, that is what I hope for. ‘Iccha karta hoon’—desire,
wish, want—it could be any of these. Or hope.
I am leaving for Bastar at the end of the month. I will stay there
for two to two-and-a-half months. I have to finish a monograph paper
by the end of May. So much for the insignificants—the output of work
irrespective of what happens to the spirit—in contemporary usage,
the emotion and feelings.
The New Year began in silence, on the roads of New Delhi.
With numbed senses we pass into a new era. The power of this time-
279 REFRACTIONS

transition seems so great and we so unprepared to face it squarely.

Yesterday, Madhu and I attended a conference ‘Consultation
on Ecology and Economic Development’ organised by Jayant
Bandhopadhyay and Vandana Shiva of the Doon Valley fame. The
economists wanted information, to introduce the Ecological variable
into market economics—one of the suggestions was to introduce a
price for ecological destruction which is caused by development
programmes. Several other suggestions were given—all with a focus
on bringing to the notice of planners what is happening to the ecology
as a consequence of their plans. All this would finally lead to some
policy measures that would be sensitive to Ecology.
In my view, there is a need to prevent further destruction. But,
to me, it seems difficult to define the time period which could be
defined as Immediate. If we ask the wrong questions about the causes
then perhaps we will be caught in the re-cycling of waste, with even
more introduction of ‘science’.
With a different set of questions, perhaps several years would
be required to clarify the issues involved. I sometimes feel that these
new questions will come—if we can forget the methods we have used
till today. Begin from the Bottom—with regard to the choice of the
language of articulation, and with regard to the people who really
matter.
Write more about the Abyss between Dream and Reality and
the Stopping of Time. The Sun, the clean sky on one hand, the rape of
the forests on the other, and the overwhelming impotence of standing
in-between the two.
Journey to IXTLAN. Castaneda. That was her favourite
reading in those years. Did Dream and Reality merge for Oona?
Madhu was far away, in a different world. The university was
behind her. I read Madhu’s letter of 23 November 1985, when
she was about to leave IRMA and I see another kind of letting go.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 280

He continues, “I had begun to impinge on your freedom. I

must have been nuts, for I couldn’t see what I was doing...What
I had been doing to you and what I should have done were so
different, like caging a bird when I should have set it free. When
I realized this, I broke down. I hope things will never be that
way again.”

Besides letters from friends whom I know, there are many

from others I did not ever meet. Letters in chaste Hindi, from
a village in Madhya Pradesh, Khapa Bazar, where she did her
first training segment. Arun, the son of the village headman
in whose home she stayed, and others who formed the nucleus
of the group. The correspondence continued months after her
work was completed. I wonder if they know.
Reams from someone called Satya whose address was an
ashram, sometimes a school. The subject was mosdy education,
the sorry state it is in particularly in the rural areas. His dilemma
is the need to have an adequate career, possibly journalism, and
the desire to work at what interests him. The correspondence
extends over two years. I don’t know how that friendship came
about. They made plans to meet but did not.
Letters she had started and left unfinished.
“I’m not saying there is any harm at all in asking for
a letter, I’d ask for ten, but I was wondering whyyou hadn’t
written. It doesn’t matter. May be it will pop up on some quiet
summer afternoon, nicely outdated. You keep old letters? So do
I. When I was in school, in Sanawar, people used to be madly
jealous of me because I’d get four or five letters a day at times.
But now I have to wish hard for three or four letters a week!
Have stopped writing regularly to most. I write to the few with
whom it is important for me because there is not any other way
of communication. I love writing letters, but sometimes I go
through these phases of utter involvement with people...”
281 REFRACTIONS

There are odd scribbles and doodles.

“This is the age of mercenaries; even ecology will be driven
to its ends to overcome itself.” What precisely did she mean?
“There are enough people to write books. Unless one
writes for posterity, it is an indulgence.” A dig at academicians,
at theorizing?
“I will live my thoughts.” I laughed when I saw that. It is
precisely what she did. She lived according to the dictates of her
own being. At age twenty, or so, to make such an assertion and
carry it through!
Letters from Rohit with exotic stamps. From Eera. From
us. How depressing mine are—describing the deaths in the
family in 1985—first Charles Heimsath, Arjun and Kabir’s
father, three months later Gurbir’s fadier, followed closely by
his eldest sister’s husband, and then she herself on die first day
of 1986.

Letters from her friends in the University, all part of the

Kalpavriksh environmental group. Mahesh Rangarajan,
studying History at Hindu College. Som, E Somana in full,
in her class. And Vivek Mishra studying Physics also at St
Stephens. I see in these letters fragments of their dreams, the
resolve to strive, and, above all, hope.
Each of them was looking for a way to change an inequitous
social order. Each of them hoped to be able to contribute. The
paths they took were different, but each envied Oona for having
found her path.
Mahesh has given me letters Oona wrote to him during
this period.
“I have the flutters. Gita, my cousin, is very ill. I don’t know
whether she is alive or not, or in what stage—complications
after childbirth. The impending danger to life doesn’t even seep
in because one is so occupied with the daily work. The family
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 282

is going through frightening times, and Ajit has too much on

his plate for safety’s sake.” That was August 1986. It took Gita
ten years to attempt a second baby. She lost it towards the end
of 1996.
Mahesh complaining, 14 October 1985.
“You have again done the disappearing act. Funny how
Som and you both have this way of remaining incommunicado
until you are actually in town. Within a couple of years, most
of us will be working.. .we are going to have even less scope
to interact than we do at present. So it is essential to keep in
touch, both to enable each to gain from the other’s experience
and so to provide the emotional support people with concerns
beyond themselves need but cannot get save from each other.”
He was then in his second term for his Masters degree. “I am
joining the Centre of Science and Environment on a part time
job to work on law and environment—to look into how laws
evolved, how they actually operate, and what changes ought to
be demanded.”
He counters Oona’s accusation of writing a superficial
letter and threat of terminating their correspondence: “Som has
spent more time with me than you have in the last two years
or so. I feel that for you I’m still the ‘enviro cat’ who is a good
punch card system on the voluntary organisation scene. So
many things—the new friendships I have forged, the personal
travails gone through, even the joys I have—are all unknown
to you. And the reverse is true, too, isn’t it? Too much ‘think
talk’ stifling ‘feel talk’. Our ‘being’ is possible only in relation to
others. Is this not why we try, however hard it may be, to keep
our lines open even with people life and time are drawing us
away from? Yes. Put a full stop by all means. But give what I am
saying a thought.”
They continued to correspond. When Oona was
disheartened at not getting the Rhodes scholarship he offered
both consolation and practical advice: “I think you would be
very good at something practical, which keeps you happy in
the outdoors and in touch with people. More than anything, I
283 REFRACTIONS

should say your warmth makes you a genuine communicator. C

ne does feel bad about rejection... in your case I’d say you need to
think things out a little more. In my own case the linkage of the
course in Oxford and my ‘concerns’ here is tenuous. In yours, I
am unable to see it. May be I haven’t asked. Your postgraduate
degree is very good I believe. It may be a better idea to do more
held work and later, if you feel the experience will be good, look
into the US more carefully for Common Property Resource
Management.”
The next bit makes me feel very inadequate with my
pragmatic response of taking the rejection in her stride, the
business of not being upset if the ripe plum does not fall into
your lap. Obviously, she was very upset. Scholarships, Mahesh
writes, are a booty’ distribution system. “It is silly to let these
things get you down for too long. Obviously with a track record
like yours you stood an excellent chance What identity does
someone like you need? Take a look in the mirror and ask
around. I’m sure you know you are universally regarded as
one of the most lovable people around the place. Besides, I
might add, being a person w ho has excelled at all of her varied
interests. Just because a particular person’s case does not fit
their priorities means very little in terms of understanding/
evaluating that person.”
A week later he persists: “Your practical exposure has been
most rewarding, your IRMA years have made you so much more
assertive. What ought to be more a matter of concern is if your
proposed road into the future will balance between earning you
a living and marrying your skills to your concerns. The latter is
not going to be easy for any of us... You professionals are lucky,
your powerpack of skills should stand you in good stead. Not
only will you eat cake if you want it, you can also straightaway
demonstrate your relevance to other people’s bread. I don’t
know why or how you took this by lane but it seems to lead on
to the high road. Many groups could do very well with the likes
ol you, specially with someone interested in a deeper sense and
not merely as a wage slave.”
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 284

Oona didn’t get the Rhodes the year she applied, neither of
them got the Inlaks scholarship either. Oona’s self-confidence
had been severely bruised. She was short-listed fourth. One of
her referees was disappointed enough to declare that she would
never again write a recommendation for this scholarship.
Oona wrote to Mahesh about her disappointment in June
1986. She wrote from her little clearing in the forest at Amari
Mandali.

There was a letter from my father as well... The moon was bright
but it couldn’t make up for the absence of electricity that night. So both
letters were read crouched over a flickering fire, tear drops making
hissing noises as they dropped into the embers. I don’t know why....
Then I cried for an hour sitting by the quiet river; perhaps because
both letters were so tender, where they are normally not, and they
touched a spot I feel sensitive and confused about.
I think my father really wanted me to get this; but he is so good..
.there was no hint of it in the letter. It has become a closed book.
Not unnaturally he talked of his sorrows and the joys of seeing his
children grow so well. God! I feel like a sod; as if my friend’s love and
my father’s care are something new to me.

Mahesh responded promptly: “How I wish we could be face to

face... Yes, at least you have not been desensitised to the extent
you cannot shed tears (incidentally you have an acute sense of
observation and excellence in style that sketches word-pictures
that are vivid). One word of caution. There are real sharks in
this sea. Beware. Be forewarned. Be forearmed. Remember to be
ready to take care of them. They are up, about and everywhere.”
Equilibrium was regained soon enough. Oona
introspected.

I search for threads of consistency between thought and action

in others. I have no business to do that as I derive meaning by sheer
dualism and nothing else. People become important as individuals
at one-to- one contact, not as a social phenomenon... Sometimes I
285 REFRACTIONS

become myopic... isn’t it ridiculous to compare the world to me and

my actions.
One exists as an individual entitled to anything which would
make one learn, grow, and love for fulfilment. One needs a constant
dialogue.

Continuity, however mundane it may be in real terms, provides the

springboard for inspiration. That perhaps is one reason 1 enjoy, so
much, writing to you.

Life took an upswing for Mahesh when, within months,

he won the Rhodes scholarship: “I’ve done it! It is in the bag...
I must say it was not only over before I realised it, the whole
scene was expertly done. They got you talking on what you said
were your fields and started seeing your depth, often suggesting
views quite at a variance... I hope I shall live up to this, make full
use of it, learn in all senses of the word, and work for education,
research and organisation. This road to the social sciences has
neither money nor the status of the professions or the services.
Nor does it get from ‘activists’ the recognition it deserves. I
am convinced that the skills of social science married to the
concerns of the latter will, and can, in a small and yet critical
fashion pave the way for the kind of imaginative and frontal
attack that needs to be made on our decadent and inhuman
social order.”
They shared many thoughts, many concerns. Mahesh filled
every bit of available space on the page in his precise, angular
writing. “Education—in terms of learning, communicating
and being, is a lifelong process. We need a sense of equity and
fraternity amongst activists and friends. Our effort at sharing
is a small, very small step in that direction. Our bridges of
affection are essential to cross the distance from darkness to
light.”
Oona responded in easy flowing lines:
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 286

One pines for people to care for and be cared by, without hungry
possession or that masked intellectual ping-pong. I think one can
never go wrong when one is physically attracted to someone.
Yours letters, they float in time, light and introverted. I get a
kind of astral feeling from them I get frightened at times, it’s so easy to
join the club of parasites, and slip into the life where one takes without
giving. If we don’t slog we will be overwhelmed by commercial forces
and the urge for selfish power. We have to be true to our principles
when the time comes for decisions. Too many succumb and then
rationalise when they don’t even know what options there are. It fills
me with a sense of doom. We have to preserve ourselves because only
when we have can we give; when we know’ we can tell; when we do
others can follow. As you say, we cannot afford to fail. Each one of us
must be crusaders for this giant blind nation which is blundering on.

One of Oona’s referees, a young woman not much

older than herself who taught in the Math department at St
Stephens College, had remarked that they were an unusual
group. Idealists, she said. And of Oona
particularly, “but not in a motheaten
way”. Idealists stalking imaginarytigers.
But poverty” was not imaginary, that is
what they were after in their different
ways. Som, she said, was like a brother
to her. His brother, Bharat, had been her contemporary and
friend and perhaps his early passing on prompted the remark:
“It should not be so surprising that Oona went so early, such
people usually do.”

Som visited. I showed him the letters he had written to Oona

during the winter of 1985-86. As he read them he smiled wryly
and remarked that this fellow of twelve years ago was not a
stranger!
287 REFRACTIONS

I’m glad to hear you’re liking it at IRMA. I wish I could say the
same for myself at Purdue. It’s what I feared would happen when I
was in India. In the absence of the enthusiasm for the new, which
was with me last year, the grind is getting me down. Since I know I’m
not going on for a Ph. D., not right away at any rate, I don’t find the
work the challenge it was. It is becoming more drudgery and less the
intellectual pleasure it used to be.
What I want to do now is to get better equipped. Live in India,
really master Hindi, join groups in the field who are doing real work
if only for short periods of time. Vidhushak Karkhana is one such
group and there are others. At least, I hope so.
Another thing I’d like to do is get a good understanding
of what is keeping our society backward. The big picture. This is
prompting me to study Economics.
If I never make it as an activist, I could be an academic.
That way I wouldn’t be part of the System (Business, Industry,
Government, etc.) which I think would be morally destructive. I
don’t mean to be self-righteous. It is just that I agonise about these
things a lot.
They’re important to me, specially at this stage.

As a matter of fact Som returned to India and joined

the Delhi School of Economics, where he met his future wife,
Rohini. They were both teaching at Emory, Atlanta, when they
heard about Oona and he wrote to us. But at the time he wrote
to Oona, he was still thinking aloud, assessing options.

The attractive thing about being an economist is that hopefully I

could combine my humanist outlook with my academic inclinations.
I like intellectual challenges. That’s why I like maths. The trouble
with maths is that it has nothing to do with the real world.
The idea of teaching maths in college isn’t too attractive. I like
teaching, but I hate the thought of an unproductive job. Most of them
are there just to get a degree, and of the exceptions, a good many are
going to be American mathematicians.
Then again, since my primary interest isn’t maths any longer, it
would seem to be a dead end, as my brother Sri thinks. Of course, it is
a job... Doing a Ph. D. in Economics means at least four years more as
a student. Depressing thought.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 288

Then they were all looking for direction, the way beyond
the thicket, the undergrowth as Madhu called it. A four-way
process of communication, besides the one-to-one, continued:
“I spoke to Vivek a couple of weeks ago. Found a card from
him waiting for me when I got back here. He doesn’t seem keen
to continue with Physics. He is looking for an interdisciplinary
program involving the environment. He has applied to UC-
Berkeley. He told me, and your letter seems to confirm it, that
you think I may stay here! I thought last summer I was quite
categorical about returning to India when I get my MS. Where
on earth did you get the idea that I’m not? As to what next, it
is a question facing all of us isn’t it? We want to get involved in
some kind of social action to help the poor but we don’t know
if we’re capable of it, or of keeping it up. You are much better
equipped to do something than I am, specially after two years
in IRMA. I’ve never stayed in a village for any length of time
and it’s always been as a traveller, an outsider.” Som continued:
“It is a good thing your liking IRMA after all that agonising
about whether to go there or not. Any ideas/ thoughts about
what happens when you finish? This kind of thinking keeps
recurring for me.”
On the back of an envelope Oona has sketched, in pencil,
a pair of hands. Fingers relaxed, slightly apart, and reaching
out. She loved the work of Michelangelo; they could well be
the hands of Adam when the biblical Creation happened.
Something falls out. Leaves. Deep rust brown.

I’d forgotten how incredibly beautiful the trees are when their
kaves turn to brown and orange and red and russet and gold. And
*he light sometimes has a peculiar quality which I can’t describe but
which I’ve never seen in India.
I drove to the outskirts of town today. It was overcast. The sky
seemed immense, huge. It should look the same everywhere but it
doesn’t. The prairie seems to somehow expand the scale of everything.
It’s very beautiful. No, beautiful is the wrong word. Majestic. I don’t
know if you’ll understand what I mean unless you’ve seen something
of the sort yourself...
289 REFRACTIONS

I’m enclosing a couple of fall leaves, which will give you some
idea of the colour variations. Of course they really look best in the
millions on the trees. They’ve mostly all gone now and the landscape is
beginning to look bleak. The prairie in Indiana isn’t grass, it is mosdy
cornfields with a windbreak or a wood here and there. In winter it’s
just mud or snow. Very bleak.

Som’s letter of 9 February 1986 remarks: “I hear Mahesh

has got the Rhodes to Oxford. Great, isn’t it.” He wrote in some
detail about his first experience of a social gathering at which
the men were on one side of the room, and the women the other.

Clearly, the Indian community here is, in some ways, quite cut
off from what goes on around them. I didn’t know anyone there except
my hosts and so when I entered I just introduced myself to some of
the men and began chatting. After a while when I realised what was
happening I felt odd but I knew that if I attempted to do with the
women what I’d done with the men, it wouldn’t work.
How do I communicate with someone whose values and
thinking are so completely alien to mine? I mention this because I
found the whole situation so incongruous, that it seemed to be out of
a film. You said in your letter that being honest in this respect (about
values) is at the cost of intensity. Very much so. There are limits to
how far one can adapt while still being true to oneself.
I understand your problem with the ‘values/taboos’ of society.
That kind of thing can make even me uncomfortable at times and of
course it’s much worse for a woman. Any unconventionality on your
part raises eyebrows and worse.

In American society, he remarked, “there are fewer

pressures on women and the brutal class stratification typical
of India is absent. Everybody is a human being. Back home the
poor are not...” But he found different kinds of problems. For
example, the atheist friend who had to be circumspect. “It really
bothers him because he has to be careful not to discuss religion
even with some of his close friends. They would feel just too
uncomfortable with him if they knew he wasn’t a Christian— ”
Som told me he had visited Oona in Amari Mandali. It would
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 290

have been the summer of 1986. “I will probably get in touch

with this Pradan group you mention when I get back. It looks
like what they’re doing is right up your street... When I talked
to Vivek I didn’t get the impression he was going to live here.
You seem to be quite disapproving of the poor chap’s wanting to
stay here. He is labelled a sea-crosser! So was I apparently, but
now I’ve redeemed myself and am being welcomed back into
the fold! Acquitted without a stain on my character.”
Som eventually did his Ph. D. in Economics from Harvard
but both he and Rohini worked in Kumaon too, at Pithoragarh,
and would drop in on Oona at Sitla. But, as Oona had feared,
they left for academia, in America, in 1990, visiting home for
holidays and projects.

A postcard, dated 25 November 1985, from Sylvy, her

contemporary at IRMA. Many of the Hindi letters had asked
after her since she had a similar assignment, in a different
village, as Oona did in the first term. Chitraroopa Palit, but I
remember her as Sylvy. She telephoned soon after; we spoke for
half an hour. She avoids Delhi; her trauma was the senseless,
and brutal, murder of both her parents some years ago. Motive,
robbery’.

Oona, my girl,
Sorry that you should feel a sense of disorientation because of a
lack of continuous communion with this—the outside world. Letters
are such discrete things, love; tiny packets of energy, but so often
enough to reassure.
The matter is that for these last few days 1 have been in the
field. When I came to Hoshangabad, I got your letters in a bunch.
You sound so depressed, O. What’s wrong? S. Bhai seems to be
getting on your nerves. And the closedness of the place. And yet you
have the trees and the river glowing gold in the mornings, you have
the tribal girls and you have Meera.
So what is this restlessness? Some basic issues troubling you,
291 REFRACTIONS

occupying your mind? You had written about U. What did you
expect Oona? He is just a young boy. And you are a woman—vital,
beautiful, complex. A woman, for young boys, is made up of just
so many parts. They haven’t yet developed the ability to appreciate
another person in her complexity, in totality.
You also seem very worried about this further education/
work choice. What’s the news of the Rhodes interview? Oona, do
you really want to study further just now? We’ve always discussed
the where and the what, never the if and the why. Wouldn’t you, for
example, find it more interesting to work and gamer experience for a
year or so and then go back to a two-year course, study and reflective
thinking? Surely there are fulfilling jobs that one could do. Don’t
let these selection processes get you down, girl. They are probably
looking for things in people which are not better nor worse, but
different from you. At this moment in time.
I’ve been feeling a bit disconcerted too...Would you
recommend Amari Mandali to me for placement, now that you’ve
seen the place and the people? Frankly appraise. I know their need.

Sylvy wrote again, the troubled patch had receded:

I remember you so much, Oona. In all my depraved moments

when I’m drinking in colour at the weekly haat at Kesla where we
stay, or when I throw caution to the winds and buy Chattisgarhi saris
(parrot green and red, purple and red, and red and blue — all for
Rs 15 each). Or when I look at the bangles greedily, or eat milk and
jalebis. I so wish you were here kid. Good forests, some mixed, some
only teak. Kesla is a tribal block and slightly hilly. Mobike rides are
exhilarating...

Sylvy did not join Amari Mandali. She chose to work in

Madhya Pradesh and became a firebrand activist fighting for
the rights of the tribal people being displaced by the big dam
project on the river Narmada.

Oona’s time at Amari Mandali was a period of isolation,

 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 292

physical as well as emotional and intellectual. Her lifeline to

the world was through correspondence. It was during this time
that Oona wrote about change in herself, to Vidya, from Delhi:
“I’m at home for about six days—it’s wonderful—with the new
puppy in the house, and my father came for a day. Yesterday my
old ‘friend’ came over. He is back from the States. Well, we went
for a long walk, talking. He hasn’t changed a bit, but he was
astonished to see how much I had changed. ‘How do you know
that everything is so certain. Why is everything cut and dry for
you? Where has your depth gone? And the tone of your voice,
its become louder, higher...’ Quite revealing. Yes, I’ve really
changed. I don’t think I will see him again in my life. There is
an emptiness, no will to interact. He said at one point, when he
was amused about something, ‘Let me hold your hand, come,’
and God I really flinched. I just recoiled. I was quite amazed at
this reaction. But it was a peculiar experiment. To see someone
alive, someone who had fossilised. And then it dawned on me
that it was the relationship that had frozen in my mind, which
was so different now, and therefore kind of difficult to match
the reality and the memories. He has nightmares, I don’t.”
I remember. During her third year at the University, the
relationship had played itself out but the message wasn’t getting
through. They were both sitting here in the garden one evening
and she had said to me, “You talk to him. Tell him to GO. I don’t
want him in my life any more. He won’t believe me...” It was
the first time she had asked for help. The second was when she
asked me to speak to Sushil.
When Oona was at Amari Mandali she was home only
for a few days at a time, mostly between catching trains. She
came on work to Delhi, to market the carpets they made there,
or sometimes she would extend her trip from Jaipur where
she procured wool or shipped the finished carpets which were
made on order. She urged friends to visit even if briefly, many
did. Rohit, Som, Anita and Kalyan and Theo from Anand, and
Vidya too. So did I, taking for her food just as one sent tuck
while she was in boarding school.
293 REFRACTIONS

A note from the General Secretary, explains the work

of Amari Mandali: “... an attempt to broaden the horizons of
women and girls from the Gammit tribe from their narrow
sphere of being merely domestic labourers to a level where they
can assume independent responsibility for their lives. However,
to have an impact on their lives the Mandali has to supplement
this by tangible economic benefit to the women. This serves the
dual purpose of attracting the women as well as giving them a
degree of financial independence, a step towards making them
equal members of their society.”
They began with sixty village girls and proposed to train
two hundred over four years. The job description for Oona
was to establish marketing outlets, streamline the production
system to fit specific market requirements, and mesh the
present control and monitoring systems with the marketing
and production systems. The other possibilities of income
generation are touched upon: initiate a milk cooperative society
to be managed by the women themselves; finance, through a
government scheme, the purchase of milch animals and so on.
How pleased Oona was with the stud bull that was
acquired in conjunction with the fodder initiative while she was
there. She tried very hard to get her veterinarian friend, Sagari
Ramdas, to visit and she tried to tempt her to work there. Sagari
came the other day, but I missed her.
Development should build upwards from below, not
‘trickle down’ from the top. Reaching the poorest was the
priority. Oona joined because the ideology was right. But I know
that frustration set in because she felt constrained, confined
only to the carpet-weaving project which, in any case, took up
most of her energy. Not to be able to do anything with the ideas
for craft-based activities, the forestry project and education
was extremely disappointing for her. She had joined full of
optimism: “I’ll start teaching, my mind buzzes with all sorts of
ideas— from games to long walks to explain the significance of
the environment.” For her it was an opportunity “to show the
world a village which would optimise its natural resources and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 294

inherent energy to be self-sufficient. Policy-makers always find

it difficult to concretise things. .. . The danger in getting involved
in these niggly details is that they eat up so much SPACE, where
one glance is sufficient to convey depth.”
“Only action counts.” I find in another scribble. Five years
later she used those ideas and her work experience with Chirag
in her thesis at Sussex: “Gandhi: The Path not Taken”, which she
dedicated to “V B Eswaran, my mentor in Development.”

When Oona left Amari Mandali she had time to look around.
She received many job offers in Ahmedabad but her heart was
set on working and living in the mountains. She made a trip
to Manali to see the organisation which Ren and Leo Madan
planned to start. Bulbul was there, at that time married to
Anoop, Ren and Leo’s son. I found some pictures. In one Ren is
to the left, sitting on a grassy bank which undulates towards the
right where Bulbul is looking into the camera, laughing, and
Oona is just behind her leaning back on her arms, legs stretched
out. Her face is turned upwards, eyes closed, a smile on her lips,
lost in her own world.
That summer, before Oona joined Chirag, she did a
study on the potential role of women in the Tree Growers’
Cooperative Project which was to be implemented by the
National Dairy Development Board (NDDB) and financed
by the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA).
The final report was to be submitted on 30 September 1987. I
have two pages in her handwriting, outlining the approach and
the methodology. On the second page is a time schedule: July
15 to 30 September for different aspects of the study. Visits to
five states are visualised: Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Orissa,
Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh. And possibly Madhya Pradesh
too. It was a gruelling pace and I remember the reams she
wrote. She finished on schedule.
295 REFRACTIONS

Theo was looking after this project when we visited them

in Munsiari in 1992, when Oona was five months pregnant
and we had to walk the last thirty kilometres because of a road
block. He is now back at Anand as Director of the project. She
had commented on the scheme to Mahesh: “The decentralised
nursery scheme is brilliant. One man per village scattered over
60 districts. Fifteen hundred or so raising 20,000 saplings each,
all locally suggested species. There will be 30 million available.
People just need to walk to get them, plus earn 45 paise for each
surviving one.”
She commented also on a new concept that had been
proposed by Dr Kurien who had masterminded the revolution
in milk production through cooperatives. “Perhaps at last there
will be some place where tangible work, consultancy to the
government, execution, evaluation of major projects which
affect the environment will get done with the right objective.
Folks who are out there making a name for themselves won’t be
able to build institutions....” She wrote that in 1986.
She wrote also: “I so badly want to start a moral revolution—
just to do what needs to be done, and be non-pretentious about
it. But it is so, so tough.”
And I think of what she said to Samina ten years later,
optimistic that change for the better had begun: “I have so
much thinking and writing to do....”
 15
“I will live my thoughts”

ona’s letters to Khalid jump the time when she

was at Amari Mandali. They resume from Sitla,
the winter of 1988-89 when we had all gone up,
including Rohit who had stayed back.

It is strange how, over the years, I keep hanging on to Rohit off

and on, even through there is no spiritual or intellectual succour in it.
I guess that is what emotion is all about.
How wonderful if feels to be back at Sida. There is a winter
sharpness in the clear air and the sunshine is painfully bright at this
altitude. But it is so good a feeling to see all these dark leaved trees,
and my kittens. They’ve really grown up, and have almost abandoned
me after I abandoned them.
Suddenly our work in forestry is assuming new dimensions. It
is no longer just confined to this vicinity but we are now getting very
positive responses from quite far afield. Quite a challenge, because we
will then be vaulted into very different vegetation zones, which will be
fun to leam about.
Khalid, there are three diaries of Madhu’s (as well as Plato’s The
Last Days of Socrates) lying at home. I’m sure he’d want them back; so
what should I do?
I can’t understand how I see so little song, dance, and culture in
this place. When you come it might come into focus.
The mountains are as fantastic as ever. It never ceases to amaze
me how different they can look just because the winter sun has moved
so far south...
297 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

In March 1989 she wrote about another skiing trip, not the
one when we brought down the chinar trees, and the walnut
and almond.

Papa also joined us. He was on duty, so the army hospitality

was laid on thick. Besides that, my skiing has improved tremendously
and it was a most exhilarating time for me. I can’t tell you how much
I enjoy sport; to be taught how to perform well, and to be skillful
enough to look good while doing it.
Then I had a few disoriented days in Delhi. I stayed at home and
read, it was just too short a time for me to even begin to get into the
place. So it was nice enjoying the garden, walking Attila, and meeting
my Grandma, Aunt, etc.
No leisure at Sitla to read after a long day of work, though I
did get down to reading some beautiful books in Gulmarg. It used
to snow every evening, and we’d be looking out at those huge flakes
silendy floating down, from this large wall-to-wall window.
I wait to have you as my visiting friend and guest when you
feel like coming up to the mountains. You know you can come up
anytime. The fruit blossoms should be here in a few weeks and this
place will be a riot of fragrance and colour.
This winter was cold and everything looks pretty dead at
the moment. It is quite disheartening to go through a winter here,
especially when one is so preoccupied with planting things. It is so
complex and I find one needs to be observant constantly, observant
and flexible — there is no room for generalisation. Really, it is amazing
how all consuming this work is. But I’m very happy and content here,
and don’t seem to miss too much of the rest of the world.

The next letter does not carry a date, but Khalid has noted
in the right hand comer: Received 2.V. 1989.

Thank you for your beautiful inscription. I always love to read

your clean mind in the form of that pleasing script. Crisp and vivid.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 298

A lot of peace comes from you. I’ve realised that it is much easier
to cope and evolve alone. I’m at a susceptible dependent stage right
now, Khalid, and find that during the course of the day, these waves of
emotion sweep over me, which are painful, jabbing.
Does it mean that my life has an intensity, a meaning and a
profundity? Or does it mean that I’ve just tied myself up in knots,
and am immobilised by their differing tugs? This Sunday morning,
Khalid, you’ve caught me in a peculiar mood. Perhaps one thing is
certain. To be able to accumulate learning, there must be a certain
stability in the core.
I’ve lost both my cats. They got eaten by a pine marten. Thank
God not in front of me. A forest fire has wiped out one of our more
difficult plantations, and work has grown so much that I feel rather
innundated and oppressed.
Over and above that, I’m in love with Sushil, our doctor, who is
so mild and ascetic that I wonder if he even realises how important
he has become for me. It’s so complicated Khalid. His wife has just left
him (she being the second doctor of the group) and it has caused a bit
of an upheaval. You can see why I’m sounding disconnected.
Where do I get some calm from, tell me, Friend? Write soon
Mutak.
With loads of love and regards to your father and Laila.

I look at the writing carefully and I see that it is not

flowing and fluent as her hand usually is. I knew of course that
the doctor couple was in residence, in the room on the ground
floor directly below Oona’s, but had no idea that complications
were brewing. She was very circumspect with me then. She told
me of some ‘unpleasantness’ months later and when I suggested
that she use caution and propriety she let me know that it was
not my place to suggest.
In the next, it is back to normal. Nicely rounded letters,
no extra flourishes, straight lines. Full of confidence. Dated 28
May 1989.

What a pleasure it is to get your perfectly calligraphed letters.

299 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

You never cease to amaze me. And then I immediately get the urge
to pull out my best paper and best pen so that I too can revel in every
word that I write to my friend.
I have read your letter many times, amongst the company of
many (since for the last few days, there have been many collective
dinners) and in the quiet solitude of the evening. Yes, it made sense to
me, where the Self is a principle rather than an individual ego. But it
is something I don’t see myself being nowadays. May be if one had the
leisure to contemplate then it would happen.
I get depressed when I am by myself: specially when Sushil is
around and I don’t get to see enough of him. He is one person to
whom I am willing to really give exclusively. Sushil is separated from
his wife and there are no chances that she will play any role in his life
anymore (this is not just due to me, it had been on the cards for ages).
Mummy and my Uncle, Tauji, had come up for a few days. The
highlight of their visit was a great swim in the Quarab river.
There is a lot of work happening now, to gear up for the planting
season, and it is a time of trial and test (and also great satisfaction)
for me. The whole programme must have grown five times since last
year. It is just wonderful to know that so many people are willing to
care for their environment if they are given the right type of help and
approached in a way comprehensible to them. 1 love to live in an area
where one can walk at all hours of the day and night, talk to any old
person and it is not misconstrued. It is living in a happy human way.
When I think of how much on guard one has to be in a city...
Is Madhu’s book the same one his friend Elly illustrated for
him? I thought it was beautiful. Madhu has a lovely style of writing,
stripped of aU distracting frills, just like what he writes about. My
salaam to him when you write to him next.
Are you doing any acting in Delhi nowadays, Khalid? I keep
hearing that there have been some good plays. I miss that. I look
forward to see you in your element one day, again.

Once we went together to see Khalid act. I can’t remember

what the play was but I remember him as a spider inside a metal
frame globe. It was pure anguish, expressed in every movement
of his slight body encased in black, contortions of a captive
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 300

spirit. It is no wonder that she felt inadequate in being able to

manage nothing more than a handstand.

I look at the letters she wrote to Arjun from Sitla. She wanted
so much to have him come to Sitla, perhaps to work. He visited
but decided to work in Africa instead, in Kilifl, Kenya, with the
US Peace Corps.
The first is an August letter. A rakhi letter, 13 August 1989.
She is not satisfied with surface news, she needs to burrow
beneath the skin.

I’m sorry that I’ve taken so long to reply to you — July and
August are THE peak times of the year, Math so little leisure, that the
few hours on Sunday just go in trivial household things. Otherwise,
every day, from about 7.00 in the morning, one is on the move,
talking to people, planting out trees, reaching saplings to people and
encouraging them. On some days 1 count that we may have been
dealing with 6-7 villages in a single day, and that I can tell you is quite
a lot considering the distances here.
It was good to get your letter of 2 June. I don’t know if you are
still feeling as ‘numbed’ (that is the only word I can think of to explain
the detached feeling that you describe). I think when a person decides
that someone is the companion for life, then the feelings of loneliness,
dependence, and emotions get very, very strong.
I also feel that now, as far as Sushil is concerned, I’ve made up
my mind/heart about the fact that he is the one who I’d like to have
by my side. It now depends on him. It’s going to be really difficult
for him to think in this total way about me, being the self-sufficient
person that he is, inclined towards a meditative and a frugal way of
life, and having already burnt his fingers once with a bad marriage.
But, however agonising it is for me, the only thing that I can do is to
have full faith. Sometimes I wonder whether this intensity and total
fidelity comes from being in a place where the conventional urban
stimuli are few. But, I’m quite sure that’s not the case. I have little urge
now for those stimuli, as you must feel too, being out there.
Nairobi is very cosmopolitan is it not? What does your work
301 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

provide you with, a lot of opportunity to travel, see development

works, or apply yourself to design and research for something? Tell
me what the Peace Corps does in Kenya. Are you happy? Does an
international organisation like this give practical people like you
satisfaction? As for friends, colleagues, who are they? Where are they
from?
Ever since I got your letter I have been toying with the idea of
getting to Africa while you are there. Let us see how things work out.
Are there any interesting institutes there working with Environment,
or with Forestry/Forage/Grasses?
CHIRAG, our organisation ticks on, with plenty of achievements,
good work, credibility and respect on one hand. And, on the other, a
fair amount of dissatisfaction amongst us dreamers who care, there
are plenty of us here, a constraint on mobility, over-work pressure,
and a general tendency of thinking minds here to stake their futures
elsewhere.
That’s the truth. It includes me too, but I’m not so clear yet. I’ll
say no more at this stage. The weather is gorgeous. Absolutely mind-
blowing sunsets, plenty of steady and gentle rain, lots and lots of fruit,
flowers, wine, music, birds, wildlife to be seen etc. in this great busy
season.
So, Arjun, this Rakhi will reach you a little late, but nevertheless
mav it reach you with blessings and love from me, always.
Take care, and write soon. Lots of love,
Oona

The next follows soon after, from the high Himalaya.

From Srinagar, in 1989, on her return journey from the trip
during which the Pangong Tso pictures of Oona were taken.
She chose to drive back while the rest of the group took the
flight from Leh.

I’ve forgotten whether it’s your turn to write or mine, but since
I’ve been thinking of you on this wonderful trip of ours I thought I
would. Today I get back to Delhi after a two-week long marathon trip
in Ladakh. A train of Jongas set off (with full paraphernalia because
Papa was travelling on military duty) from Manali on to Keylong for
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 302

the night and Leh the next day. Quite a tough road to travel on, with
precious little infrastructure, a landslide pocked surface and long
stretches of travelling above 14,000 feet. Have you done this route? I
think you may have. Quite spectacular.
In Leh it was nice to see a mix of things. Old monasteries, I find
one more fascinating than the other, and a sprinkling of development
work. There I was lucky enough to be able to track down someone
who is a distinguished Buddhist leader of the area who is also a
natural farmer (there is a group there called the Ladakh Ecological
Development Group of which he is the President). He showed me
around some of their work in the villages. It was nice to wander
through peoples’ homesteads and get a feel of ordinary life there.
Of course, everything was badly disturbed—there is a serious civil
law and order problem because the local Buddhist population feels
dominated by the Muslim Kashmiris from the Valley. It’s complicated
and very unfortunate that our country manages to create this sort
of unhappiness in quite a lot of innocent comers. So, as a result, the
tourist season was leaner than normal there.
But the high point of the trip, Arjun, was our overnight stay at
Pangong Tso, which is easily one of the most beautiful landscapes that
I have ever seen. The lake is of unbelievable dimensions and the purest
deepest blue you can think of, with these bare pastel-hued mountains
girdling it. I haven’t seen the photographs yet.

She was more than pleased with them, specially the slides
Sushil told me he showed them to his family in Pune—his
parents, sister and brother-in-law—in the winter of 1996.

Mohit sent me some jottings.

“Memory Fragments, Impressions, Words. Oona
Mansingh.” Mansingh. That is how I too think of her. As a
matter of fact she was Oona Mansingh when Mohit came into
her life about seven years ago.
“I don’t think there is much chance that we can save the
303 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

Himalayas, but I’m going to spend my life trying.”

It was chance that took Mohit to Sitla. He was walking in
the forest near Mukteswar when he stumbled upon Lakshmi
and Kanai Lall’s home where Oona, Anita and Kalyan stayed
before they moved to the double-storey stone mansion. Then
Sushil joined. Friendships began. Oona went away to England
and Sushil moved to Satoli.
“Oona calling desperately from Sussex, it’s the middle of
the night in my Delhi flat. ‘Sushil won’t speak to me. You have
to get through to him. Only you can get through to him.’ I tell
. her it will be all right, that we will see a Magic Mountain with
herb gardens and places that heal. And three days later, drive up
to see Sushil, to talk to him.”
But things did work out. Mohit and Annu, his friend
and companion, both stepped in to help when the marriage
was decided. They played the role of Sushil’s family in Delhi,
arranged for Sushil’s parents to stay. I think of them all—Kalyan
and Anita, Mohit and Annu, Mohit’s parents and his sister,
Kanika, as his baraat. It was Mohit who took the pictures at the
wedding. And Himan, Jasleen’s son, took the black and white.
Both of them are professional photographers and film-makers.
The evening before the wedding, we took the Sharmas out for
dinner while the young folk gathered here to sit around a fire,
to watch the moon rise, and to make music. Kanika brought
her guitar and sang soulful Joan Baez songs. It was Kanika who
was the first to come over when the news about Ilya came. If she
knew how serious Oona was, she didn’t say.
How often the phrase “Mohit and Annu are coming”
occurred in Oona’s letters to us from Satoli. Or “Kalyan and
Anita were here.” How fortuitous that both lots were visiting
in August. The communal cottage the four of them built, next
to Oona and Sushil’s, and for which Sushil negotiated the land,
was meant to give them a base in the mountains. Mohit’s bread
and butter, film work, kept him in Delhi but his heart was
in the mountains. Kalyan and Anita never lived there either.
When they left Chirag they chose to settle in Kalika, on the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 304

outskirts of Ranikhet where Jojo would be able to go to school,

and they formed their own pan-Himalayan rural development
organisation—Grassroots.
Oona valued Mohit’s background in marketing and his
links in Delhi and, as it happens, her first project was the apricot
oil extraction and marketing. How often she would say when
we were returning home from a morning of chores, usually
her work appointments with funding agencies, or perhaps the
Ministry of Environment or Home Affairs, “Let me off here. I’ll
go and see Mohit for ten minutes. Don’t wait lunch. I’ll catch
up.”
It was never ten minutes, and of course we waited. Or
sometimes she would say, “Mohit is coming to lunch.” That
meant please make sure it is interesting. He was an enigma
to me. Vegetarian. He did not drink or smoke. I do not recall
ever seeing him in western clothes. He wore a kurta pyjama,
yet he loved to trek. Did he at least wear boots then instead
of the usual open chappals? His photographs of the mountains
are spectacular yet he made popular commercial films for
consumer goods.
And Annu? I knew little of her other than what was
deflected from Oona. She had a business, helped Kanika with
excess stocks of garments to generate money for the work
Kanika did— supporting activists all over India working in the
field of tribal and social welfare. As part of Sushil’s Delhi family
she became close to his parents also. After the wedding PRS
wrote that he felt he had acquired two daughters-in-law. It was
her car that Mohit drove. I knew that he drove fast; Oona said
he did the journey from Delhi to Haldwani in four hours while
the rest of us took six. That is why they reached Garhmukteswar
a half- hour ahead of of the rest the night they brought Oona
down.
“She was very private about her relationships and personal
problems. You often got the feeling that they were simmering
inside her, with no outlet.”
I never thought of Oona as being very private, she was
305 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

just so open. Too open I thought sometimes. That was her form
of honesty. Simmering? She often told me not to be angry or
discontent.
“Oona, always in a hurry to get things done. No patience
for small talk and time together. While we shared many things,
our love for water, the mountains, forests, photography, music
and beauty generally, this really prevented us from becoming
real friends. From achieving the bonding that requires time.”
It was with Sushil that his bonds of friendship had time
to form. In a way Oona was the stranger in the group when she
returned from England.
Friends, colleagues. Sushil’s baraat. Oona’s pall bearers.
In July Oona had told me, “It is not announced yet formally.
Imagine! And we thought he was a confirmed bachelor.” In
October 1996 Mohit married Premila, who barely reached the
middle of his chest while standing tiptoe. They have decided
to live in Satoli to see if they can make their lives there. Sushil
has company and Premila has inherited, as she told me, all of
Oona’s cookbooks.

With Kalyan it was different. We had spent much time

talking, laughing, discussing work and life for him to be
anything but an open book. Volatile, it didn’t take much for him
to explode. He once spent half an hour telling me how marriage
to Anita changed his life and opened up an exciting world
of intimacy and togetherness. This, five minutes after I had
overheard heated exchanges between them. He was definitely
not given to simmering. After a flashpoint, and there were many
at work Oona said, he would quickly subside into normal living,
no grudges held. Always generous with hospitality. “Come any
time. You know you are always welcome.” He gave me Paula
by Isabel Allende. I couldn’t read it. Paula, twenty-eight years
old, lay in a coma for almost a year lovingly cared for. In it he
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 306

inscribed: “The wilderness has claimed Ilya and Oona. There is

bound to be peace forever.” Peace. For them? Forever? Did he
mean it the way Tsagaadai had said it?
He wrote too.
“In 1987 we unpacked on top of the Sida ridge to dream,
working in those mountains. You know, and the Lord knows,
we had a marvellous time and Oona played a key role in all that
we tried to do up there. Even later, Satoli proved to be an equally
exciting hill top and in some ways even more pleasing because
we had found another road to freedom. Baby Ilya arrived on the
heels of Oona and Sushil’s marriage and our lives sent out roots
at Kalika. We all felt we had once again arrived, yes, at the gates
of Eden, for we would not settle for less.
“Over the last year, 1996, we got really close to Oona, just
as we were in Anand in 1985,” he continued. “Oona never really
walked, did she not fly mostly? Now, each time 1 walk up to the
workshop, or walk up to some village, I think of her, and you
know what? There is a weird amount of strength in what one
tries to do. I don’t know about the invisible but it is going to be
a hard road ahead. I went to Satoli and spent a few hours at the
office talking to Sushil and reading some of Oona’s files. That is
what we do now, read her lines and think, yes, think a lot about
her. Anita and I talk too, whether it is about the garden and our
constant exchange of plants and seeds, or about trees and life.
Or our mad zeal to work for the poor, or our different strategies
to enable people to understand the beauty of a community,
or whatever it was that drew us to sink roots in the Kumaon.
Anita’s message is that we need to conserve our energies and
keep on keeping on and, in the end, may be we will be closer
to the Reality where Oona and Ilya belong since August 1996.”
Kalyan also sent me the picture I had asked for, the Green
Oona.
“That’s Oona planting out the Tree of Heaven (Ailanthus
excelsia). We had negotiated the World Bank project between
March and end-July—Oona and I did our best to convince the
Mission to focus on catchment area protection to ensure that
307 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

water from the springs flowed on a sustainable basis.

“We did a lot of travelling between Satoli, Kalika, Garhwal
and several trips to Lucknow and, finally, the Agreement was
signed at Nainital on 25 or 26 July.
“And Oona said, ‘Let’s go to Satoli and have a party!’ We
whisked Joey away from school and went.
“We spent the evening at the Cowshed. That weekend
was also the first trip to our hills for Premila along with Mohit.
Anita and Oona dragged the real story out of Premila’s heart for
much of that glorious evening. We split at midnight and Oona
was certain that nobody would be in shape to plant trees the
next morning! But, at eight o’clock, she came by, asked for coffee
for me and made sure I walked up with her. First to the hand
pump we had put up near the school on top of the ridge. I made
Oona stand around the pump and clicked. Then we walked up
further, talking about Life and our very individualistic coping
strategies. How does one ride rainbows? It had been our main
topic for the past year and more so since March 1996 when we
travelled a lot together.
“The tree planting was pure heaven, Jasjit. You know how
many hillsides Oona and I have walked with tree saplings in
hand and a crowd of villagers since our Sitla days. This was
straight out of that era, multiplied many times over as we had
not done all this together since the bubble burst at Chirag.”
Much water has flowed in the Kosi since, as Kalyan puts it,
the Chirag bubble burst. In the new World Bank-aided project
for potable drinking water, Swajal, there is a coming together
again. Chirag, Aarohi, Grassroots are partners for the work in
this part of Kumaon.

I got another perspective from a young man whom I had

not met earlier: Rajesh Thadani, a Ph D student at Yale who had
come by to condole in September. Sushil had gone to Rishikesh
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 308

with Mohit and Ajit Harisinghani, so Rajesh, politely, stayed to

talk with us. He is in touch whenever he is in Delhi, and has the
time. He is doing his fieldwork, measuring the growth rates of
trees in this temperate region according to soil and location,
and is based in Sitla. He told me he spent eight months moving
around with Oona getting to know her work, afforestation as well
as protection for regeneration, and getting a feel of community
involvement. I got to know him when I rode up with him in
September 1996, when Sushil returned to Satoli from Rishikesh
without returning to Delhi as had been the plan. It was the first
time he would return to the house without Oona and Ilya there.
I felt it might help if he should not be alone.
Rajesh even delayed his departure by a day to accommodate
me. We stopped for a while at Garhmukteswar and I told him
of that evening when my mother and I had waited for Oona
and for Ilya. Somehow, somewhere inside me a dam burst
and I remember that I talked about them, about life, for the
rest of the six hours of the journey. I remember also, thinking
even then, how remarkable it was that he did not try to deflect
conversation into neutral territory. Instead, he shared with
me his reasons for being in Sida, independently of Chirag, his
future plans and how much he had learnt of the local conditions
through being with Oona. He told me how much he had looked
forward to spending more time with her specially to learn about
the dynamics of community involvement besides his particular
interest in the forestry project.
I had asked casually if he had known Oona’s cousin at Yale,
also at the School of Forestry—Arjun Heimsath. “That is Oona’s
cousin?” he had asked in surprise. Arjun had left by the time he
joined, but yes he had met him subsequently. We stopped at his
home in Sitla so he could unload his equipment, then he drove
me down, forty-five minutes to the Aarohi office. If he could do
anything to help Aarohi, he would do his best, whether formally
or informally. I passed the message to Sushil.
Recently, another Yale connection came full circle. Mytri
was visiting and brought a fellow student at Yale, Andi Eicher,
309 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

to visit. He, even younger than Rajesh, also knew of Arjun.

They told us that during a common course they took in public
health for some reason Kumaon was mentioned. Each claimed
to know someone there. The someone was Oona.
Andi wrote and enclosed a note: ‘Remembering Oona.’ He
is back in Bihar at the Nav Jivan Hospital in Palamu district
where he is working with an AIDS programme. “I am enclosing
a short piece that I have written about Oona. I am sorry that it
is not longer, but I want to maintain my honesty of memory,
rather than slip into the temptation of constructing things that
I am not sure of.”

My knowing Oona stems from the summer of 1993, when I

first stumbled onto the Kumaon while looking for a site to do field
research for my forestry degree. A list of names and contacts from Jeff
Campbell in Delhi included the name CHIRAG. After finding that
a class-mate of mine from schooldays in Mussoorie was also in the
area, and a quick visit to the folks working in Sitla my fate was sealed:
my portable research project was soon nestled in a village on the far
southern reach of CHIRAG’s operations.
The next six months were memorable ones. My brief was
to chart a history of local forest use, in particular looking at the
forest protection of a plot of village forest committee land. Besides
measuring trees, I listened to stories. Trying to understand the history
of protection, I started exploring the active leadership that local
women took, and was lead to look at the activities of CHIRAG. To
this end, I started to make my way to meet and find out about the lives
of the unique set of young professionals who in the late 1980s came
together to form CHIRAG. Sushil and Oona, with Oona’s history of
working with forest protection groups, were people I had to meet, and
since they were then working with Aarohi in Satoli village, I had the
happy opportunity to do so.
One circle had come to closure, another had opened up. In my
final year of school, I read an article in our alumni magazine by a
certain Darab Nagarwalla. Seven years my senior, Darab was relating
his work with CHIRAG, and the story of riding a motorcycle to
village forestry meetings was one of my first exposures to the idea
of community natural resource management. Six years later I was
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 310

tracking down the first generation of CHIRAG leaders and making

my own first steps into community development.
I would like to say that my memories of Oona are crystal clear.
They aren’t. Memories are mouldable, but some pieces, even if they are
scattered ones, do manage to retain their shapes. I came to Oona and
Sushil’s house twice. Once for a short time, next for a whole day. The
passing was too brief to remember. The day, brief as it was, holds what
I think are the seeds of a friendship, the meeting of fellow travellers.
The way there. Walking down from Sitla, one early morning, the
sun washing the chir pines, and the white sand of the road still damp.
Since I had passed the Aarohi office on the Almora bus a number of
times, and had fellow-passengers point it out to me, I made my way to
the project jeep and then asked someone where I could find Oona and
Sushil. I was directed a short distance up the hill to a cottage, and met
them there. I recall an earthiness to the house, with flowers around
it, and a pleasing if pleasantly disorderly interior, showing signs of
use rather than repose. The woodwork remains a point of memory,
and the beauty of stone. I met their daughter briefly, and had tea and
introductions. After a short while, we had gathered ourselves enough
to head down to the office again for the day’s activities.
The day passed in pleasant conversation, seated on the office
durries, first inside and then out. I was curious to know about how
Oona had helped set up the forestry work in the area. It was good to
hear another set of stories about how CHIRAG had started, and of the
pioneering work Oona had done in setting up the nurseries and the
evolution of village forest protection. She went on to describe Aarohi’s
natural resource management work. We discussed the possibilities
of protecting medicinal herbs by collecting and growing herbs to
promote village industries and biodiversity conservation. As I was
just about to start a course of study in public health, 1 picked Sushil’s
brain about community health work. We reflected on CHIRAG’s
experiences and basically bemoaned the fact that people were intent
on ‘doctor worship’. 1 was getting interested in AIDS work, and I think
we talked about the ‘injections’ that so many local people felt were the
gold standard cure, and which local practitioners were not shy about
giving at the drop of a hat (or a SO rupee note). Sushil and Oona
shared their dream of developing a hospital there in Satoli.
Remembering Oona is both easy and difficult for me. Easy,
because I constantly heard her name over those months. Oona did
311 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

this. Oona started that. Her name was there in the project records,
often. Her Sussex thesis, which I photocopied in Delhi, contained
some of her ideas and experiences with CHIRAG, Oona is hard for
me to remember; hard because my face to face contact was brief. Not
having looked at what diaries I might have at home in Mussoorie, I
find myself thinking at the level of impressions. My memories seem
grainy, and a bit faded. An impression of presence. Oona struck me
as a person of assurance. She was very much there when I talked to
her. Her eyes followed me intensely, only occasionally flicking off into
another world. A mind awake, but not given to too many abstractions,
the thoughts expressed being those of a manager and organizer. I
recall the impression of how businesslike she was in describing her
(then) current work of organizing forest user groups. I was struck
with Oona and Sushil’s complementary natures. Oona seemed solid,
Sushil to me evoked a certain wistfulness, a softness.
At the same time I recall a warmth and welcome. I was absorbed
into the day’s activities. My questions and conversation were shared
between the two, with me being passed like a baton between them,
as they organized Aarohi’s young men and women for the tasks at
hand. Sadly, I think I recall passing up an invitation to spend the
night, choosing instead to catch the evening bus up to Sitla, and then
making the journey on to my village.
A final memory of Oona is of me in my room in Manipur,
holding the letter from her US-based cousin Mytri Pritam Singh,
whose rounded handwriting was announcing Oona’s tragic death
and the death of her daughter. It was as if Mytri was with me, her
anguish clear and piercing, as I read what had to be a piece of fiction....
The mushrooms, the terrible reaction, the trip to Delhi, and her life
slipped away, all horribly real. Out there in Manipur, holding the letter
with the US stamps on it, remembering the remarkable woman who I
had the privilege of crossing paths with in the Kumaon.
A circle closed, another opening up. Rest in peace.

Oona’s Kumaoni colleagues told me in Satoli that she

would have twenty ideas in her head, and was able to juggle
them into execution with the greatest of ease. They also told me
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 312

that in the first half of 1996 her pace had quickened. She was
driving everybody hard, including herself. Projects that had
been in the pipeline were beginning to mature. Many which
had been conceptualised, for which the intial steps were taken,
are beginning to fructify now. The Aarohi momentum had a
hiccup in August 1996, but it cannot be stopped. In the brief
space of five years she had succeeded in building an institution.
We must follow the path she has shown, Pratap Bhaiya had said
at the condolence meeting. The path is clearly chalked out, and
as far as I can see, more and more people are walking it.
Sushil was down recently and he remarked that he needed
five hundred copies of the pensive Oona picture. It is to be used
on the back of the passbooks of the womens’ credit group which
has come into existence. “They are now coming together,” Oona
had remarked after four years of effort. “They are ready to take
off.” How impatient she was at the last shibir which I attended
in 1996. Well, they have found their voices now.
That Oona’s influence remains strong came to me from a
totally unexpected direction. From one of the people who has
been employed in Aarohi to fill the gap, so to speak—Manoj.
Both Sushil and he stayed in Hauz Klias overnight recently.
Sushil left early in the morning to take the Gypsy to be serviced
and I offered to bring Manoj down later. It happened that I had
to drop off Raveena at her play school and remarked that Ilya
had gone to a different school, one closer to the house; she had
stopped enjoying it and I had found this more cheerful one for
Raveena. From the mention of Ilya conversation went to the
Aarohi Bal Sansaar which Ilya had adored. That seemed to open
the door on what is avoided as sensitive territory.
Manoj started talking about himself and his experiences
in Satoli. He did not know Oona or Ilya since he joined in
March 1997, but he talked of them in the present tense. His
own background was the corporate sector. He had chosen to
live in the hills after his colostomy and had drifted into Satoli
on a help-out-as-much-as-I-can basis when Sushil was left to
handle everything himself. I had assumed that he would be
313 I WILL LIVE MY THOUGHTS

looking after office administration but he had been entrusted

with Forestry. He admitted that it was a new field and that he
had a lot to learn. Quite often, he said, he would be totally at
sea and wonder how he could find out. He would reach for a
file, and more often than not, find in it, in Oona’s handwriting,
precisely the information he was looking for. He said that both
Oona and Ilya were palpable presences there. He added that he
was not much given to thinking about the metaphysical, nor
had he experienced such strong ‘guidance’ before.
I was extremely interested in Manoj’s comments because
I have wondered occasionally whether the presence that I feel
to be with me is not a figment of my imagination, a creation
of my need. To have a similar reaction from one who had not
known them at all, one who had come to Satoli six months after
the event, seemed to validate my experience and give a sense of
objectivity to my own feelings.
To Oona’s question, “Is there a God?” I think I can answer in
the affirmative. But definition and name still remain stumbling
blocks. Let me quote an extract from Mundakopanishad which
Swami Bhoomananda gave us as prasad: “The wise realise as
the source of all creation that which is invisible, ungraspable,
causeless, featureless, without eyes and ears, without hands
and feet, but existing eternally, all-pervasive, interpenetrating,
extremely subtle and inexhaustible.” But we, tottering under
ignorance, like fools ramble about suffering endlessly, he says,
like the blind led by the blind.
Time and again Swami Bhoomananda stresses, “Do not
identify yourself with the body. You are NOT the body...” The I,
Pure Consciousness, IS, and is indeed imperishable.
 V
One Year
Birth and Death are for the body
while for the I as Awareness,
which contains and transcends
time and space,
there is no coming or going,
no meeting or parting.
Ramana Maharashi
 16
“Happy Birthday, Oona”

ish me,” you said last year, on 7 August, when I

answered the phone. It took me a second or so to
register who and where. I think you caught me even
before my first cup of tea in the morning.
“Happy Birthday!” And you laughed. You were calling
from Kalyan’s house.
“I’m taking everyone out for lunch,” you said. “Then we’ll
head back for Satoli.” You announced that you’d be in Delhi on
11 August for a week, till the 17th. I offered that we would come
and pick you up. You declined. “Never know about the train.
I’ll get home myself.” You emphasised that you would be alone.
Then Papa spoke to you.
Sushil came on the line too. I told him about this strange
feeling I had over the last few days of missing Ilya intensely.
Strange because there have been so many comings and goings
in the course of life, including your boarding school days, both
of you, that ‘missing and moping’ was alien to my character.
One just got on with whatever the present demanded.
He put Ilya on the line—she loved to listen/talk on the
phone. We did our “How are you? I’m fine. Been a good girl?
OK, then, bye. Let me talk to Mama” routine and then I could
hear her crying, bawling, in the background. That wasn’t like
Ilya either. Sushil remarked that Ilya too seemed to be having
Nani pangs. She was bawling, “Dilli jaana”—I want to go to
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 318

Delhi.
You used to tell me, Oona, that whenever you all came
to Delhi, Ilya would know when the end of the journey was
approaching. And for the last hour or so she would be chanting
“Naaani, Naani” at the top of her voice. And yet her first written
effort on one of the potato-print cards she made had been a
birthday card for Nana. “That will put your nose out of joint,”
you said to me as you handed it over to him!
Well. Happy Birthday. I mean that. You have no idea
how often I have expressed to people, specially in response to
condolence letters, how very grateful we are for the fact of you,
for whatever length of time it was granted to us to have you.
This is, of course, an extension of Papa’s philosophy. The glass
with water in it can be seen as either half-full or half-empty. He
is the optimistic half-full school. He will always look for the
good and just not see the quirks, the negatives. Or at least, he
will always only express the good. With me, the negatives come
leaping out and then they are leashed, and defanged. I know
they are there, or can be there, and my mind does the quick
before-and-after scan. The part of me that responds is different.
It is like an observer. Beyond the me me. Sometimes I wonder
if that is the Sakshi, the detached one that Swami Nikhilananda
talks of. The Witness.

The garden has given us both a present. The zephyranthes

has put out another bloom. Again, it took Ethel to point it out to
me. More than the Japanese flowering plum or the violets, these
are the flowers that speak to me of you.
Esh walked in mid-morning announcing, “It’s Oona’s
birthday today.” I took him out to see the flower. It is in the
small clump near the upright, jagged and slightly rectangular
stone next to the cycad palm.
The flower was fully open. White. Six perfect oval petals
and as many golden yellow stamens with hammerhead tips. It
319 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

looks tiny and delicate but the petals are a good inch in length.
There was pollination going on. A beetle type creature, banded
in red and black, was busy probing it. The flower held its own—
it stayed upright taking the weight of this creature as large as
itself.
Idiot girl. You really should have been mindful.
When you got married Jasleen gave you a lovely celadon
bowl. In her usual style she gave you a history of the use of
celadon, of how kings in olden times were served in such a dish.
Apparently it has the property of reaction to poison. If only you
had served the mushrooms in that.
Jasleen took over the evening we had friends over for
dinner, three days before your wedding. This is supposed to
be the Ladies sangeet, the sing-song laced with ribaldry and
also ancient wisdom. We hadn’t planned it but she rectified the
omission. She has a deep, rich voice and knows the traditional
Punjabi songs. Brinda too joined in, and Nimmi. Kausi knew
none but she hummed and kept the beat.
They were all there to sing shabads for you after the raagis
had finished when we brought you home on 28 August. That
morning the only flower in the garden was the zephyranthes.
Two blooms. I plucked them and put next to your head in the
little square ceramic holder. I can still see the wisps of smoke
uncurling from the incense sticks Sushil had lit and smell hot °il
burning in the temple lamps Kausi had brought.
Then, and you could have knocked me down with a
feather, Naniji asked me what we were going to do.
“It is Oona’s birthday,” she said. She who has not managed
to remember mine for years, or yours I suspect. I was so hurt
last year that she did not even wish me. She told me later that
she had remembered the previous night, and then forgotten in
the morning.
What are we going to do? Nothing needs to be done.
How right Swami Bhoomananda was when he said to me last
November, “Remember her, and you will find she is more with
you now than before.” But we invited ourselves to Rupi’s—
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 320

Nimmi is away in New Zealand and he is by himself. We will

have a fancy meal, with wine. Your place will be represented at
table with the round red candles, one big, one small, that were
given to me at Divali last year. Candle globes which could easily
pass for Gouda cheese.

It is the 13th today, Oona. The news about Sanjoy Ghose

does not appear to be good at all. ULFA has now hinted that he
died in an escape bid when he fell from a cliff, miles away from
Majuli. It sounds like a red herring.
The unrest in Assam continues. Flash floods in Himachal
Pradesh, in the same region that we travelled along the
Hindustan-Tibet road up the gorge of the Satluj. Non-stop,
heavy rain. Landslides. And to cap it all a cloudburst. About
140 is the figure. Dead.
The Jammu-Srinagar road has also been closed. I wonder
how Malika and her group are faring, they were expected to
reach Leh today. I don’t know if Jean managed to join them.
I feel sick at the pit of my stomach.
It must be the fact that it is August. Do you know that
between the 22 nd and 28 th last year, the pilgrims to Amarnath
were caught in an avalanche and more than 120 died? The
pilgrimage to Amarnath always culminates on the raksha
bandhan full moon. That is when the ice lingam, the symbol of
Shiva, waxes full. The year I went we were caught in a rainstorm
on our way back but we found shelter in a hut overnight.
Eighteen of us squeezed in. I had left the two of you in Srinagar
with Kausi. Kooka, younger than Aloke, enjoyed that.
This year the full moon falls on the 18th. Sushil has asked
that we both go up to Satoli and spend the 28th with him. We
will leave on the 22nd. When else?
The idea of a formal remembrance in Delhi on the full
moon for you jelled at Jasleen’s the other day — on 22 July, two
days after Guru pumima. The fact of it being the 22 nd was with
321 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

me and we talked about you, before the other guests came, and
I told her about Sushil’s plans and speculated what we might do
in Delhi. Three young people I did not know, your age, came
almost an hour later. It turned out in the course of the evening
that one was a Bharat Natyam dancer. A Sikh, with an open
beard and hair tied back falling half way down his shoulders, the
way Madhu wore his. Jasleen, the perfect hostess, filled me in.
Navtej Singh Johar. Rukmini Arundale School in Madras, etc.
etc. So, naturally, I mentioned Anusha who also trained at the
same school. I remember how enchanted you had been when
she and Vipul visited you. You had mentioned a workshop in
the primary school on dance and a recital by Anusha. And you
had told us how sporting she had been about dancing alongside
the village boys at the Ram Lila in Kaphura and Quarab. How
ironic that your ashes were immersed in both these places.
At Kaphura where you wanted to plant the Bauhinias. And
Quarab where we stopped. Anusha visited you in 1993. “She
has been tutored by Leela Samson,” and you mentioned that
she did dance and music therapy. “We have been having the
benefit of seeing some classy dancing in our living room,” you
bad rejoiced. All that went through my mind and I looked at
Jasleen, the question held in my eyes. She understood.
“Navtej, will you dance for Oona?” I found myself asking
him.
He looked puzzled and I explained that we had been
thinking of meeting on the 18th, the full moon, and why. I told
him how much you loved dance and music. It turned out that
Navtej knew Anusha, they had trained together. He responded
without hesitation.
“Yes. Of course I will dance for Oona.”
They came on Sunday to get a feel of you, and the place. I
introduced them to the garden and all the plants which speak of
you. I showed them the photo album in which the first picture
is you, a month old, held by Naniji, with Dadiji waiting for her
turn. In the next, I am handing you over to Peter Mama.
Do you know what Peter Mama used to call you? Puddy-
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 322

tat, after the funny cat character from one of those comics we
read then. Elmer, or Bugs Bunny, I’ve forgotten which. He used
to throw you up in the air, pretend to miss catching you, and
then swoop you down to safety. Good practice for Mimi when
she came along. Mytri is very conscious of the fact that you
and he had this horsing around relationship that she missed
completely. He was flying Hunters from a base in Punjab during
the 1965 war and came through that unscathed. As did Papa
from the Amritsar front.
When Papa was posted away, Gigi Mama stepped into
the father-substitute role with the scooter rides and the fooling
around. He had his own version of play, I think he called it
levitation. He would stand you in front of him. Put the palms
of his hands against your ears, press and lift you off the ground
about six inches. I hated it. So did Rashmi when he tried it on
his own children. You only got to know one of them, Anjali),
when she came up with us to Ranikhet in the summer before we
first went to see Kalyan at Sitla. Were you in Delhi the winter we
had that beautiful thanksgiving Kirtan? All five of them were
here that time, including Shalini and the youngest, Arjun. It
was 12 November 1985. That year the garden was full of yellow
chrysanthemums and we had the raagis in the centre of the
garden, next to the hedge. It was a happy kirtan, for both this
Arjun, two years old then, and Aloke who was at University.
They have the same birthdate, the only grandsons Naniji has
That was the year we had four death-related kirtans on
Papa’s side of the family. I told Naniji that a happy kirtan was
definitely in order to offset the misery of illness and the deaths.
Niki Mama was not much of a play-with-children person. He
never did marry. I have told him about the 18th.
I can’t quite believe that a whole year has almost passed
already.

PRS continues to send me a weekly synopsis, two pages, of

323 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

the correspondence he kept. From you, about you, everything. I

have just received 49-50. I wrote in time for his birthday, on 13
August. Coincidentally, this extract quotes my letter to him in
1992! “How auspicious to have your birthday on the full moon
coinciding with Raksha bandhan. Many Happy Returns of the
day with all good wishes and blessings of the powers that be.
The letter is late because Oona just came mentioning the fact.
It was good to have her here last month. The baby is growing
well and the doctor told her she has to be very conscious of the
need for a good protein-rich diet just now. I think she got the
message. It is not the same thing when I say so!”
The rest of the letter was dreadfully depressing. “Last
Sunday, on the 9th, my sister-in-law passed away. She had been
ailing for some time and we are all amazed that she clung so
tenaciously to life for so long. I really have not been of much
comfort or help to my mother-in-law because of my own
commitments here in Hauz Khas. Fortunately she is a very
understanding person and will not hold it against me....” That
was Taiji, Gita and Ajit’s mother. What did the Buddha say
about the sufferings of life? Birth, suffering, decay, old age and
death. It seems a million years ago though it is only five. How
much she had wanted to see Ajit married before she died. That
wish was fulfilled.
And Papa. His temperature went up to 10S degrees
Fahrenheit! That is when I discovered improvised hydrotherapy
as an emergency measure: Strip, cover with wet sheet, turn
the fan on full blast. Guess who I called? Prabha, the same
one who delivered Ilya! Don’t take chances, she had said, and
we took him to the hospital. Very likely it was dengue fever.
The warnings are out again. Do you know that four hundred
people died of dengue last August? One of the signs is internal
haemorrhaging and the liver gets hit. My practice in bringing
fever down came in handy when Aloke’s shot up to 104, and
I learned a new technique from Dhiraj—sponge the torso,
back and front, besides the groin and underarm area. This is
in addition to the ice pack on the head, sponging the limbs and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 324

the paracetemol.

I have been reading your letters to Vidya again Oona. So many

details come back to me. Of the things we did together, and
the things I didn’t do. Visit you in school, for example, when
your leg was in plaster. Six weeks, you were laid up. And I know
you felt I ought to have. I cannot think why I didn’t. I guess a
twisted knee didn’t warrant it but obviously it was misery for
you. In 1990, after Vidya and Shubha had their knees fixed, you
wrote: “It was very interesting to read your detailed account
of the arthoscopy— Yes, Vidya, I still have that problem, and
sometimes, when walking in the hills, my knee twists, and then
clicks back again, as if the whole joint is loosely constructed.
Over the last year, I have had no major mishap, but the
instability is definitely there, and sooner or later I should have it
done.” The middle chunk of your correspondence is when you
were so uncertain which way life would take you. “You can see
how my letter writing has deteriorated. Please do not conclude
that these long gaps imply anything else. I find, in Sitla, I don’t
get that peace of mind to reestablish links with old friends. So
here, in the sanctuary of home, I can write.”
I can’t tell you what ‘the sanctuary of home’ does to me
and I thought your ‘home’ was away.
“News from my end is that I’m still at Chirag, working
with the village people there on Forestry related issues. I enjoy
the work a lot, but am looking for a change in the next few
months. Am thinking of buying some land there, and stashing
it away for living on at some later stage. I am very close to one
of our colleagues, Sushil, but we haven’t got together formally
yet. He is inclined to more spiritual aspirations, so I don’t think
either of us know how the future years will evolve.”
“You should get to know him,” you had told me then. I
was on my high horse but Shanta made the effort. She felt that
Sushil had great spiritual depth. Her phrase. Why couldn’t I see
325 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

it?
“Haven’t been reading much, though I would like to. These
last few years, every time we get some holidays, we try and see
a bit of the hills. By now one has explored a good bit of the
area. And of course one knows the people in the project area
very well. It is such a pleasure to live amongst friendly people.”
In your birthday greetings acknowledgement letter to Vidya of
1990 you mentioned that the farm had been bought and that
Sushil had moved there.
“There was a possibility that I may go to study in England,
but the funding for that has not worked out yet. It seems too late.
I guess I’ll have to wait a year now. Work is going full tilt and
keeps me quite busy. Monsoons are times of planting and that’s
always a peak period, as planting is the climax of the nurseries
programme too. Quite a lot of villages here think well of the
work that Chirag has initiated and it is heartening. Perhaps
one day you’ll see it....” Oona, even though Vinayak does not
remember you, let me record for him your ending: “Lots of love
to Vinayak-Pixie, is he still called Pixie? And to your parents
and you both.”
Why ‘was’? The funding did work out. You wrote to both
of them jointly from Falmer on 7 November 1990.

How are you? Thanks for your letter Vidya, Mummy mailed it to
me here. I think she mentioned that you had rung up too. Yes, my stay
in Delhi was a mad rush the moment I got to know that I was going.
So here I am in England. Have settled down quite nicely on
campus at the University of Sussex. It’s a great atmosphere here —
many overseas students and a lot of authoritative work going on in
Development apart from many other things. Their centre on cognitive
science is also reputed to be good, quite a new subject for me. One
of our flatmates is studying that and I find it is quite interesting. I
suppose you are in touch with that part of science.
I’m swimming regularly and have also joined the Sub Aqua Club
here. Both are tremendous fun. Sportsmen are practically always the
best company I feel. The University doesn’t have a pool, but we drive
down and use one at Brighton or Ringmer, the two towns about 8
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 326

miles out of Falmer the village on whose edge the University estate
lies.
My knee, Vidya, gives me trouble off and on. When I got here
it was agonising. Must have been the change of climate. But now, I
am getting accustomed to the place and am also much fitter, it’s not
giving me any trouble at all. I did have it examined in Delhi by a well
know Orthopaedic surgeon at the new Batra Hospital there and Dr
Nagar (the person) said that there was some cartilage damage of the
meniscus medial (?) I’ve forgotten. When I mentioned this to Sushil
(my boyfriend who also has a lot of orthopaedic experience, he is a
Doc) he advised me to have it out. The National Health Service here
in Britain is in tatters with the recession. So, maybe, when I get back
in a year, I’ll see to it. I keep putting it off, or get advised to put it off so
it’s bound to pop up again and again.
All for now and lots of love, keep writing, let me know if you
want anything from here.
P.S. I’m doing an MA in Rural Development. It’s good and the
school here is well known for it.

You remember, Oona, when I started writing I asked you

to help? I don’t know how it works, but I know that I am getting
help. How else would I find the letter you wrote in mid-June
1991, considering that my filing system consists of putting
papers in a pile and perhaps moving the pile from one place
to another. You were almost done with the course then and the
letter says all there is to say. With your permission, I reproduce
it.

Dear Mummy, Papa, Aloke and Naniji,

How are you all? Tried to phone a couple of times today Papa,
but was unlucky in not finding you in. The help in the house seemed
fairly alert. Is he the same one who has been having a go at your booze
stocks, Mummy? I somehow thought that you, Aloke, would be in
Delhi as your last letter had the Hauz Khas address on the back. But
Whats-his- name says you are in Bombay.
Have been on the move for the last three days. I feel so comfortable
on the move. Somehow its more non-academic and the experiences
327 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

always feel more concrete. I was at the Forestry Commission Research

Station—a government scientific establishment with about 200
scientific staff, and set in this beautiful old estate near Aldershot,
the home of the British Army. Had a really good two days. Met lots
of people and saw a lot of their work on nurseries and silviculture
research for using wood as an energy source, their seed laboratories,
and some demonstration plots. Nice to be able to see research with a
specific background where it could be applied. I leamt quite a bit and
I think they enjoyed talking to me. They have asked me to come back
and give a seminar in Autumn, and I’m pleased with that. It is a pretty
high security place, but very congenial, none of the hierarchy that is
so apparent in the Indian government establishments. Wish we’d grow
out of it, they have.
One of the scientists was very interesting. He used to stuff birds,
shoot deer and pheasant and photograph as a hobby. He took me for
a long walk through their conservancy forest nearby. It’s been a long
time since I wandered around big trees and a wilderness of sorts. Very
refreshing. Got back to Diljit’s last night and my distant cousin Rohit
Brijnath was there as well. We were all in school together and he is
a good buddy of Aditya Menon’s so it was nice chatting to him. Is
Aditya around? If so please send me his address or tell to write if you
see him/ Anjolie. Who does he marry?
Things are falling into place here. The School of Agriculture
and Forest Sciences at Bangor, Wales, the people I had visited earlier
in May, said that they’d be happy to have me there for the practical
training. It is a good centre for forestry and agro forestry studies—
has a better reputation than Oxford in this. (I met someone at the
Forestry Commission who was at Bangor and had done a thesis on the
possibility of using temple elephants for forest operations in Kerala!)
We have worked out all the details and I’ve spoken to the
British Council. They have to approve the final estimate now. That
means that I go there 9 September—21 October as June-July will go
in Dissertation writing. After 21 October I could spend a few days in
Germany and then get back to India by early November.
Diljit is so wonderful, she puts me right every’ time. She’s been
that threshold of friendship that one needs to make the very best of
activities and opportunities that a new place can offer. All you chaps
in India have been quite dismal on that front. Sushil hasn’t written for
six weeks. Mummy, I haven’t heard from you in five weeks, so I don’t
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 328

know whether letters get lost or not written. I suspect it is the latter.
You can’t imagine what a difference it makes to my mindset. Anyway,
I trust all is well. I shall just proceed to look after myself; something
that I know how to do quite well by now.
I stayed at this charming couple’s home at Famham when I was
visiting the Forestry Commission. Colonel Jones is an army man. And
they were a really fine, upright, and warm couple. Barbara, the lady,
took to me and we talked for hours. She has got three grown sons.
May be that’s why! She keeps an exquisite house, a 300-year-old place,
and a fine lawn. She said to congratulate you both for having such a
nice daughter!! Haven’t heard that from the British before!
The weather has been cold and wet and windy; no summer
worth its name. I’m on my way to Oxford for the day again, there is a
workshop on Ecology, Imperialism and Politics. Should be good. I’ll
get back to Sussex tonight.
May go diving to Scotland for a week in July. Have you heard
of Scapa Flow, the famous place where a German fleet scuttled itself
off the Scottish coast rather than hand themselves in? It is meant to
be superb diving. The boats are in perfect condition. That will be just
too exciting, let’s see how it works out. Apart from that and an annual
get together of agro forestry scientists in Wales, I don’t think I’ll go
anywhere. Haven’t quite decided. May go to Holland in June for a
couple of days. I’ve spoken to Anoop a couple of times. He says Bulbul
is in Germany. Bulbul hasn’t written. What does she tell you all? I feel
bad about them.
I’m really looking forward to coming back. Work wise I have so
many ideas but I can’t make up my mind whether I should start airing
them now or when I get back. They may not be well rooted enough
at this point.
How is the political scene? I wish things would just settle down.
Everyone must be so tired of all this disruption.
I had twisted my knee real bad, but it’s almost fine now, the
exercises help so much. It is useful to do them while writing letters
and travelling by train. Travel is expensive but so trouble-free and the
distances manageable.
I’ll stop for now. Please send me some Rakhis, Papa, and the
addresses of Kabir, Pooh and Arjun.
All for now and lots of love,
Oona
329 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

P.S. Did I mention I got a B and a C in my Term Papers? The

B was for ‘Gandhi and the New Indian State: The Path Not Taken’. I
was pleased with that. I seem to get Cs in the essays where I try and
think things out for myself. It’s not a bad grade but not very flattering
either. This term my paper will be technical. I’m sure they won’t like
it too much but I need to write it. My papers are knitting together
rather well I feel; all skirting the peripheral issues to my dissertation
which is going to be on Social Organisation and Natural Resource
Management: Strategic Options for Chirag. So I feel well informed
about things that are going to be the building blocks for this.
Can you redirect my letter to Jasleen, please? Thanks.

Thank you, Oona. I didn’t write because I couldn’t. I wasn’t

anywhere near a post box, leave alone a post office. It was the
summer Jean and I had gone to Nepal to do the Annapurna
circuit. We were on our way to the Thorong la pass when Rajiv
Gandhi was assassinated, on 21 May, and didn’t get to hear of
it till about ten days after. Then early June, on our way back
from Pokhara, our bus turned turtle. We got away with very
little damage and I did write a long letter from Gorakhpur. We’d
done the trek faster than the twenty-one days the book says it
takes and we had to wait two days, nursing our bruises, because
it was impossible to change reservations on the train. And
Sushil? I don’t know. Except he complained that you would send
chocolates and fancy clothes—pin corduroy shirts—besides
brogues for him when he was struggling to make a basic living.

Surjit Pooji was telling me about her visit to you in Sussex

in January 1991. “She was working very hard and we fiddled
together on some computer besides taking long walks and
spending a delightful evening with Aditya Mattoo in Brighton
to whom she introduced me as ‘not Aunt Agatha, not Aunt Julia,
but the aunt off in Africa though not shooting big game’.” She
wanted to take you to Gerald Durrell’s zoo but the trip was too
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 330

expensive and time consuming so you both went to Canterbury

instead. “In the Cathedral she was struck most forcibly by the
intimate connection between the Church and Britain’s wars and
imperial adventures—something that I had taken for granted
as a historical ‘given’. We also went to a sort of folk rendering of
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.”
She also had a side comment on your initial reaction to
Sussex: “Oona was quite critical of the Development syllabus
and the way of teaching the subject, recognising that the
audience of the faculty was not the grassroots of the developing
world but their own academic peers and donor agencies. She
and Arjun, then in Kenya, had similar ideas about what needed
to be done if rural development were to take place on the
ground.” Then, apparently, after a huge dinner as she recalls,
you both took the train to spend the night with Diljit and she
left the next morning.
Surjit Pooji too saved some of your letters and has passed
them on. In April 1992, you wrote to her from your own home.
“We enjoy working on the land a lot and have in the last couple
of months shifted our attention from the seeds, germination,
etc. to work a bit in our litde wood and are also working on
some nice terraces that have been abandoned for decades
I’m sitting here, on the balcony of Sushil’s hospital, with
the sound of running water and birds in the distance. My small
‘office’ is the building next door. I’m pleased with it. It’s more
than enough for our needs at the moment. Tomorrow, after the
Grih Pravesh puja, I’ll move in.”
Then in early September: “I feel physically better, with a
more voracious appetite but a faint sense of worry at the size
of my tummy. It has never been this big! Anyway, the sensation
is rather nice and we are getting more and more pleased at the
thought of our own ‘pup’.”
And about work: “Aarohi is registered, without much
difficulty. Now comes the task of writing down, in proposal
form, our aims and plans. We have started having some village
meetings in villages where we haven’t worked before. It’s very
331 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OONA

very interesting and so dynamic. It’s a great challenge, to help

communities constructively at the grassroots level. In my
understanding, to structure people’s needs into options that
are appropriate requires a very high calibre of input—I find
it difficult to understand why this has been left to the most
ineffective and unqualified, lowest paid, least respected group
of workers.”

“I don’t think I’ll go anywhere,” you had written in your mid-

June letter. “Haven’t quite decided.” But something made you
decide to come to India. Was this the time you called Mohit to
know what was happening with Sushil? You came mid-July and
towards the end of the month you went up to Satoli. Your next
letter to Vidya is written on your birthday in 1991:

...it has been excellent being back, and for all the fun of being abroad,
home is still home.
Spent a lot of time with Sushil. We are finally making more concrete
plans about our future together. Everything is falling into place. We
have a wonderful little farm and house up in the hills and plan to set
up home there. I get back in mid-November, and hopefully we marry
then. You’ll get to know!!
My knee is giving me serious trouble again...
I’ll be at Sussex till 2 September. After that write c/o Mrs Diljit
Brijnadi...London till 3 1 October, and then to Hauz Khas.

The wedding card. You used the same gold pen to write
with as the one with which the cards were addressed. It matches
the gold motif you selected and the gold printing.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 332

It carries the same date as the one to Khalid, 9 December

1991. “I got back from England in early November and, within
a day, had an operation on my knee: ligament reconstruction
and menisectomy. It is healing slowly though I am still limping.
Finally Sushil and I are to be married. We are very excited at the
prospect, and shall live and work in the hills. Again, you signed
for Sushil.
Another card. A brief announcement, a week after the
event: “We have some good news to share with you. Sushil and
I had a beautiful baby daughter on the 20th of December, a few
hours before our first wedding anniversary! Her name is ILYA.”

Oona, we have so much to be grateful for. Supposing you

had died when you had cerebral malaria? There would have
been no IRMA, no Amari Mandali, no Chirag, no Sushil and
Satoli, and no Ilya.
 17
A Pilgrimage

e celebrated you, Oona. It wasn’t a ceremony, it

was just a coming together of people who knew
you, who loved you. Of people who care about
us. We had made no announcement, sent no cards. Just a few
phone calls and word got around. It was a solemn occasion. Not
glum solemn but a focused-attention-solemn like the time you
got married. It was 18 August 1997, the day of the full moon.
One year.
Shanta arrived. She had not known we were planning
anything, she came from her farm in Sohna because it was
Raksha bandhan and two of her brothers live in Delhi. “We
will do a puja for Oona,” I told her spontaneously when she
came that morning and we bought all that was necessary. At
about five she lit the sacred fire and did the vedic puja as she
had done for you all those years ago in Lodi Estate. She chanted
the Gayatn mantra.
I’ve done a phonetic transcription for you, the hyphens
indicate both a break in the syllables, an emphasis plus
modulation I guess you could call it.

Om Bhur Bhuva Sva-h

Tat Savit-ur Var-e-e-nyam
Bhargo devasya dhi-i mahi
Dhiyo yo na-h pracho-daya-a-t
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 334

Salutations to the three worlds—the realms of the gods,

of man, and the spirits. I bow to the eternal truth. Bless me
with the intellect-mind to understand. Illumine my mind and
understanding. It is a prayer for wisdom.
That is a very rough and ready translation, in Sanskrit it
sounds marvellous. Nivedita, one of your oldest friends, could
not take it. She broke down. Her mother is so worried about
her. You see, Nivedita has convinced herself that because she
followed the path you took some drastic fate awaits her too. “I
have all her letters,” she had told me earlier, “everything from
the time we were in school....” It was difficult to comfort her,
and have her stay for the rest of the evening. I explained the
position of the Seers on the subject of death after the puja was
completed, and gave her the Bhagavad Gita bits to read. It
helped that her cousin, Nandita, was there too to comfort her—
Nandita Narain who taught you in College.
Idealists, she had called you all. She thought so well of you.
I had asked a few close friends to come early—Girija and Esh,
Rags and my Buddhist group. This was our private ceremony
for you. And I’ll have you know it wasn’t planned. It happened.
Navtej was planned. He would dance when the moon
came up. We had told friends to come around seven o’clock.
About seventy came. Some with flowers, others with food since
we had decided to eat together afterwards. Ethel cooked too
and it turned out to quite a feast.
Jasleen’s sister, Ramindra, sang shabads of gratitude, of
prostration to the Lord. Of acceptance of what is. Naniji sat
close to her and followed every word. Then Navtej emerged.
Bare bodied, wearing only a white dhoti. His black hair combed
back smoothly and tied at the nape of his neck. No adornments.
An exquisite body, perfect control. He began with the traditional
invocation to the Lord, in slow motion. He spoke with his
eyes, and he sang with his hands. A song of praise, seeking the
protection and blessing of the Lord.
The tempo changed and he danced for half an hour.
335 A PILGRIMAGE

Mesmerising us. People told me afterwards that they were very

aware of your presence.
Of your rakhi brothers only Ajit and Vikram were with
us. Arjun in Australia sent an e-mail. He was with us in spirit,
he wrote, as he watched the full moon and took himself for a
gruelling run in the bush. Aloke took himself swimming, and
then watched the moon rise. He was doing what you liked best
to do. Swim. He wrote:
It is now about a year since that nightmare last August, but
I think we have appreciated the entity of Oona and Ilya’s life, of
what is and what was, rather than what the future might have
held. There is little doubt in my mind that they left us at, or very
close to, the peak of their happiness. It is difficult to imagine
Ilya going to a school in Delhi or elsewhere and the same with
Oona, so idyllic was their place in Satoli. Let us not feel sorry
for ourselves but be extremely happy and celebrate that we were
privileged to have Oona — as a child, sister, granddaughter and,
more importandy, a human being par excellence. A fine example
of one. Going forward if we can utilise our lives towards action,
living it and enjoying it the way she did, we also have much to
be thankful for. Let us hope to move on with the same dignity
that she was able to do.
He is quite a different Aloke to the younger brother you
thought of as an ‘uncomplicated bloke’ ten years ago, as you
wrote of him to Vidya.
He called too and told me a spooky story. When he got
home after his swim, he found a cat in the driveway. As he
parked the car and emerged, the cat came up to him and arched
its back against his ankles. He put out a saucer of milk and it
drank eagerly. Then he got busy fixing dinner. At the end of the
meal he went out again—the cat was still there and he offered
it the remains of his pork chop. Later in the evening, when he
tried to access us on the e-mail, ‘Oona’s Page’ came up on the
machine.
He downloaded it. “This page is what I found when I
reached the net on August 18, two days ago.” The picture shows
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 336

a black and white cat, large black patches over the eyes, puffed
up like a little bear. Exactly like Attila, except he is a dog, and
here in Hauz Khas. It was information about a lost cat posted
by someone called Fred, the access code has oona.html at the
end of it.
Aloke says he has never seen a stray cat in the
neighbourhood in the six months or so that they have lived
there. He sounded very pensive. I told him a counter story. Esh
had told me this when I mentioned my meeting with Tsagaadai
and his offhand reference to astral travel, as though it were no
more remarkable than catching a train. At the time the Sai Baba
of Shirdi was in the body, alive, a lady devotee was very keen
to do him honour and requested that he eat at her home. He
accepted. She cooked a special meal, and waited. He did not
come. During the course of the evening a stray dog wandered
in. She was horrified. Fearing that the food might be polluted by
the very presence of the dog, in which case she could not serve
it to Sai Baba, she chased the dog out, berating it soundly. Then
she waited. And waited, in vain. The next day, she expressed her
disappointment to die Sai Baba. He answered, “I came but you
gave me nothing to eat.”
I’m glad Aloke gave the cat milk and shared his dinner.
I told Aloke also about The Autobiography of a Yogi in
which there is a fascinating story about Swami Yogananda.
There was a witness to it, a Seeker, the objective third. The
Seeker was with the Swami, and told him that he wished to also
meet another Swami but he had not been able to contact him.
Swami Yogananda assured him that the person would come at
four o’clock. The devotee did not see how that could possibly
happen since that was only about forty minutes away and no
messenger had been sent. He waited. Then he noticed that
Swami Yogananda had shut his eyes and gone into a trance. The
other Swami came at exactly four o’clock, and expressed great
surprise to see Swami Yogananda in the room. He said he had
just met him by the river where he told him to come soon, and
he had come right away. So how did the Swami Yogananda reach
337 A PILGRIMAGE

before him? The Seeker records that Swami Yogananda had

not left the room. Scientists call this phenomenon bilocation.
Tsagaadai calls it astral travel.

The full enormity of what you must have gone through, Oona,
hit me when I read your letters to Vidya. You mentioned the little
girl in convulsions, possibly krait poisoning, in Amari Mandali.
You have mentioned other poisoning cases that Sushil had to
deal with in the course of his work. And I know how terrible it
was when those two young people committed suicide in Sitla,
by consuming poison. They belonged to different communities
and their folks could not countenance a relationship between
them. Sushil could not save them.
Ilya, Anita says, was vomiting in spurts, in jets. To her
that meant bad trouble. Ilya and you were in the same room in
the hospital in Ranikhet. She had reached the convulsion stage
the night you were all admitted there. Sushil is seared by the
memory of the night he spent trying to comfort her, the night
before she died. I think he said she was unconscious. Would
she still have felt pain? Her body certainly reacted in pain. Her
mind? Her spirit? And you, Oona, you whimpered at the cut
from the bottle, bore stoically the agony of your wrenched knee.
Your body felt pain, I know, but the pain did not reflect as terror,
as fear. Mohit told me that the only thing you said on the drive
down to Delhi was that you needed to focus, to concentrate.
You were working on your mind.
It must be the thought of being back in Ranikhet, and in
Satoli, that brings back those last days. My stomach feels worse,
as though it is filled with lead. And my breath constricts in my
throat. I too must focus.

We left Delhi, Oona, on 22 August. Papa asked me to

 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 338

carry the thirteen bits which had been printed, he would read
in Ranikhet. He doesn’t like doing things piecemeal. Nor has he
asked any questions. He wrote his account of going up that day,
another day of unrelenting rain, the day Ilya died and you came
way down to Delhi, when he was alone in April. I had gone on
my group travel. All these months he has let me be alone with
my thoughts but sometimes we do talk. We share memories,
and I need to ask him about the times he was with you and I
wasn’t. Naniji, too, does not disturb me. She thinks of my time
with you as my sadhana, my tapas. She remarked on it the other
day. That is both a kind of austerity and I guess a meditation,
an ultimate concentration practice. I was very touched. She too
does not question it. It is what I have to do.
We stopped for the night in Babugarh, at the Equine
Breeding Centre where we have had such good times over
the years. Once one enters the gate it is a different world, a
tremendous contrast to the jostling crowds of the grubby little
town. There was enough time for a quick walk through the
mango grove before the Commandant came to call.
I remember that mango grove so clearly from the evening
we spent there in 1988, the year that the first Chirag doctor
died, again one of those seemingly inexplicable happenings.
My question then was whether a severe attack of asthma can
have such a fatal consequence. There were seven doctors there
that evening, all officers of the Veterinary Corps. The consensus
was, yes, it could. I have forgotten the detailed explanations
they gave me, but I remember the conclusion well. You had
described the ferocity of the hailstorm so vividly, and the
terrifying thunder and lightning that accompanied it. She had
been cold, and depressed, in the morning and by the evening
she was gone. Just like that. The spectacular display put up
by the heavens had excited all of you, but it was her very first
winter in the mountains and she had been terrified. I remember
wondering if she could have died of fright; fear triggering the
attack. How terribly fragile life is. Yet, some manage to cling
tenaciously to it even in the most adverse circumstances. “Work
339 A PILGRIMAGE

onber will,” Sushil had said to me when you were in hospital.

They say the fatality rate is fifty per cent. Two out of four, the
luck of the draw.
You called then, late at night. “Something dreadful has
happened...” and my heart sank. “We’ll be reaching Delhi around
3.00 a.m.,” you said as you gave us the news Papa was absolutely
aghast that Kalyan and you should be driving down to Delhi,
in the middle of the night, with a corpse for baggage- You were
lucky you were not stopped on the way. The death certificate
may not have helped much, since the other procedures had not
been followed as it emerged later—the need to report such an
incident to the police and so on.
Attila was curious. What could we do? Best leave her in
the jeep. It was February. The garden was full of flowers. I put
some on her.
How does one wake up a family and make such an
announcement? I insisted we wait till closer to daybreak. Coffee,
please, Kalyan said. When we reached their house, there were
lights on in the third floor. A baby was crying in the house. Papa
took the head on approach. “Is this” It was the right house. In
answer to, “Is anything wrong?” through the closed door, he
announced starkly “Yes.” The door opened a chink. “M is dead.”
Of the three people there, one fainted, another burst out crying,
and the third turned accusatory.
Doctors feel that at a time of crisis, relatives are the most
difficult to deal with. But doctors too get affected. Ajit, for
example. He had had a couple of stiff drinks to block out having
to deal with Ilya’s death that night when you reached Delhi.
That was one reason why Somi was there, she drove him to the
Nursing Home. Then the shock of seeing you sobered him up
and he was able to take charge. No wonder the nurses at the
hospital had been so cool and distant with me, with all of us. I
guess they have to be.
The road has improved’ a great deal since last year when
it was so badly pot-holed that they abandoned the thought of
bringing you down in an ambulance with the drip in position.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 340

We spent only ten minutes on the bridge at Garhmukteswar. I

was focused on the countless times we had been on that road
over the years, and specially that journey that we five women
did when I brought Diljit and Naniji up for a visit which was
flowed so that we could bring you and Ilya back with us. The
three of us were to go on to IRMA for your workshop. Ilya was
only five months old then, what a terrible time we had with the
flat tyre in the middle of a traffic jam....
I have a lovely picture from that visit. Diljit took it. Naniji
is holding Ilya who has her fist stuffed into her mouth. You are
looking at Ilya, beaming delightedly. I am on the other side
of Naniji, holding Celadon the fancy cat. And Papoose, that
utterly brave and faithful bitch who produced fifty-four puppies
over four years, is in the centre, just in front of Naniji’s knee
with her head cocked towards you. Behind me is a clump of iris
in flower, in shades of lilac and purple, your favourite colours,
they stand out against the rough texture of the newly white-
washed wall of the staircase. All four of us have red tilaks on our
foreheads and a smear of cream-coloured sandalwood paste.
I can’t remember what the occasion might have been. Kanya
puja, the celebration of the girl child? Or perhaps Hareli? The
hill spring festival when sprouted wheat is offered to the gods.

The countryside was at its monsoon best. Lush and green,

no dust. Moradabad had a new look. Rampur has a one-way
system now, but we tried to argue with the traffic policeman
that we always go straight. He was quite polite while he pointed
out the new route to the left. There was the usual concourse
of vultures picking the cattle skeletons clean and that horrible
gelatin smell at the bone meal place. A few egrets in the water,
it is too early for other waders.
Then the T junction near Pant Nagar where Gita and I
had a flat once. She was driving, and nearly went into the road
divider. Those policemen were not at all helpful and I had to
341 A PILGRIMAGE

change the wheel myself. Gita agitated to go back to have it

fixed and I had to insist that going ahead would be better since
the distance either way was about the same.
I love that stretch of the journey through the remains of
the Terai forest. We always stop there—to breathe that air, to
listen to bird calls and the wind in the trees. It is incredible to
think that just fifty years ago it was real jungle, Corbett country
with tigers on the prowl, and infested with malaria.
Then the usual halt with Trilok Singh Bhasin. How good
he has been to all of us. As usual we talked about you, and how
terrible it is that this should have happened. But he was much
calmer this time. He, too, told me a story, about a friend of his in
Germany. Three children, lots of money, everyone doing well.
For his oldest son’s twenty-first birthday, he gave him a new
sports car. The boy took it out for a drive. And that was it. He
crashed. Dead. I remembered your head on crash with a truck
when you were with Chirag. It was on your side of the road
but fortunately it was nothing worse than smashed headlights,
broken glass and your shattered nerves.
We let it go as “These things happen.”
I’ll tell you what was so much with me on that drive up.
That everything we were seeing, doing, we had all done together.
You were imprinted on every turn in the road, on every tree we
passed, specially those two spectacular pilkan, the ficus that is
so popular on the highway to Lucknow, which in the height
of summer provide an acre of shade. For people, for goats, for
cows. I was so aware that every kilometre of that long drive was
a link, a link between the life you chose to make for yourself
and the life that you grew up with. Papa and I didn’t talk much
on the trip but I re-lived all the journeys we had done, with you
or with others. I was quite content to be the passenger, alone
with my thoughts. That should tell you something, considering
how eager I usually am to be at the wheel and to pass everything
in front of me. There was no sense of anticipation, nothing to
look forward to at the other end.
We had decided to take time out from life at Ranikhet.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 342

To see no one, to make no small talk, just be by ourselves. I

intended to familiarise myself with the Nam-Myoho-Renge-
Kyo prayers since I have not been able to follow them at our
sessions. Papa intended to read. So far he has seen only the first
few pages when I started writing in February.
The evening we got in was cloudy and there was a fine
drizzle, not even a drizzle just a light spitting. It was the time of
evening when I have to be by myself, preferably outdoors. Papa
wanted to relax even though I had driven for the last two hours.
I took myself for a walk towards Chaubatia, the cantonment
at the top of the ridge. Past the Jhula mandir with the myriads
of bells, reminders of the myriads of wishes people had made,
and the thanks they had given when they received whatever it
was they had asked for. It was two days before Janamashtami, a
festival I have not paid much attention to before—the birth of
Krishna.
I had a choice of roads. I took the level one heading west
so I overlooked the valley. Two women were lopping leaves
for fodder just off the road. I stopped and watched and the
inevitable conversation ensued. The older one wanted to know
where I had come from and then I asked the counter question
of how many animals they kept and so on. She started to tell me
how difficult life was, specially since her husband ‘became dear
to God’. What a civilised, wonderful way to put it. “Bhagwan ko
pyara ho gaya.” It reminded me of deh-ant, the end of the body.
Death is such a crass word, much nicer to be called to God. Very
likely she had never been to school. We talked of the merits
and demerits of both Delhi and Ranikhet and she couldn’t quite
believe that anyone should want to come away from Delhi to
spend time in a small place like Ranikhet. I tried to tell her that
Delhi wasn’t quite the El Dorado that she imagined it to be and
that for us Ranikhet was. I didn’t mention Satoli.
I walked on and found a good place to sit, a flat rock,
where I could think my thoughts and watch the view. When the
drizzle stopped the mist rose in the valley and simultaneously,
as though a window had opened, the clouds parted in the west
343 A PILGRIMAGE

to let golden sunshine stream over it and bathe my part of the

hillside. The young pines below me caught it and bounced it off
through the raindrops transforming it into a hill of glittering
diamonds. The air currents in the valley were swirling the
slowly rising mist northwards. The ridge on the other side of
the valley was quite clear, the glowing sun suspended above
it. Low sporadic clouds a couple of hundred feet higher were
moving west to east, headed straight over me. The gold in
the west deepened as the sun sank lower and I watched the
shadows creep up. The sun was transformed into a warm fiery
orange and then, suddenly, it was snuffed out above the hill-
horizon by a long streak of grey which seemed to have come out
of nowhere. The mist in the valley rose higher. It blocked the
ridge and dispersed in the sky, merging with the clouds. Within
minutes, and in complete silence, a white-grey veil scrolled over
the world.
No one had passed by on the road behind me.
I got up and started back. The women had collected
their fodder and were swaying down the road, balancing their
headloads. I slackened my pace to allow them to get away.
From my right, I heard cowbells and snatches of Tamil.
That was the Provost unit that provided sentries near the temple,
guarding civilian access to the military area up on the hill. I
looked closely as I passed the sentry box, tall, lean men, all dark-
complexioned. Since I would be passing that way frequently I
thought I’d make friends. We had a little conversation about
how it was for them to be posted in the hills of the north while
their homes were at the other end of the country, in the deep
south. No complaints. Papa has always maintained that the
Armed Forces are a truly integrative force in the body politic
of the country.
As I passed the temple again I thought of Krishna, not
the playful Krishna stealing butter and playing pranks, or
the handsome youth playing the flute, minding the cows and
charming the gopis, Krishna as Love. I thought of Krishna of
the battlefield, exhorting Arjuna to do his duty, to act as his
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 344

life situation demanded even if the cost was the destruction of

his own kinsmen, Krishna explaining why it was imperative to
uphold the dharma. The Krishna of Logic and Reason. Krishna
as the Lord.

For three mornings I watched Papa surreptitiously, not

wanting to intrude, as he read. In between I concentrated on
the prayers, morning and late at night, and took time off to also
read the book he had brought along from your bookshelf—The
Log From the Sea of Cortez by John Steinbeck. Inside is Kalyan’s
name, Sitla, 1989; I will return it to him sometime. I thought of
you in the water, cleaving through it effortlessly, rolling ever so
slightly to allow for breathing, the curve of your hip breaking
the surface of the water, your strong shoulders alternately
pivoting an arm forward. Head in line with your body. How I
loved to watch you reach the end of the pool, do the little curled
up manoeuvre and with a sort of back flip, kick off again, all in
one smooth movement. Calm till your head broke water, and
then the turbulence of foot movement against water propelling
you forward.
I recalled the jellyfish attack. I could see again the imprint
of the round suction caps on your upper arm. I have no idea
how you got rid of it but remember that it was painful for days
after that. Why do they call it the Portuguese-man-of war? I
remember the other girl and the manta ray when we had all
read The Girl from the Sea of Cortez. The fish and the girl
become one in my mind and I think of you as one with the sea.
I think of you not as the manta ray but as the Ganga dolphin.
Papa sat so he could look out of the bay windows. His legs
stretched out, feet resting on the window seat. I could only see
his back but I would hear that sniffling kind of intake of breath
he has when he needs to control emotion. When he reached for
his handkerchief and took his glasses off I would leave without
disturbing him.
345 A PILGRIMAGE

I would walk. Anywhere. Past the pale pink ground

orchids under the deodars. Or down the hill to a sluggish
stream choked with water plants. Near the bank was a huge
clump of zephyranthes, the flowers much larger than mine. I
counted thirty blossoms. The whistling thrush flew in. Dark.
Almost black in that light. It did not sing.
One day I went in to the mandir. Hundreds and hundreds
of bells, of all sizes, and many pieces of the votive red cotton.
I was wearing one too, on my right wrist. Swati had got it for
me from the dargah of Moiuniddin Chisti, the Sufi saint at
Ajmer. “Just wear it,” she said. It was an invocation for peace.
She didn’t need to say any more, the fact that she had brought
it said enough—that she cared, she remembered. We talk about
you often. She remembers when you and Sushil went to see her
and Sushil examined her back. “It was so beautiful to see them
together. Her face glowed with pride in his expertise.... They
looked so happy!” That was soon after you were married. And
then, last July when Kaatu, her younger son, had hurt his shin
and the raw patch was not healing, I was going to recommend
Calendula ointment and you absolutely insisted that it should be
shown to a proper doctor. You told us of a similar case recendy
in Satoli which had become nasty. She took your advice since
you were so emphatic. She had gone to Ajmer to give thanks
for her older son doing well in his board examinations. Shakya,
as in Shakyamuni Buddha, the way the historical Buddha is
referred to by the Nichiren group. Swati offers thanks at the
tomb of a Sufi Muslim saint to honour a promise and brings me
a peace token. Swati is Hindu, I am Sikh, or at least I am bom
into a Sikh family, now exploring Buddhism and Vedanta. And
for the five years I spent in boarding school I went to church
every Sunday!
It was she who suggested that I carry something warm for
you. Did she know then?
On our last morning at Ranikhet Papa called the
Commanding Officer of the Military Hospital. We had not
talked of it but we knew we had to go there. Anita and Kalyan
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 346

joined us there and recounted how and where everything had

happened on 21 August. The doctor who attended all of you
was K Satyanand. Major or Colonel, I forget. He had tears in his
eyes as he said he remembered very well the little girl, Ilya. He
was very sorry that he had not been able to save her.
“It was already more than forty-eight hours....” He had
never seen a case of Amanita poisoning before. And hopes he
never will.
“I always go to the temple before beginning my day. I
prayed for her.” He took us to the ward. The bed where Ilya
had been was empty. So was the one where you had been. The
hospital ayah who had been on duty that night was there, the
Sister was new. When Ilya breathed her last, Anita had helped
to unhitch you from the various IV tubes and helped you to
cross the ward, a distance of barely ten feet, to reach Ilya’s bed.
One tear, she said, had escaped. Your most precious child, gone.
Large yellow sunflowers were blooming outside. Kalyan
said he had plucked some and put them beside Ilya.
We couldn’t see the mountains but I knew exactly where
they were. An arm’s length away, a heartbeat away. Sushil had
been battling with bureaucracy at the office; there were strict
procedures for patients who died within twenty-four hours of
being admitted. Perhaps the hospital did not want two such
on their rolls; that is when they decided to bring you to Delhi.
Apparently the message reached them then that a General was
coming from Delhi and they were discussing where he should
be put up. Paperwork was sidetracked until Kalyan spelled out
that the General was Ilya’s grandfather.
“I will never forget them,” Dr Satyanand said. “I am so very
sorry.” He told me he got to know about you, Oona, from the
obituary he read in the papers about a week later. “Two deeply
loved souls...”
It started raining lightly as we left. He insisted on seeing
us down to the car park, and declined the offer of the use of
my umbrella. I didn’t use it either. Papa opened his because
his turban gets wet. The five of us walked silently, footfalls
347 A PILGRIMAGE

echoing on the dark glistening wet asphalt. The trim and tidy
buildings encircled us, their roofs red like blood. How many
memories they must hold, memories both sad and happy. A
gentle handsqueeze by way of parting, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t
do more....”
He prayed. He prayed for Ilya. For you.
From among my myriad memories another surfaces.
I remember Veena’s agonised face at the crematorium. She
and her family were your first visitors when Ilya was born. She
is very emotional, and I knew she wanted to say a physical good
bye. I went up to her and helped her as she reached your head.
She was the last to come up the stairs, not sure that she would
be able to hold her composure. We both caressed your face and
stroked your hair. She has often told me that when her father
died she was not in the country and that it took her a long time
to accept the fact of his physical non-being.
Then there was the pundit and Sushil. I was standing
at your feet, and he was diagonally across, to the left of
your head when the pundit instructed him. He had already
circumambulated you pouring a steady stream of water from
an earthen pot. He turned it upside down, held it a while and
then dropped it. I suppose it must happen all the time but the
symbolism had eluded me and I had been startled. When Sushil
let it go, it fell straight and true, like you, and shattered into a
myriad shards. I saw the shine of tears in his eyes at the moment
of impact. He remarked later on the poetry and symmetry of
that disintegration. This is a Vedic ritual, the Sikh priest had
already done his bit.
Much, much later did it click into place for me. It is about
Space, the subtlest of the five elements. The intangible, the
most pervasive. You see the mud pot analogy in the Scriptures
explains the nature of the ever-existent Reality. The space
circumscribed within the form of the pot is no different to the
space in which the mud pot exists. Exit the mud pot and the one
merges into the other. “Know That to be indestructible by which
all this is pervaded. None can cause the destruction of That—-
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 348

the Imperishable.” Verse 17 of Chapter 2 of the Bhagavad Gita.

Or take it the other way. The mud pot is also seen as a
specific form of the clay from which it is made. Nothing
happens to the clay when it breaks. It is a symbol of the material
body. As Krishna says in the next verse: “They have an end, it
is said, these bodies of the embodied Self. The Self is eternal,
indestructible, incomprehensible.”

We reached Satoli mid-morning on 27 August. Sushil was

busy in the office. We did a brief greeting and went on to see
Lakshmi and Kanai at Sida. We returned in the evening, had
tea at the office, parked at Madan Singh’s house and walked
up. It is a much easier walk ever since you implemented the
project of community self-help, the bridle path done and those
turn-back turns paved in stone-steps. That really needed doing
particularly after the 1993 monsoon had washed away most
paths. Half-way up the hill, Papa stopped at the clearing which
has the twin-trunked pine with the stone slab wedged in for a
seat. “This was Ilya’s resting place,” he remarked. “It used to be
quite a ritual.” With me, too, at the same place. I did the resting
while she would clamber onto the stone, ask “Jump?” and leap
off it landing on both feet. Pick herself up, and go again. We had
three such pause places on the longer, more level path which
goes from the office, past the temple, to the house, the path I
used for her school before the school moved to the other side
of Peora.
The live hedge with the deodars and the oaks and the May
bush is filling out. The change is in the neighbouring house, the
Cowshed where Mohit and Premila now live.
It is eight months since I last visited, and one year for Papa.
Anandi was busy giving the floor a fresh coating of mud and
cowdung plaster in preparation for the puja the next day. Bachi
could hardly hold back his tears and got busy rounding up the
chickens and seeing to the dogs. There are now three. Besides
349 A PILGRIMAGE

Bison and Molly there is a new puppy, a doberman. The fields

looked overgrown (they were, Sushil said) and the garden a bit
decrepit. Ilya’s swing had been removed from the pear tree and
Basanti no longer works there. The maple was doing well. Papa
and I stayed in the main house, Sushil was in the guest room
down below. There were lots of Ilya paintings on the walls, and
also a mountain painting by you. Was it Neelkanth? Or perhaps
Shivling? I haven’t noticed it before.
The Shraddh puja was performed by Sushil in the morning.
There were food offerings so that the ‘spirits’ are not hungry. I
always thought it is meant for deceased ancestors, but I guess
they must also have a provision for deceased progeny.
I remember the pundit in Varanasi telling me that the
puja would bring peace to seven generations. Of descendants?
When I disabused him, as gently as I could, he switched it to
seven generations of ancestors. How? Anyway, you and Ilya are
recorded in his book. That was on 28 March, at Dashwamedha
ghat, the holiest place in Varanasi. Again, I hadn’t planned to be
in Varanasi on that date but I was. It was my first experience of
a group pilgrimage. The focus was Rama and the area around
Chitrakoot, close to where Madhavi works, where he spent
most of the fourteen years of his exile. The plan was also to go to
Ayodhya but that was changed. On the 28th, at sunrise four of
us went out in a boat. Nimmi, two other Punjabi friends in the
group, and I. All of us remembered you and offered lit lamps in
leaf boats. The water was touched with the reddish pre-dawn
light and it was still. Very slowly they began to drift away. When
I threw in the marigold garland, the boatman, a Muslim weaver
earning money on the side, knew. I asked him to circle it once.
He made no effort to do so, he suggested instead that I should
let it go. And quoted to me a doha of Kabir. I understood the
gist of it: What is gone, is gone. Don’t hang on to memories and
pain. Don’t create agitation. There will be new birth, new life.
At the shraddh puja the photograph of Ilya-with-sea-wet
hair and of you with the pensive look were used. Sandalwood
paste, kum kum, and bits of rice. It is the fire and the fragrance
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 350

of the ghee that I remember most. And the smoke curling

upwards, visible with the sun shining through the east door.
This pundit was a local one. A lean old man. All the offerings of
food—fruit, cereals and lentils—become his property besides
whatever cash he receives.
The pundit who did the Gita recitation came from
Almora. He was youngish, and very portly. He arrived quite
winded. He assumed it would be indoors but Papa suggested
it would be better in the paved courtyard to the north of the
house. Where Ilya used to ride her tricycle, where the maple
tree is, where the mountains are a backdrop. It remained sunny
but the occasional cloud drifted by. All the Aarohi people were
there, including many people I did not recognise. People from
the village and the surrounding areas came and the non-local
neighbours—Kanai and Lakshmi, Premila and Mohit. Piki
Chatterjee came from Kausani bringing a message that Kalyan’s
father had passed away the same night and they had left for
Calcutta early that morning. No one had told her that anything
was happening but she remembered the date and checked it
out with Kalyan. She just wanted to be in touch. The same way
that she felt compelled to come for the Annual General Body
meeting in April 1996 even though you had been asking her
to visit for at least four years. She said she was compelled once
again to be with you now. They did not sit on the carpets and
the bamboo mats on the ground but on the low wall under the
shade of the maple tree.
Sushil was totally absorbed. I was aware of people trickling
in as they do after they have finished their chores, specially the
women and children. I registered the place filling up and also
that the Pundit was in full cry—the climb up hadn’t been a
waste of effort. He raced through the Gita, pausing to translate
the important, relevant passages. Then the Gayatri mantra, the
mantra which I so much wanted Ilya to learn. And I don’t know
why I wanted that since I knew nothing about it. Mohit said
he had chanted it for her, over her. I was able to follow it when
Shanta chanted it but I still have to get it perfect.
351 A PILGRIMAGE

Food was served in the field above what was to be Ilya’s

swimming pool. Khemanand and his uncle, Krishananand, a
retired education havildar of the Kumaon regiment, who both
live up the hill beyond where Manbahadur and his family stay,
were in charge of the cooking. Huge cauldrons, a kadhai the size
of a baby bath in which the puris were fried. I am afraid they
used your future swimming pool to dispose of the leaf plates.
They will make good organic fertiliser in due course.
People kept drifting in till four o’clock. The Aarohi people
helped serve, then Papa insisted on serving them as well as the
cooking party. When everyone had finished, Khemanand and
Krishananand cornered me, they insisted I come with them.
They wanted to show me the hand pump that you had installed
and the trees you had planted.
“Oona idhar hai. Idhar hi rahe gi.” Oona is here. Here she
will stay.
Krishananand wants to make a temple for you near the
future forest you planted. That is the picture Kalyan sent, the
Green Oona as I call it now. Krishananand mentioned many
more species besides theAilanthus excelsia and pointed out
each one as though it was a favourite child. He showed me a
spur of land that looks into the sunset. There is already a low
slate structure, collapsing on itself, which marks a local goddess.
Bhoomi Devi, the goddess of the earth. He wants to dedicate
that knoll to you. “Devi thi.” That is what the school master had
told me when we took your ashes up.
We made a pact. We would consider it as Oona’s Place. He
was not to attempt to build anything. No structure. He said he
had planted four deodars and you had been pleased with that.
He showed me the medium-sized oak tree next to the stone
slabs, put his hand on a low fork in the trunk and told me you
often sat there and talked about what the local community
could do.
We were due to leave after breakfast the next morning. I
woke before sunrise. I took a handful of earth from under the
maple tree, a clump of zephyranthes from the garden, some
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 352

flowers and kum kum from the Gita puja and went up. He was
there as we had arranged. I planted the zephyranthes in the
space between the Bhoomi Devi structure and the oak tree and
mixed in the soil which would still have traces of your ashes.
Then I asked him to leave me alone. I sat under the oak tree
and recited the Buddhist prayers for you and chanted Nam-
Myoho-Renge-Kyo for the wind. I told Papa. I told Bachi too. I
had told Krishananand I would return at least once a year.

We returned to Delhi via Naini Tal completing our hill

pilgrimage.
We got in to Delhi to hear the first flash of the news about
Princess Diana and the car crash on 30 August. The whys and
wherefores resurfaced; it was like a replay in public of a drama
that we had already lived through last year. The shock, the
horror, the outpouring of grief. Yet I watched transfixed as the
electronic media played it to the hilt and when John Elton paid
his tribute the resonances went deep. I cried. I cried for her, for
you. I cried for life.
Barely two weeks later, Mother Teresa died in the fullness
of time. No tears came.
The last part of our pilgrimage was in October, when we
went to Sanawar for Founders. The 150th year. There were many
people from my time, and I met many of your friends. The first
function was at the cemetery which had been spruced up so well
that it looked new. The printed brochure said: A Remembrance
Visit to the Cemetery on the occasion of Sesquincentenary
Celebration of the Lawrence School Sanawar. 3 October 1997.
It began with the laying of wreaths at the graves of Rev. William
Parker, Principal 1848 - 1862, Rev. E S Hunt, Pricipal 1932 -
1933, and Sgt. J Tilley, Chief Clerk & Steward 1914 - 1928. How
beautiful the school song is: Never Give In. I still have your
shield, I can’t remember what you won it for, you won so many
accolades and honours. In his address, Dr Harish Dhillon, the
353 A PILGRIMAGE

Headmaster, remembered all Old Sanawarians who had passed

away, specially those in the year past.
The first hymn was “The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want...”
The second was Gandhi’s favourite: Abide with me. It always
moves Papa to tears. It moves everyone. I love the last stanza:

I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless;

Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness,
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.

The Reading was St Paul’s first Letter to the Corinthinians

Chapter 15, Verses 45-58. Let me repeat a bit for you: “ Flesh
and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God: and the
perishable cannot inherit what lasts forever. I will tell you
something that has been secret: that we are not all going to
die, but we shall all be changed... our present perishable nature
must put on imperishability and this mortal nature must put
on immortality.” Isn’t that exactly what the Bhagavad Gita says?
You see, the Truth is the same, it doesn’t change. Expression
about it does, depending on when and where and who.
What stays with me, Oona, is a remark made by one of
my contemporaries, one of the thirty or so who had come from
England. He has now retired, having spent his life teaching, and
he said he still did not know what he wanted from life.
You knew. You are indelibly etched in the lives of so many
people. Your family, your friends and the coundess others you
met and warmed to. And who warmed to you—not those who
were dependent on you for work or a livelihood, but ordinary
people, the Krishananands and Khemanands who have nothing
to gain in flattering you, or me. And the inhabitants in the
region to whom the fact of your existence, your life, made a
difference.
As for me now is it a clinging or a letting go? How can one
cling to, or let go of, a part of oneself. And I ask of Death where,
indeed, is thy victory?
 VI
The Inner Core
Listen with your mind and heart. Be open
Sogyal Rimpoche. Delhi 1997
 18
Fulfilment

inter is early this year, it arrived well beforeDivali.

Usually the weather turns after, in the same way
that the end of winter is marked by another
festival, and the beginning of spring too. The summer begins
after Holi—it was worked out long ago, in great detail, and they
got it right. Astrology and mathematics are two of the many
sciences studied in the Vedas. The Sun is the Supreme, the
symbol also of universal energy, while the nine planets in the
heavens and the moon rule the changes. When the Vedic puja is
performed their presence is invoked, represented by various
gods. The fourteen-day period after the September full moon is
considered to be inauspicious, No marriages are performed, or
new ventures initiated. It is devoted to propitiating the spirits of
the ancestors, of the departed. Navratri begins with the waxing
moon, nine days of fasting for purification and self-discipline,
and nine nights of puja dedicated to aspects of the Devi, or
Shakti—the Feminine Creative Principle.
The tenth day marks Dussehra, ‘dus’ meaning ten. It is a
commemoration of the victory of good over evil when Ram
prevailed over Ravana. It is celebrated, with regional variations,
all over India in song and dance and the recitation of the
Ramayana. It is holiday time. That was when Vipul and Anusha
had gone to Satoli—for the Ram Lila celebrations when Anusha
danced in Oona’s home.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 358

But I am still with the other calendar. I intended to go to

die Thanksgiving concert at the Cathedral Church of the
Redemption, it was being held on the third Thursday rather
than die fourth. Sanawar, and gratitude, were still very much
with me. Before that I needed to be at the Nam-Myoho-Renge-
Kyo prayer meeting.
That is how I can pinpoint the exact moment winter
came— four o’clock on the afternoon of 19 October 1997.
The sky became dark. The wind blew hard from the north,
from the mountains, forcing the trees to bow low. Then the rain
came down. A few big drops as warning and then a deluge, as
on the day Gurbir’s mother died. The road was flooded and
deserted.
By the time I left the prayer meeting, about an hour and
a half later, the sky had done a turnabout. Darkness had been
banished. There were large spaces of blue in the sky and the
cloudscape was magical. Gold touched the chunky clouds,
turning deeper by the minute it soon tinged them with saffron
and old rose. I welcomed red lights, it gave me a chance to look
around. From the crest of the first flyover looking eastwards I
saw a fragment of a rainbow. I followed the curve and found
the other part, high up in the sky and sweeping down in an
unbroken arc towards the south, where the Baha’i temple is.
I turned left on Lodi Road. Deserted again, the neem trees
brooding silently. I had time to look across at 92 Lodi Estate.
Water standing in the lawn and no one in sight.
I went up Janpath. I love that avenue. As children we lived
in 7-A, one half of those old bungalows of Lutyens’ Delhi when
my father was still in service. He was on loan to the Navy then
and retired from there as Director of Medical Services. Surgeon
Captain Assa Singh. The formal portrait taken in 1954, is in
the bookshelf behind me as I write. Four rows of ribbons. And
his face looks youthful and fresh. I look for wrinkles, or even
359 FULFILMENT

crinkles at the comer of his eyes and mouth and see none. A
gentle mouth, almond-shaped eyes, a salt and pepper beard
neady trimmed and the white turban of his uniform, neatly
tied, hugging his head.
No signs of age at 56. That is younger than I am now!
Next year, on 8 February 1998, will be his birth centenary. I
don’t know if that is his real birthday or a paper birthday. No
horoscopes were cast nor was it celebrated in any particular
way. I don’t even recall a trip to the gurudwara, either to give
thanks or to seek the blessings of the guru. Perhaps my parents
didn’t feel the need to go anywhere to do so. I wonder if my
mother remembers that it will be a hundred years next year.
We will have a kirtan at home. A thanksgiving kirtan. The
garden will be in full bloom and perhaps the peach tree will
be in blossom again. My mother will have something to look
forward to, something to plan for. For some years she has been
apprehensive of the winter, that she will not survive it. She
might be more so this year considering her experience last year.
I will ask her to select the shabads herself. We will choose some
which have Pritam in them, the name they gave to their first
bom. Dear to the Lord.
At the time we lived on Janpath I did not know the name
of the trees that shade the avenue. I just knew them as being
straight, tall and stately, and home to the fruit bats. I know now
that they are arjun, Arjuna terminalia, a common forest species
valuable for both timber and the medicinal properties of its
various parts, specially the bark and the seeds. The leaves are
used in special pujas.
Now they are even taller, fuller and more stately. The fruit
bats have unfurled themselves from their daytime upside-down
roosting stance and I see them flying around over the tops of
the trees. I’ve always wondered if they get any sleep, and if they
do why they don’t get unclasped and fall off the tree. They must
have an automatic locking grasp which doesn’t need waking
consciousness to function. Like breathing.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 360

I turned left on Motilal Nehru Marg. There was some traffic at

the little roundabout with the white mosque tucked away in one
quarter flanked by ginko trees.
People at last. In sweaters and jackets.
At the Raj path crossing I did a silent review of South
Block, Rashtrapati Bhavan, and North Block. The sky behind
the domed silhouettes was pale blue broken by long streaky
grey clouds their lower edges touched with sun brightness. The
fluffed up clouds overhead now had the glow of dying embers.
To my right Rajpath was free of the clutter of traffic. I
could see all the way down the slope to India Gate veiled in a
light mist. The light changed and I pulled away pausing for a
nanosecond between changing gears to look left again. I saw the
massive wrought iron gates and the Jaipur column with the Star
of India atop it. It was for the Empire that those soldiers laid
down their lives whose names are chiselled into the walls of the
commemorative arch. Thousands. Both world wars.
Second left at the next roundabout. Parliament House
was asleep. Not a soul to be seen at Rakabganj gurudwara. The
last time I brought my mother there it was spilling over with
people, loudspeakers blaring relaying the kirtan from inside.
Beggars and pavement vendors had lined the approach to the
gurudwara. It was the martyrdom day of Guru Teg Bahadur,
the ninth guru. Martyred in a quite gruesome fashion, three
hundred years ago, by the reigning Mughal emperor. Rakabganj
was then a village of leather workers, far from the majestic
Mughal capital of Shahjahanabad.
Imperial Delhi, not even a hundred years old, is built
around this one-upon-a-time-village. The cathedral is just
around the comer. It was not yet six, I still had five minutes in
hand. There was no trace of colour left in the sky but there was
enough light for me to avoid stepping into puddles of rainwater.
I found a place half way down the main aisle. A delay was
announced and I looked around. The interior is unadorned.
361 FULFILMENT

Austere. Blocks of dressed stone. Buff sandstone. The wall

behind the altar is curved following the curves of the half
domes and the main dome. The pillars supporting the domes
are fluted, the blocks fitted perfectly to lead the eye up towards
the capitals—pyramidical fem fronds, leaning outwards. The
only other decoration is a toothed edge, long and short, in and
out, along the base of the main dome. Behind the altar is a panel
of dark polished wood in big bevelled rectangles, the central
three elongated and shaped at the top into a half sphere. It is a
masterpiece of understatement. I think of Oona, unadorned by
artifice, imbued with quiet assurance. Modest. Perhaps in the
modesty itself a hint of vanity.
The priest used the opportunity to tell us about the
activities of the church. This was a fund-raising concert. The
Church of North India supports 150 children of lepers in and
around Delhi; educates them, clothes them, and provides
whatever else they need. He emphasised that they do not suffer
from leprosy themselves, nor can they transmit it. The collection
from the concert last year provided sufficient funds for the
needs of eight or nine children. He urged the congregation to
be liberal so the number can be increased to 200. The offertory
will take place during the singing of the first hymn, ‘Praise to
the Lord.’ While we wait my neighbour, who was my brother
Pritam’s contemporary in Sanawar, tells me that after Partition
the Church ran a school. He was there till the school moved
to Mathura road, in tents for many years. It—Delhi Public
School—now has many branches, in concrete.
I wondered why the lack of adornment. Was that a
statement? A way of putting distance between the Occident and
the opulence of the Orient? A way of negating the natives? The
geometry of Lutyens’ city paid deference to the many Delhis that
preceded the British. Their overlay needed to blend, the domes
and the sandstone achieved that, but at the same time it was
de rigeur to rise above the rest. Was it a slap in the face for the
display of wealth of the rajas and the lavishness of decoration in
temples and gurudwaras? For fecundity? A kind of, ‘We will be
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 362

no part of a disgusting exuberance’?

Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. There is an organ but they did
without it. Bach is not Bach enough without.
Mass in G op. 13 no. 2. Schubert. Gloriously familiar
but I couldn’t reproduce one bar. One of the girls in the choir
could have been Oona. The same build, not too big, not too
small and the same clean wholesome look. How much Oona
enjoyed those musicals in school. Pirates of Penzance and Kim.
I remember Harbinder as the captain of the guard and Ranjit
Rawlley as Kim. She wanted to join the choir while she was at
Sussex but she couldn’t. She could not read music. She joined
the scuba diving club instead.
More Schubert. I couldn’t concentrate. Mozart. A Piano
trio. Verdi, a cresendo of exultation. I recognised a friend in
the choir and listened for her voice. She too lost a daughter. A
car accident. The girl, twenty years old, was out with friends
on New Year’s Eve. She was thrown out and hit her head on a
kerbstone on one of Delhi’s roundabouts. Dead. Did my friend
take up singing seriously then?
The last hymn was ‘O God our help in ages past’. I sang it,
but only in my head. It sounded good there but I know it does
not translate well into hearing sound.

We had another storm the next day. The temperature dropped

by 10 degrees, there was unseasonal snow in the hills. There is
torrential rain in Africa. Rivers of mud in the streets of Acapulco.
Heavy rains and floods in Arizona. El Nino they say. It is a topsy
tuny world. There is drought in equatorial regions. The haze
and fires continue in the Indonesian islands. The Australians
plan to airlift 90,000 people from West Irian to safety. Less rain
is predicted in India and Africa in 1998 and, naturally, bleak
crop prospects. Will this be a Malthusian strike against human
fecundity?
The paper of 21 October 1997 carried two items which I
363 FULFILMENT

cut out. The first is ‘Hunger for God’. “If you are a subscriber to
God-is-dead theology, you should have been at Nehru stadium
between 8-12 October. The air was thick with religiosity...nearly
100,000 people were in rapt attention taking in every word
uttered by their guru...” I had registered the banners because
of the name. Assa. “It does seem the secret of happiness lies
not in the volume of possessions but in the smallness of one’s
wants,” the reporter summarised. Gandhi had said so fifty years
ago, that there is enough for everyone’s needs but not enough
for their greed. The Rishis said so thousands of years ago.
Dispossess yourself of the attachment to material objects. Do
not hoard. Does the bird on the wing carry food with it? The
earth provides.
The other cutting carries the headline ‘All mushrooms are
not safe for eating, warn experts.’ No, they are not. An entire
family—father, mother and daughter—had eaten mushrooms
in Garhwal, the father and daughter were brought in to the All
India Institute of Medical Sciences. The daughter was saved
though the report says all had been severely affected. “In the last
one year only two incidents of such poisoning were reported at
the National Poison Information Centre. But this could be due
to inadequate reporting and lack of public awareness on the
subject.” I wonder if they mean Oona and Ilya, or whether there
were other victims too.
“Mushroom poisoning can be lethal as there is no proper
antidote for it once it occurs...Cooking does not destroy the
lethal poisons found in mushrooms.” Yes, we know that.
Perhaps I should give them Oona’s case history and they could
keep a stock of silimarin. Sri Lanka, it says, has a death rate
from mushroom poisoning of 10.8 per cent and Japan reported
2.4 per cent deaths every year.

The externals of my life have reasserted themselves.

Earlier in the month I mailed a Bibliophile list heavily slanted
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 364

towards religion and philosophy. The first response was from

Reverend James Cox who asked for Quietitude of the Mind by
Swami Bhoomananda. I remember that he had also asked for
The Vedantic Way of Living a year ago. Over the years he has
become a friend and he gives me news of himself. He has been
ill again. “In 1998 I shall be celebrating sixty years as a Jesuit,
with fifty- three of them in India,” he writes. He ends, “Again,
the assurance of my daily prayers for you and your loved
ones. Do keep me in yours, please.” A hand written note at the
bottom explains the underlining: “These prayers start early in
the morning.” I bless him.
Aloke called to say he plans to come for a week in
December. Swami Bhoomananda will be here in November for
his annual visit. When Aloke leaves I plan to go to Uttarkashi
for the winter camp. I decided not to leave things for the last
minute and to get my packing out of the way before Swami
Bhoomananda’s classes begin and before Aloke comes. As it is,
we have early morning classes with Swami Nikhilananda five
days a week.
I pull out the red rucksack Aloke gave me, which has
served me well on many treks. In it I found clothes meant for
Ilya to grow into. Some of them would be just right for this
winter. The hiking boots look winters ahead as do the down
jackets. Thrift shopping Oona had called it.
“Let’s lay in a stock. Who knows if I’ll come to America
again.”
“Leave it to Mytri and Aloke. They’ll keep you supplied
between them.”
“It’s such good value, let’s take these anyhow.”
Raveena will get some. The boots and jackets will be
perfect for Theo’s son up in Munsiari.

How much Ilya taught me. “Ham ko vilyu na bolna.” It puzzled

me for a long time. Was Vilyu a character we had met in a story
365 FULFILMENT

and she did not want to hear about him again? No. There was no
Vilyu in any of the Winnie the Pooh stories we read, certainly
none in the Jungle Book. Those she had pat: Ba-loooo (from the
top of the throat), the Bear; Bagh-eeeera (from the chest), the
Leopard, and of course the human child, Mow-gli (from deep
within). She looked very serious when she said that. I broke it
up into syllables: vil yu. Why should I not say ‘vil yu’ to her?
Of course! She meant ‘Will you’, the imperative I tended to use
when I was impatient. “Will you hurry up!” Or, “Will you get a
move on!” Or perhaps “Will you open your mouth!” when she
was taking forever to finish her food. “Don’t say ‘Will you...’ to
me” is what she meant. Impatience, the second cousin of Anger.
It ranks on par with Greed, both fuelled by insatiable desire,
stoked by frustration.
My mother also read anger in me in the years when she
had to come to terms with the fact that she could no longer live
alone, independently, any more. She realised that as an early
octogenarian but didn’t quite accept it. I tended to be impatient
with her too. And she herself must have been ultra sensitive. I
have become much more patient now. I am, in fact, learning a
measure of equanimity. And Raveena, too, is teaching me. If I
am peremptory, she will put on her most winning smile, and say,
“Ham ko pyar se bolo na.” I have then to repeat it appropriately,
lovingly, and I get immediate compliance.

Ilya had just over three and a half years in this life, but
what joy she brought. Fulfilment too of what Oona said to me
in the forest at Mukteswar: “I know exactly where I’ll be in
three years from now.” It was three years. Had Oona specifically
motherhood in mind then? Or had she spoken in terms of
Sushil, home and work? In fact she achieved all four.
Oona wrote to Sushil’s family three days after Ilya was
bom:
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 366

24 December 1992
Dear Mummy and Daddy, Ajit and Meena,
These last few days have been very joyful for Sushil and I with
the birth of our first child, an angel of a young girl, who has just stolen
our hearts. She’s sleeping peacefully after having had a hearty feed
about two hours ago.
The whole process of labour and childbirth was extremely well
managed by Prabha, Sushil and the support of my parents. Prabha is
an old friend of my parents. Her first husband used to be in Papa’s
regiment, and was tragically killed just 15 days after they were
married. She was always very grateful to my father for helping her so
much through her period of rehabilitation and has seen me since I
was an infant. So, naturally we felt safe in her hands. She has her own
clinic and also works out of a Nursing Home about ten minutes from
home.
I had been going for check-ups every w’eek since we came on
the 7th and everything was normal. Once the pains started they went
on, very mildly and feebly for ages. Sushil and I were out the whole
day that day, doing some work, seeing a play and then out for dinner!
Next day in the afternoon it built up and Prabha got the drip on. I was
in the labour room by 8.00 p.m. when it was getting a bit agonising.
But mercifully, Prabha, her nurses and Sushil were really swift and the
young one was bom by 8.45 p.m. Just wonderful. Though I was a bit
drowsy we talked till about 12.00. Mummy and Sushil stayed back in
the Nursing Home — had a drink to celebrate our Anniversary as it
was the 21st then, (with our precious gift!) and then we had a fairly
restless night as we hardly knew how to handle the young thing!
Things have improved so much, and its only three days later and
the feelings of pain, weakness and inexperience have already ebbed
away. We are being looked after well by Mummy and Papa and are
learning a lot about caring for infants, and there have been many
friends who have been over to visit. Now comes finding a name...we
are all thinking.
Thank you all for the very generous gift ... it is a huge amount for
such a young thing. What we will do is probably make a fixed deposit
in her name for five years or so.
Still don’t know if Papa’s trip to Pune is on ... all this distressing
airline trouble (not to say anything about the awfully distressing Babri
masjid trouble).
367 FULFILMENT

We still have not made any plans about going back to Satoli...

That was signed with a huge flourish. At the bottom of the

page there is a sketch of a little house set amidst rolling hills,
flanked by a group of evergreen trees.
During the first year of Ilya’s life I saw her every two or
three months; I did not want to miss out on any stage of her
development. I made frequent trips to Satoli, and Oona had to
come down to Delhi twice that year to pursue paperwork.
The next year, I was travelling on work myself and saw
far less of her. The third year was the time when she was left
with me in Delhi when she started going to the litde school
across the road. In 1996, I saw her only twice. February, when
we planned to go skiing but Sushil fell ill, then in July when they
were all here for a week.
When I asked Aloke for the letters Oona wrote to him,
that is what I hoped to see. Ilya news. As I read them again now,
I see more. I find the major landmarks in her life, both in Ilya’s
development and in her own work. I feel so grateful that she
made the impulsive decision to also come for Aloke’s wedding
even though it meant leaving Ilya behind with Sushil for three
weeks. With her the decision usually came first, the plan to be
doing what needed to be done, rather than tilting at possible
hurdles—in this case the money for the trip. Gurbir, Aloke, and
I pooled in three ways and there it was.
She cannot resist taking a dig at Aloke, she means a letter
he wrote in longhand, seven pages, when he relocated from
Arizona to New Jersey at the end of 1993.
Thanks for your nice letter Aloke, actually addressed to
the parents, which Mummy mercifully typed out and mailed...
Yes, we all feel nice about the fact that we will all be
together on your great day, specially since you weren’t able to
make it to ours. I think the scraping of all the barrels has made
it very very possible. Good of you to chip in.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 368

Life here is hectic with us having a real full platter and a

budget of about Rs 18 lakhs to play around with in this first
year. But I tell you it is tough working with greenhorns. It really
is. But when one is grooming locals that is the way it is. Anyway
support organisations have been good to us by vesting so much
trust.
We will spend Divali at Pune with Sushil’s folks. That has
now become a short trip since I will be away in December.
Ilya is in good shape—very lively and getting ready to
walk. We have the days free because of the two baby sitters—
one young girl and one oldie.
Your new flat sounds very nice. I do look forward to seeing
you both and Yasmir’s family. Did you get our annual report?
Do you need anything from hereabouts? A nice warm blanket,
or anything?

I love that. The thought of taking a nice warm blanket

from the backwoods of Kumaon to New Jersey! Then

17.11.93
Dear Aloke,
Thanks very much for your letter, which came a few days before
we left for our jaunt to Delhi and Pune. Also saw your letters there and
the posh wedding card... I must say I am looking forward to spending
time with you. I think it is really years since we all were together, what?
Ilya is in great shape. She took her first step on the train coming
from Delhi to Pune, and is really freaking out at her newfound
mobility. All these are huge milestones.
We had a very nice dinner at Meena and Ajit’s large house on the
outskirts of Pune. Meena is Sushil’s sister. They have a baby daughter,
Juhi, and Ilya and Juhi had a whale of a time. Juhi is a year older.
This letter is basically to wish you a very happy birthday for the
12th, Aloke. I’m sorry I’ve been late this year in wishing you...I’m sure
you had a great day.
Would you like some desi ‘ghee’ from our house and some
organic food and herbs since you are into health foods? We have some
369 FULFILMENT

good varieties of beans and wheat.

All for now and love to you and Yasmir from us,
Oona

How angry she was when she was grilled about her request for
a visa. The assumption, as she saw it, that her sole intention was
to gain entry into the United States with a view to immigration
was deeply humiliating. She, who was leaving Ilya behind and
Ilya was not even one year old! Considering specially how she
felt about her friends who had gone there to study, she felt that
to be a kind of betrayal. Her indignation was extreme.
As it happened, it became almost six weeks before she was
reunited with Ilya. There was a snarl up with Sushil’s return
reservation from Pune.
Aloke has photocopied the sender’s address on this letter.
He notes that it is the last time that Oona used a surname on
her letters.

Gurbir and Oona returned together to India a few days after

the wedding, while I went to England to visit Somi and Ajit and
also spend time with Shaila and Diljit.
Oona’s letter from Moscow airport is scathing. Written at
1 a.m. on 21 January 1994, she fumes: “We thought the end of
our troubles was over in New York with a five-and-a-half-hour
delay, but after being stranded twenty-four hours in Moscow,
two hours at the Gate in Moscow and three bloody hours on
the runway at MOSCOW AIRPORT RUNWAY we still haven’t
got going!! God! This country is the bloody pits. Never been so
annoyed before. I can see that we have sidled up to the airport
again...Wait patiendy for the next episode. I have already
finished two books and am really not in much of a mood to
start another.”
She continued with a post mortem on the trip: “All in
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 370

all, it was quite an experience, humbling and perplexing in

many ways, but nice to get to see a bit of you in your context
and meet some of your very nice friends... Both of you must
make the effort of making trips out to India once in a few years
even though your lives in America probably place very heavy
demands on you.” She signs off with “I’ll write a more cheery
letter when I have both feet on the ground back home in Satoli.”
It wasn’t the airline that was the problem, but the weather.
January 1994 was the big freeze in North America and Europe.
Cheer returned. She wrote in April 1994:

We’ve been madly busy here with a stream of important visitors,

a grandly successful ‘shibir’ for our ten village organisations, and the
usual year-ending commitments of Audits, Managing Committee
meetings, funding for the following year, etc...
Even though it is midnight and I’ve spent the whole day (and
it was a holiday too), looking at accounts, I feel thoroughly inspired
to write to you. Papa just sent three photos taken by George of us at
the wedding. They are MARVELLOUS. I like the one of the four of us
very much. I think Papa has asked George to get some blow-ups. That
should be really nice. Do remind him.
We all are fine and are in the business of juggling between home,
Ilya and work, all of which are thoroughly enjoyable and thoroughly
demanding. Touch wood. Everything is going fine, and of late we
are being pulled to work further and further afield. The thing that
preoccupies me the most is how to stay small as a core unit, but
“ncourage a large number of communities to participate actively in
the development process. Growing big is the death of a development
organisation, and having a big impact is necessary. Any thoughts on
this?
The cold must be behind you now. You will be happy to know
that many of the seeds I carted across the seas have germinated. We
will have some ‘American oaks’ on our land twenty years hence!!
Already got some English ones though they are only one-and-a-half
feet tall yet!
How was your skiing trip? I really miss skiing, swimming and
flying here. But there are so many things that fill up one’s day that it
is fine. Ilya and Sushil are in great shape. Ilya talks heaps of nonsense
371 FULFILMENT

language and the few odd words. She is a load of fun.

In June she wrote again.

I’m sitting in the Front room. Our house is like this: [sketch]
Ilya is playing in the verandah with our baby baby-sitter (3 years
old!!) who is peeling garlic for garlic pickle. This year we have made
peas, beans pickle; Apricot jam, Apricot chutney, Wine and Apricot
leather (like Aam papad) which is very tasty indeed. It’s great to have
home preserves.
Our one or two dap off in the week get devoted to the kitchen,
garden and Ilya, like today. Today we are doing some major
landscaping around the house as this family who were staying here
(in the ‘pantry’ on the lowest level) have just moved out. So, finally,
the front of the house will get done up. Lots of fresh lettuce from the
land this year, as well.
Glad to hear that the honeymoon plans for Spain are
materialising. Have a good time. People say that it is a very beautiful
country. During the Easter break, when I was at Sussex, we had
planned to go to Spain but I was refused a visa. Pretty rude lot they
were. That’s past history, however.
Work is going fine though our funding is still very year-to-year
which is hardly good. This year, the district administration is keen
to support us, but we are still being made to chum out estimate after
estimate because that is government for you. Ilya and Sushil are very
well. We are due to start constructing the new hospital soon. Have the
land. Pupsa will design it.

In July she wrote apologising for the long gap, “somehow,

by the time we put Ilya to bed, and deal with her food,
entertainment, washing and cleaning it’s time for us to turn in.
Having a child is real hard work.”
She had to come to Delhi for a few days to chase the
pending permissions from the government. The train had
started by then, she came down in it. “It is comfortable and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 372

takes the pinch out of an otherwise tedious journey.”

Aarohi was two years old and the frustrations were yet
to build up with the formal permission to receive funds from
overseas donors yet to be granted.

We’ve had a great monsoon. It’s a vibrant season with so much

moisture that everything grows! Last year, Mummy, Papa and Mr
Eswaran were stuck here for eight days because of the torrential rains
that brought all the hillsides down with them. This year it’s been the
odd drizzle with patches of fog and sunshine. The number of wild
mushrooms that we recognise and eat is also growing. So breakfast is
often the odd tasty mushy with whatever else.
Ilya is in good shape. She is a real fussy eater though, and takes
hours over it. We literally have to chase her around the room with
morsels of food, cooking up all sorts of stories and games to amuse
her alongside. It is ridiculous. Kids are so dependent it is not funny.
But they are also far better behaved with caretakers other than the
parents. Ilya enjoys our going away to work for the day now. She
has a young teenage baby-sit plus househelp who often brings along
a kid brother or sister. So she has a ball playing with water, visiting
neighbours, eating berries and generally enjoying herself.
Work chugs along with its normal ups and downs. As an
organisation we still live very year-to-year with very little long term
funding assurance. It is disruptive, but it also keeps away complacency.
There are lots of interesting things going on including the start of the
hospital construction. Pupsa and his friend, Vikram, were here for a
long weekend to see the site and brainstorm about the hospital design.
It will incorporate a lot of passive solar heating principles in it and
should be a very beautiful building that exemplifies the harmony
between local architecture and sound design. Most institutional
buildings in the hills are such awful concrete monstrosities when such
a lot of local, and appropriate, skills exist. It is really sad.

The animal news: “We have Papoose, our dog; Celadon,

who is Pooji’s El Picolo toro’s progeny plus two (nameless) free
range chickens!! One day we’ll have a small horse for Ilya and a
bhotia doggie. The (animal) brood grows!!”
373 FULFILMENT

At that time the retaining wall was being done. The hospital
was to be built on two levels, with a connecting walkway. When
the first module of the building reached door lintel height, the
Hoodlum swung into action. Work had to be stopped, despite
years of effort the snag is still not resolved. But the workmen
were employed to finish the guest house instead.
The fields which would grow oats for the horse were
prepared. The bhotia dog was requested from Mirtola Ashram.
It came. Bison. “My Bison,” as Ilya used to say so possessively.
Its mate also came about a year later. Ilya named her Molly. I
didn’t know her, she came in 1996.
An August 1994 letter:

Rakhi is on the 21st of August and as usual I find that my letter

will not get to you on time. That notwithstanding, here’s wishing you a
very happy Rakhi and many more joyous years ahead. This is the once
in a year chance where I write to Arjun and Kabir. Kabir never writes
back, but its good to get Arjun’s detailed letters every once in a while.
Work is going well. We are at the end of the planting season now
having planted out so many different things this, year. The oak seeds
that we had collected at the Watchung Reservation germinated very
well and have become 2-foot high saplings. We have planted out three,
one has been given to Theo way up in the lap of the Great Himalaya
near Panch Chuli peak! People will wonder where these trees came
from!
Ilya is in good shape. She stays at home during the day when we
are out at work; very happy amusing herself with gardening, playing
on her swing, and generally harassing the dog, cat, and two hens.
We just spent two weeks in Delhi. It was hot, and our work just
inched along with the low energy levels. Everyone was unwell. I had a
bout of viral fever. Mummy, Naniji and Sushil got conjunctivitis. Then
all this trouble started in the U.P. Hill districts. Government policies on
reservation of jobs and admissions in schools/colleges for backward
castes have quotas in the hills that are grossly disproportionate to the
real proportions of such people. So for the last two months the U.P.
State government has gone on strike and the government has come to
a standstill. Essential services like banks, post offices, public transport
have been severely disrupted.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 374

We got back in a tiny gap in the curfew that had been clamped
down in Haldwani because of rioting there. In general it is quite a bad
scene.
Our work goes on, however, amidst all of this though the
uncertainties and violence are unsettling. One never thought that this
would happen in the hills.
We have four new additions to the family. Two chickens and
another gorgeous cat called Papuchino. He is a real friendly beast and
almost pure white long-haired Persian with pale blue eyes. The last
addition is a COMPUTER! Pooji was very very kind to donate her
primitive PC to us, and we had a picnic getting it in working shape
plus getting the accessories, printer, etc. But you can’t imagine how
convenient we find writing work now. First we thought that we would
install it at home so that we could work at night, but our voltage is
so appalling that the transformer wouldn’t pickup the voltage. All
we need is a cellular phone and then may be we could even have
conversations!
We are at home today after three weeks and Ilya has gone
a-visiting to her baby-sitter’s house. Sushil and I are plugging away at
pending housework, drying our crop of red chillies, making loads of
green chilli pickle from our own fields, pickling gerkins, making chilli
sauce, botding plum wine... and generally soaking in the wonder fill
autumn sun and flower drenched garden. And the house is QUIET
with no Ilya around. She is a raucous kid, and shouts a lot, sings and
basically is quite uninhibited. She’s finally grown into the clothes your
Mum gave her, Yasmir, and parades around looking rather dandy
amongst the maize and soya bean in the fields!
Gigi Mama is expected soon I believe. How nice for Naniji. I’ll
end now. Please give my love to Mimi, Mytri and Rani if you speak
with them.

I remember the morning when Oona decided that they

had to leave. Sushil would have liked to wait to have more news.
She packed fourteen pieces of baggage within the space of half
an hour, bullied Sushil into loading it, picked up Ilya who was
still sleeping and they were off before the sun was up. They
made the two-hour gap in curfew. It was that same energy that
375 FULFILMENT

prompted her to sit down at the computer even if she had only
half an hour in hand, or, while waiting for a phone to connect,
use that time to do some paperwork.
A March 1995 letter in which she lets her hair down:

I have been meaning to write, but ever since we started having

acute funding hassles, I have been writing 2-3 proposals a month. As a
result, letter writing has ground to a complete halt. Life here otherwise
goes on with its own ups and downs. Our work is progressing very
well, but the Home Ministry is really playing hell into us. Quite a
nightmare; enquiries, hold-ups for eight months and basically we are
in a lot of (institutional and personal) debt. Sushil and I have started
looking for more lucrative assignments on the consultants market. Let
us see what comes up.
Sushil has just gone to Delhi for a few days. We hear that Chari
(Dr Ajay Dhar) has a serious cancer of the lymph nodes....
Ilya and I are having a ball here. Yesterday was Holi. This year
our village celebrated it with great gusto. All the youth go around
in a gang to everyone’s house singing and dancing the traditional
Jhoras, a slow dance with a drummer in the middle and everyone
linked up encircling him slowly. It’s very nice. I guess people in the
shops drink themselves to death and make an absolute nuisance of
themselves. This house-to-house celebration is full of camaraderie
and neighbourly feelings and it culminates in a feast in the mandir.
Ilya now chats away in Hindi, and she is real hung up on her
magnet toys and ‘Bedtime Torybooks’. Ever since Bison, the new pup,
chewed up her last nipple she has been off the bottle and hence the
nights are not an unending sequence of wailing for milk plus wet
nappies. Finally, after three years, we are getting a decent sleep at
night.
In the middle, both our beautiful cats (the Himalayan Seal Points
gifted by Pooji) were slaughtered by the yellow-throated martens, and
two of our hens too. One had even started laying gorgeous honey
coloured eggs with vivid orange yolks. And you know that Papoose
got killed by the leopard? So now we only have Bison, the bhotia
mastiff who will grow up (if he survives) to be a fearful beauty. He
also was kidnapped from our house by the local strongman — and we
had a real showdown with him.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 376

Vigilance, a friend said, is the price one must pay for

survival. Strongmen, or mushrooms. Another towards the end
of March 1995:
Thanks, Yasmir, for sending stuff for Ilya, that’s very thoughtful
of you. Papa told me on the phone the other day, so when we are next
down in Delhi I’ll pick it up.
Life goes on with its ups and downs, more downs than ups. Ilya’s
babysitter was away for a few days, and it was quite a job cooking,
lugging her down the hill plus trying to manage accounts for the year
ending with Ilya walking all over my papers! But she is so much more
manageable now.
Am delighted that you all will come up to Satoli during your
November holiday in India. I think you may last out a nice long
weekend here! Better get your hill legs in shape.
The weather is glorious nowadays. Lovely sunshine and spring
flowers. We have this gorgeous wisteria vine just outside the kitchen
door which is laden with fragrant lilac grape-like bunches.
Our new pup is real cute and frisky and Ilya loves him.
P.S. Parveen of SRUTI is to be married to Aditya Menon on 1
April.

My mother came with us to the wedding in Chandigarh.

She thought Parveen was strikingly beautiful with her long
open black hair reaching below her hips. Aditya had been a
favourite with my mother for many years. Besides Aloke he
was the only one allowed to tinker with the Ford Mercury, 1948
model, which was my father’s passion.
Another August letter, dated the 11th. Exactly a year before
Oona came to Delhi to spend that wonderful week with us.

How are you both? No direct news for a while though I get the
latest and read your letters when I come to Delhi. This time I’ve come
after about four months. Have been waiting for the heat to ease.
Yesterday was Rakhi. HAPPY RAKHEE! Sorry I haven’t
377 FULFILMENT

been able to get it to you in time. We had a really nice family get
together—Gita, Ajit, Vikram, Pooji, Tauji, Sunil and Somi were all
over. Much Scotch, potato salad and kababs. Nice to meet all the
cousins, particularly Ajit after they came back from their two-year
stay in England. I haven’t met his two children yet. They are very brave
to have two children. Gita was trying to brainwash me into having
another and I was resisting madly saying that it’s just not possible with
our style of life.
We are very pleased to hear that your plans to come out to India
in November are finalised. We have a very sweet little guest room
coming up and with a little bit of luck you and Yasmir will be able to
inaugurate it.
Ilya and Sushil are very well. They are off to Pune later on this
month, Sushil will carry on to Bangalore for ten days and return to
pick up Ilya
Then Ilya stays in Delhi while we travel in Garhwal in connection
with a study that we are doing for UNICEF to analyse the Health
Delivery Systems for women (15-45) and children (0-5) in the Hill
Regions. That includes fascinating travel in Kumaon, Garhwal and
Himachal.
Work otherwise goes on well in spite of the uncertainties that we
have to live with. As the momentum grows and the team size increases
(we are 25 now) the burden of developing the organisation increases.
May be that is why I’m down to 46 kg and my haemoglobin is not up
to much though I feel just fine...

That period of uncertainty finally came to an end towards

the end of August 1995, when the organisation had survived
the stipulated three years. Her weight too began to go up. She
had put on almost 10 kg within the year. April 1996:

We are here in Delhi for a short summer break basically with

the intention of attending to some urgent things and SWIMMING. I
think we are fairly successful in getting some swimming in during the
year even though we didn’t get too far on the skiing. The problem with
this new resort Auli is that it is not in the permanent snow region.
And so one has to head there when the weather is deteriorating and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 378

get some skiing in. Since it is a 7-8 hour drive there is not much of
an incentive to move away from the warm home fires under those
conditions.
THANKS a lot for the lens, the tele converter, the CDs. Awfully
good of you, it shall do wonders for the versatility of our photography.
Am waiting to try it out. The range seems perfect for our needs and it
fits with no problem.
Life in Satoli is soaring and the year-end is always an interesting
time when we look back and see where we are getting — the
achievements, and the impact of Aarohi’s work is beginning to show.
It is, indeed, satisfying to see the slow revolution in awareness and
basic needs such as safe water plus sanitation slowly being fulfilled for
the ordinary Pahari.
Organisation-wise, we raked in Rs 3.2 million this year and we
are inching towards more stability. And it is not all dreary grassroots
work.
The sprinkling of action research, networking, and travel keeps
us well stimulated and ever growing. Let us see what the year ahead
brings.
Sushil’s fund raising for the summer course at Harvard is inching
along. It is being routed through the State and Central government
(Ministry of Health). All seems positive but one can’t say till it is in the
bag. We are keeping our fingers crossed.
Ilya is just fine. She has done an about turn and converses
with us only in English. I hope that helps her in her otherwise Hindi
environment. She loves her Aarohi Bal Sansaar school and we are
trying hard to keep our much needed efforts in education afloat.
We had a great trip to Pune and Kihim (Salima’s ancestral beach
home). Can’t remember if we talked at length about it... Enjoy your
new home, I believe you move in soon. Break a coconut when you
do! It is a real rooting thing to have a home of one’s own and any
expense is an investment in doing it up. How much we have lavished
on Sukoon!
We had a marvellous sighting of the comet HAYATUKTAKE (?)
which was so vivid in the Satoli sky. And Papa has just given us the
telescope and the stand. The mountains are incredible — I think one
could see someone walking on those ridges, if there was someone.
One can see single houses plus lights plus terraces of Almora.
379 FULFILMENT

That was the last letter in the lot that Aloke sent. There
were only fourteen months between them and despite living on
different continents, their work too worlds apart, they remained
very close.
I mailed her 1996 Rakhi letters in mid-August. When
Arjun sent me a photocopy of his, and Kabir’s, I saw that she
had done beautiful pen sketches in each. And they carried the
date 28 August 1996. Vikram’s was handed over to him, on that
date, but only after the cremation.

Memory does not dim with time. She glows with the same
radiance that I see in the picture of the four of us which George
took at the gurudwara, before Aloke’s wedding ceremony, on
that freezing day in January 1994. She is wearing the beautiful
rose-pink silk brocade sari, the only new sari we bought when
she got married. I bought it on Aloke’s behalf, as his gift to
her. Her face is full, hair piled high on her head, chin up, her
perfect teeth showing in a broad smile. She also wears the gold
jhumkas, given to me by Gurbir’s mother when she was bom,
the ones I forgot to take out from the bank locker when she got
married.
“How could you forget?” I did. I’m sorry.
She made do with the pearl tops which Diljit gave her, to
cheer her up, when she was not able to go to Spain. The same
tops I passed on to Shaila, an Oona keepsake, to cheer her up.
ona MOUNTAIN WIND 380
 19
Time Transcended

our way back from the shraddh puja in Satoli, when

we had stopped by the bridge on the river Kosi, I
had picked up two stones. One is elongated and
rubbed smooth by the eternal waters from die Himalaya, and
the other, from the hillside, is a flat, jagged, grey mica-sparkling
slate. I like to think of the smooth one as a Shiva lingam. It
has two thick white rings circling it. Concentric rings, close
together but not touching. It is that same circularity that was
part of Oona’s life, part of her doodlings and drawings. The
motif she chose for her wedding card.
After the Kosi joins the Ganga how long will the water
take to reach the Bay of Bengal, to merge with the ocean? From
milestone 174, bridge number 4? One year? More, or less? And
from Garhmukteswar? And the last bit, in October, from the
other side of Satoli where Oona said she would take me one
day? Where kachnar and elm did well besides the willow, where
she wanted to plant the kachnar seeds.
How often we have driven on that stretch of road, the
Almora highway, the distance is measured from Delhi. The
village of Chopra, with its Rest House on a spur a short steep
climb up from the road, is the nearest human landmark. How
pleased Oona was at the turnout of women at the shibir earlier
in 1996. “You must come,” she insisted when I said I would
rather stay at home with Ilya. “I want you to be there,” she
persisted. I went.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 382

Her efforts at shaking the passivity of the women, of

getting them to participate actively, were beginning to bear fruit.
But she was impatient that day, impatient that they wouldn’t
speak. She was trying to rush their pace. I had felt it then, and
today I see it as part of the same hurry that her colleagues
had mentioned. A quickening, as though there was not time
enough. That day the ice was broken only after an hour when
some songs were initiated by Sushil, Gopal the accountant, and
Pramod who looked after the apricot oil project, and one or two
others from Aarohi.
I remember that clearly because I had been trying to
persuade Gopal to spend ten or fifteen minutes at the Aarohi Bal
Sansaar and see the children through their morning assembly
before he settled down to his accounts. He could sing and he
has a very pleasant, cheerful smiling face.
“Get some life into them! They are so wooden. So
straitjacketed,” she would complain when she saw the four-to-
seven-year-olds standing in straight lines, stiffly to attention,
and singing those rousing nationalist songs sung in every
school in flat monotones and with poker faces.
“Just sort it out. Get me somebody who can take it on....
Money is not the problem, finding the right person is.”
She was thinking five years ahead, the years when Ilya
would begin her primary education. “I don’t want her to be
disadvantaged just because we live and work in Satoli. I want
the school to be good enough for her. If it can’t be, I’ll scrap it.
She might just as well go the village primary school then and
we’ll see what we do next.”
Kalyan mentioned that the subject of Ilya’s schooling had
also been a source of discontent between Sushil and Oona
during the six months of 1996, when diey all spent much time
together. Sushil felt that she was worrying needlessly, that just
being in natural surroundings was good enough. But Oona was
seriously concerned. In fact when she came to Delhi in mid-
August we followed up some groundwork that Gurbir and I had
done for her and we did project a scenario five years ahead.
383 TIME TRANSCENDED

More time in Delhi for Ilya, and then perhaps boarding school
in Nainital when she was six or seven. We had already spoken
to the Principal of Sherwood, a Sanawarian, who agreed it
would do her no harm to learn at home till then.The school
had recently become co-educational and Jojo would then be in
senior school.

I saw the moon on 22 October. It was a half sphere, hanging

low in the eastern sky, rather like a slice of watermelon, juicy
side up. The zephyr an thes is still blooming. I put two in the
little ceramic holder near Ilya’s picture, along with them I put
in blades of the white streaked Australian grass that Oona had
given me. From the clump under the Japanese flowering plum.
Why hadn’t I thought of that before? It looks pretty.
Aloke called. He always does on the 22nd and 28th. He
calls on birthdays, anniversaries and in between also, besides
communicating by e-mail and the occasional letter. I tease him
that one doesn’t get the flavour of Aloke without his miserable
handwriting. The drunken spider crawl. He takes it in good
humour. It takes at least three readings to decipher it. His
conversation with Gurbir was about the stock market crash and
the new catamaran he has bought. With me it was about people
— Shaila, Mimi, Mytri, my brother in California who was due
to visit him. Then quietly he slipped in that he had dreamed of
Oona and lots of other people—her friends. He mentioned the
nihilist in particular.
“The message I get from the dream is that we must move
on.” Would he tell me the details anyhow, 1 asked. Dreams have
a way of slipping away, please write them down.

The morning we were leaving Satoli after the pujas and my

own private dedication of Oona’s Place up the hill, Sushil and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 384

I had a chance to talk, the first really since January this year. I
asked if there had been any conversation between them in the
days that Oona was in hospital in Delhi. There was only one
of consequence. He had capitulated on the major contention
between them in 1996, that Oona was ready for another baby
but he said he was too old, at forty, to have another. In the
hospital when she was dying and Ilya was already dead, he had
told her, “Get well, Baby. We’ll have another child.”
Oona mentioned a second baby in one of her letters to
Vidya as early as May 1993.

Ilya and my mother and I went to Anand two weeks ago for a
workshop. The campus looks beautiful and the trees are magnificent.
IRMA has come of age as a research institution but a rather disturbing
trend with the post graduate programme is that most of the students
opt for the corporate sector.
Ilya grows beautifully. She had her first swim today and just
loved it. She is four months old now, very amiable, doesn’t cry too
much at all and has now started sucking her thumb so I don’t have to
nurse her to sleep!! It’s good fun to have a child. Recendy there have
been a lot of one-kid family versus two-kid family debates. What do
you and Shubha feel? Sushil and I haven’t quite decided yet.

Somewhere in the recesses of my memory the demarcation

of time, of lives, smudges. Thirty years become eclipsed and I
don’t quite know whether I am mother or grandmother. I think
of Ilya and Oona-as-Ilya swims into my consciousness in the
same way that the Kosi merges with the Ganga.
I have been looking at old albums. One of the baby
pictures of Oona has the Ganga in it. It was taken by Gurbir
at Mahabalipuram when we meandered all over India before
returning to the north, at the conclusion of the Defence Services
Staff College course in 1964. She was about nine months old
then. The backdrop is that marvellous relief in rock showing
the descent of the Ganga from heaven onto earth. The force of
385 TIME TRANSCENDED

the fall is broken by Shiva, seated in the Himalaya, who receives

it on his head cushioned by the matted hair of his aspect as the
Ascetic. Did Shiva, or any god for that matter, ever give any
guarantees about when either birth or death would happen?
Oona worried about a second child. For me both had been born
without debate, without thought, without plan.
It had taken Gurbir almost ten minutes to get that one
just right. He had to stand far back to get the entire granite
rockface. I sat Oona on the low’ stone wall, at the spot Gurbir
had indicated, and steadied her by placing my right hand
behind the small of her back, my arm at full stretch. Oona
appears cherubic in white in the right hand lower comer, about
the size of a thumb print. Behind her are the life-size elephants,
perfectly smoothed granite in bulging relief, caught in mid-
step. And above them the intricately chiselled mass of bodies.
The little cleft, a natural fissure, a water channel, is where the
Ganga descends in this monumental work of art. Oona didn’t
topple over, no other people walked by, and foetus-Aloke didn’t
bother me as I crouched by the stone wall. There are no sepia
tones in the picture, it is as though it was taken yesterday, well
defined in light and shadow. Oona was incidental, she was
included to provide perspective. She went there two decades
later, with Madhu and Khalid, when she was a young woman.
I didn’t notice the moon on the 28th but I saw that the
zephyranthes I brought down from Satoli this year has two
blooms. And in the patch near the Japanese flowering plum
there is another flowering. This was the original lot. When this
multiplied, I had put down some near the palm about three
years ago. That is where the stones are now. Nobody knows that
is a Shiva lingam, nobody but me. And Ethel has been told that
her green chilly and ginger pickle is not to be put on the flat
mica-sparkling stone. If she wants sun for the pickle, there is
plenty of it in other parts of the garden. She has understood.
The kachnar down the road has a second flush of pink
blossoms. Across the road is the harsinghar, the Tree of Sorrow.
It sheds its blossoms, like tears, every night. I walk on them
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 386

in the morning before they are swept away. Little wax-white

flowers, they drop face down, their orange tubes pointing to the
sky. Each petal has an indented edge, indented with a little vee.
The shape reminds me of Ilya’s potato print card for her great
grandmother last year.

Inside, in green ink, “HAPPY 1996! Lots of love, Sushil.”

Below that, in Oona’s writing, normal ink, “By ILYA, a few
days before her 3rd birthday.” The main message is in Oona’s
handwriting, in deep crimson:
387 TIME TRANSCENDED

She used capitals for Ilya more often than not.

Surjit passed on this card, and some other printed cards,
to Somi, thinking that Jaikaran and Asis might enjoy playing
with them. She was clearing out her mother’s desk. Somi gave
them the printed Christmas cards and put this aside for me
along with two others from Oona. Happy 1996?

“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for
weeks. No one answers the phone.” We have recently had one
of the phones changed. Neither Gurbir nor I were organised
enough to send out the information
“It is finished. Can you pick it up?”
There is no need for a preamble. Anjolie meant the portrait
of Oona. When she left for Bangalore in June she had told me
that the paint needed to dry. Then she was preoccupied with
the baby, her new grandson, Aditya and Parveen’s son, and time
slipped by. I offered to come in the morning but that didn’t suit
her. It was in the studio, she’d bring it back with her. Around
four would be a good time.
“Tomorrow?” I gave her a choice.
“No, come today.”
“Good. I won’t stay long.” On my way back I would look
in on Ambika, who was staying with Surjit, and still be home
before the office rush of traffic. I had left the early portions of
the ‘book’ with Ambika and she was ready to return them.
Anjolie looked as though she had been put through a
washing machine. Totally limp. She apologised that she had
not brought the painting, she had not stirred out of the house.
She was ill. Food poisoning. She had been retching all morning,
besides having the runs and cramps.
“I didn’t call to let you know because I wanted to see you
anyhow.”
We talked. I told her about Satoli. We discussed the sorry
state of affairs in Uttar Pradesh and corruption in general. She
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 388

remarked on how besotted Aditya was as a new father. She asked

about Aloke, and whether he and Yasmir had yet produced a
baby. I explained Yasmir’s logic about waiting till 1998. That
set her off. She is a superb mimic: “Radhika was logical too.”
Anjolie continued about her sister who lives in England, as she
pursed her mouth and pitched her voice high: ‘“First we must
have the Dishwasher. Then we need a Carpet for the Bedroom.
The House needs to be Painted... When we’ve done that, we’ll
see.’ Utterly mad.” I thought of Veena telling me about her son
who did a life projection of the expenditure entailed in having a
baby and said flatly: “A baby is unaffordable.”
Finally she broached the subject, with yet another apology.
“It’s come out so sad. I tried my best to lighten it but...”
I smiled reassuringly. What was there to say? She loved
Oona and I see the pain in her eyes every time we meet.
She pulled herself together and said that she was feeling
better and would go out but that we would go first to the studio.
“Come into the bedroom.”
Raja was in bed, looking sorry for himself. He had the flu. An
enormous portrait of Raja, looking like Christ crucified, hangs
on the wall above the headboard. Eyes dark and cavernous, his
high domed head bereft of hair and a long beard dominate. We
make small talk. I ask if he has read The God ojSmall Things,
my favourite question these days. Sheepishly he confesses, “I
couldn’t.” Anjolie emerged just then. “He’s so sexist...he calls it a
female’s book.” Transformed by a Kanjeevaram silk sari, a bindi
and lavish lipstick, she is soon ready to leave.
“It is difficult to paint a posthumous portrait,” she remarked.
And told me of another portrait, not posthumous, that she had
painted which also came out very sad. The young woman sat
for her at her mother’s request, and was impeccably groomed,
hair done, jewellery, and wearing silk. Anjolie remarked that
she had been going through a very bad time in her personal
life and that is what came through. “One just doesn’t see the
externals....”
I began to feel quite worried. Did I want to have a sad
389 TIME TRANSCENDED

Oona when in my mind and my heart she is a happy, versatile,

fulfilled Oona, Oona with a sense of satisfaction of having
created an organisation ready to stand on its feet in four and
a half years. The sparkling eyes after Ramu Gandhi’s lecture,
the brilliant smile in the Ladakh picture and the innocent grin
in the Green Oona. I held my peace and asked for directions. I
have not been to the studio before.
After crossing the main road, there were a few turnings
and she said, “Park here.” We had to walk into a lane, along a
little patch of municipal garden, then into another lane onto
which houses opened. I could tell from the crochet skullcaps
the men wore that it was a Muslim area. The children were busy
sweeping the sidewalk collecting neat piles of leaves and bits of
paper. “Hi!” was the mutual form of greeting as Anjolie sailed
past them scattering encouragement, “Well done, Well done.” I
followed in her wake.
“I hope you’ve brought the key.”
“No need. It’s here. Chalo, kholo!” She called out to no one
in particular. And someone appeared to unlock the door.
Music system, books, a threadbare Persian carpet marked
with blotches of dry paint, large floor cushions, bowls full of
paint tubes, a cupboard, and five or six paintings in various
stages of being done. There was a separate stack of finished
ones in a cupboard among which she looked. Each wrapped
separately in newspaper, there were no labels that I could see.
Since I couldn’t help her, I looked around while she kept up
the conversation. She was preparing for a big exhibition by end
December. “You must come. You will be here?”
“I don’t think so,” and explain that I intend to go for
the winter camp in Uttarkashi. She told me about an ardent
collector of her w ork who had been by twice in these past three
months. The only painting he wanted was Oona. “It’s not for
sale. Sorry.” The second time he had wanted to know why not.
He had been given no reasons. Simply that it wasn’t.
“Ah! Here it is.”
She unwrapped it, and stood it up. I understood why
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 390

the man had wanted it. It was ethereal. It was a Madonna. We

hugged each other, in silence.
There was only one chair in the room, Anjolie lowered
herself into it and waved her hand vaguely. I walked away and
wiped the tears that had spilled over and came back to face the
portrait. There was no need for another chair. There was enough
space on the carpet in front of the huge composition that I had
noticed earlier as I waited—Mother Teresa, her head worked
in minute detail but the rest, many Sisters of the Order were
merely pencilled in. Their heads were done, the distinctive deep
blue bordered white sari draped like a cowl. I don’t remember
if they had faces.
“It’s beautiful.” I looked for the sadness Anjolie had talked
of, the sadness I too had seen in the photograph which Anjolie
had used as a model.
“You’ve no idea how difficult it was... She was such a deep
person...”
The sadness was in Anjolie. When I had given her the
picture she had talked of the family trip on which Oona had
joined them, to Agra, more than fifteen years ago when she
said, “The girl spoke in riddles...” They had been discussing
love. When Aditya’s first marriage broke up, she said he had
remarked that of all the girls he had known Oona was head and
shoulders above everyone. “How strange life is...”
“I tried to lighten it,” she repeated. “See, the comers of the
lips go up.”
“The eyes...” I started to say and she interrupted, “You
know that I don’t paint eyes.” That is usually a hallmark.
She can though. The portrait of Mother Teresa had them
even if they were closed. There each wrinkle could be seen, and
the mouth gathered into a little pucker had fine lines radiating
from it. Gnarled hands. Oona’s portrait was beyond the world
of skin detail.
“As a portrait it is good,” she assured me. The comers of
her mouth turned down, as they do when she is concentrating,
or thoughtful.
391 TIME TRANSCENDED

“But I don’t know if it is Oona. It’s quite strange, but when

I was painting it, it was almost as though it had a distinct will
of its own...”
She articulated the feeling that I have had. First, the thought
that I should write would not go. It churned round and round
in my head. Then I started, prompted by my mother’s dream or
vision if you will, and the cues starting popping up. I told her
how it had been with me, that I would begin to think a thought
and something in my everyday life would happen to buttress
it. Providing ‘material’. That it had been almost as though there
was some kind of guidance going on. I didn’t understand it but
I listened, I paid attention.

It was six before I reached Ambika. I owe Ambika. It is because

of her that Oona and Sushil were able to get their Gypsy at a
very reasonable price. A depreciated price against a loan payable
when able. It started life as the newest in the fleet of Gypsys
that formed the backbone of the biogas project of the NGO in
Orissa where Ambika worked then. In 1993 or there abouts the
government withdrew the subsidy for biogas plants. The fleet
of vehicles became redundant, would Oona be interested? Yes,
indeed. It was a windfall for Oona. And that is how it has the
Orissa numberplate—OIG 1395.
I owe Ambika also for the use of her room in IRMA,
Anand, when both she and Oona were attending the gender
workshop in 1993 which Sara Ahmed, a childhood friend of
Oona’s and now on the faculty, had organised. ‘Dependents’
were discouraged but Sara had arranged that we three could
stay in a flat close to hers on the campus. The rest of the
participants were in the main building. I used to walk down
with Ilya around ten o’clock so Oona could slip up to Ambika’s
room for the mid-morning feed. We had lunch by turns. Who
went first depended on how hungry Ilya was. Oona herself used
to be ravenous all the time when she was breast-feeding Ilya.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 392

Sara was Oona’s classmate in Tehran in the early 1970s.

She wrote the obituary in the IRMA journal.
I attended one session of that workshop, on the last day.
Tushaar Shah, who was then the head of the Institute, spoke.
We had met in Amari Mandali when he could also feel there
was a problem but could not put his finger on it. He made a
rather dismissive reference to Gender being the buzzword in
development in this last decade of the 1990s. Buzzword or not,
the focus has shifted from Women in Development to Women
and Development. Oona too had come to see that women held
the key. Educated women. Even if the education is as little as
primary school. ‘Educate a girl child, educate a nation’ is the
slogan on the Aarohi envelopes. In green. Deodar green.
Oona had tried to persuade Ambika earlier, when she left
her school in Dehra Dun, to become involved with Aarohi and
Oona’s dream project of a first rate residential school, somewhere
in the Kumaon region, where the children of development
professionals in remote regions might send their children. “The
money, the land, everything will come...” Ambika’s health ruled
out a visit to the hills.
The usual exchange of news over, Ambika handed me
the first six sections I had left with her. “The pace doesn’t flag,”
she said. Pace? For me pace belongs to a thriller or a detective
novel. Did she mean interest?
“It’s not a lament,” she continued. “Rather a search for
answers to questions we all have. Of course the event is sad....”
Ambika is a believer, a believer in the truths of the Bhagavad
Gita.
“It has an aliveness...” Suddenly her eyes opened wide, in
some kind of inner astonishment.
“You know, Oona was not meant to grow old.” I asked if
she said that because of the two white hairs in Oona’s head and
Oona’s own attitude to aging. She nodded. “Partly that,” and
gave me some other bits that had struck her.
393 TIME TRANSCENDED

At home Gurbir and I sat with it for a while and soaked

it in. His response too was: “Beautiful.” I told him how Anjolie
had been apologetic about its sadness. He didn’t see that. After
dinner I asked him again what it said to him. He thought for
quite a long time, and said, “the Future.” For him, the way is
always ahead. He has never dwelt on, or in, the Past. He has
never said it, but sometimes I have felt that in these last six or
eight months he has thought that I am too much in the past.
But for me it is the moments of the past which float into my
consciousness that make my Present. I’m aware of each of them
as much as I am of the real life present. Aware also that unless
this present is lived fully the memory of it will be only a haze.
When the household had wound down for the night and
I had the downstairs to myself, I looked again. I stood the
hardboard on the bookshelf in place of the Green Oona. It is
under the light there, propped up against the Japanese print
which used to be so effective when I wanted to distract Ilya
before she reached the age of reason.
I looked at the photograph first and then at the painting.
Both have the three-quarter profile. The rough black shawl with
the red border has been transformed into a loose drape of blue,
like a dupatta, the folds catching the light. A Madonna blue.
The eyes have the merest gleam, so delicate that it could be two
specks of moonlit dust unsetding the darkness. The head seems
to be held a fraction higher than in the photograph. The skin
tones are warm, suffused with a golden-tawny blush, a radiance.
Smooth, unblemished, as she had always wanted her skin to be.
Like Aloke’s skin, which she admired so much. Burnt umber
hair frames her face loosely, almost merging into the shades-
of-brown Rembrandtesque background. A wisp of hair escapes
across the right ear and falls over her neck. A broad strong
forehead. The face would not know what thirty-three means. It
is beyond Time.
I see no sadness. I see the enigmatic quality that Sushil
had seen in the photograph. Beyond that I see aloofness, the
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 394

aloofness of self-assurance. In her last letter to us, dated 8

August 1996, she had written cryptically:

This whole business of self-esteem, etc. is so weird. Those closest

to us sometimes devastate our self-esteem, but it is the internal core
that makes us really BELIEVE in ourselves in spite of continuous
abuse and self abuse that life heaps on us. I think that is what you both
have given me that is most precious.

Her letter puzzled me then. But it came just a day or so before

she herself did and I did not take it up with her. What was going
on?

I am so arrogant that I just can’t believe that 1 am what people

imply and say at times. And I know I am right too. So, Mummy, that’s
the way it is, all these ups and downs, we alone have to seek solace,
here and there but most from within.

Which people? Again, I did not raise it, I was so engrossed

in my own unrest. She continued: “Not easy, but like all poor
Indians, we are, I feel, masters at diversifying our emotional and
spiritual sources so that we can continuously bounce back like
few others.” Was she speaking of me, or herself? It was much
later that Kalyan mentioned that Oona too had been disturbed
in the first half of 1996.1 will now never know. I will not try to
know. I will hold on instead to what I do know.
In the portrait I see a confirmation—I see an
unflinchingness which goes beyond ‘abuse and self abuse’,
beyond the cares of the world, beyond the ravages of petty
human emotions, beyond the slings and arrows. I see the
drdhta, the staying power that Krishananand had talked of
when he took me to see the handpump and to show me the
trees she had planted on the hillside above her home in Satoli. I
see transcendence. I see Oona in samadhi.
395 TIME TRANSCENDED

Perhaps Ambika is right. Oona was not meant to grow old.

Distant thunder, the smell of rain in the air. I heard a
gentle tapping on the leaves before I saw or felt the raindrops
when I went upstairs. It was like the gentle drizzle the day she
got married. Very auspicious everyone said. Today it feels like
a benediction.
I looked again by daylight. The blue became greenish.
Why had I decided it was a Madonna blue? Now I see hints
of ultramarine, the blue of the eternal void, the blue of the
waters of Pangong lake when I first saw it years before Oona
did. I see the shadows of the green trees in the clear water of
Panna lake in which Oona has merged. Of pine, of deodar, oak,
and the willow. I see the iridescence of the blue-green in the
peacock’s neck caught against the light, the flash of the blue in
the wing of the common teal. The wings that Ilya had picked
up at Sultanpur, surgically severed by the marsh harrier. The
fold has dark depths on either side of the gleam of light on the
crest. Like a wave before it explodes into spray. “Big wave,” as
Ilya would have said.
Is it burnt umber or burnt sienna? I see the absence of
black, but depths of brown and washes of many layers, the
shades whispering softly to each other. The skin glows, it glows
with life. A shadow on the nose, where it has a little bump less
noticeable than mine, and another under the lower lip, and
under the nostrils. The blush on the perfectly chiselled cheek
bones, on the right temple and the top of the forehead. There is
a fullness to the face. “Becoming chunky, aren’t I?”, she had said
at what might have been the beginnings of a middle-age spread.
Not chunky, Oona, just solid, I had reassured her.
How can it be both ethereal and solid? It could be a death
mask but, at the same time, it is the very essence of life.

The next day, the day before Divali, Mohit and Premila
happened to come by. Premila remarked on the youthful quality
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 396

of the face. Oona’s youthfulness was something that I was very

aware of. She always had an air of innocence, no matter what
her life experiences were. Even that disastrous relationship with
the nihilist while she was in the University did not scar her
permanently. I worried then that she might become embittered
and cynical. We talked about it. I expressed my concern clearly
and in neutral tones—that I did not like the fact that she was
being tempted to abdicate responsibility for her own life, for her
independence of thought, by accepting in totality his half-baked
philosophy. When the relationship finally broke, she remarked:
“Well, I certainly got a lifetime’s worth of experience there.”
She had explored the depths of her own passionate nature and
found that passion wasn’t enough. Finally it was the attempt at
intellectual subjugation that she resisted, and a betrayal of trust
that she found unpardonable. That was the first time she asked
for my help.
Mohit saw serenity and depth echoing Anjolie’s own
perception.
We talked about how Sushil was faring. Being neighbours
now they meet each other frequently, eating together in the
evening as often as not. Mohit commented that there were
extreme mood swings, immersion in work and troughs of
despair. I asked if this was specific to the past year or whether
they had always been there. He was thoughtful and said he had
wondered about that himself. “It is difficult to know a person
unless you actually live with them...”. We had the same analogy:
“It’s like having a girlfriend, who then becomes a wife...” I had
seen some of Sushil’s moodiness and I know that his withdrawals
into a wall of silence were very difficult for Oona to take since
she herself was so open and ungrudging. I recognised that
because withdrawal into silence was my own way of coping
with upsets. For many years Gurbir read that as sulking.
In the last year or so I had also seen a certain hardening
with both but more with Oona. Sushil was away on a number of
occasions for his consultancies and it seemed as though she had
decided not to be subjected to anyone else’s moods. Anita told
397 TIME TRANSCENDED

me that they tried to get her over to Ranikhet with Ilya but she
resisted that. She stayed alone and got on with whatever had to
be done. It was time to listen to music and write letters. And to
weave stories for Ilya.
Esh came by later. He did not bring up the subject of the
painting, he waited for me to say something first. It was late
afternoon, and I brought the painting out into the verandah,
propped it in a cane chair, facing west. He looked in silence for a
long time. I noticed that he had to take off his glasses and clean
them, I have not seen him do that before. He saw great depth
and character, an inwardness, a withdrawal from the world.
He saw resoluteness, the same drdhta that Khemanand in the
village had seen in Oona.

The next day was Divali, 30 October. We did not celebrate

it. It is only four months since Gurbir’s mother died, moreover
for whom shall we have the festivities? Year before last, Ilya
was with us. She was fascinated by the lights and not quite
comfortable with the sparklers. She would hold one, and then
she would try to back away from the sparks. She enjoyed the
anars, the conical ones which sit on the ground and when lit
spew out a plume of sparks like a mini-volcano. She liked it best
when I drew circles and arabesques in the air with a sparkler,
working them around her, enclosing her in light.
Somi and Ajit brought the children over for a quiet
evening. Jaikaran wanted to light candles. I asked him to put
three near the palm where the zephyranthes has been blooming
and where the stones from the Kosi are placed. And I asked for
more under the frangipani at the other end of the garden. Asis
and Raveena thought it was a strange kind of birthday party
and went around blowing them out, clapping with delight.
When the children had gone home, I brought out the
portrait. I propped it up in the cane chair and lit the round
red candles that Ruma and Annu had brought last year at
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 398

Divali, the big one for Oona and the small one for Ilya. The
candlelight danced over the colours and textures giving it an
entirely new look. Somi has an educated eye for art, she was
entranced. She did not see sorrow. She saw reflectiveness and
strength of character, and she saw the radiance of Life. She
did not know Oona well personally but through Ajit she felt
an intimate knowledge and deep feeling for her. She remarked
to me once that besides his mother, Oona was the only person
that Ajit could communicate fully with, both in the mind and
in the heart.
Oona was the first member of the Mansingh family whom
she met other than Ajit’s parents when it was decided that she
and Ajit would marry. That was 3 November 1991, two days
before Divali that year, and two days after Oona had returned
from England. It was just after Oona’s knee surgery. Diljit was
also there, and Jasleen came by bringing exotic food for Oona.
We were all crowded in the bedroom downstairs because
Oona was not allowed to hobble around till the stitches were
removed. I remember that Ajit looked pleased with himself,
that his friend was a pleasant looking person and not one to be
intimidated. It is not easy to hold one’s own with both Diljit and
Jasleen in the same room, they are such powerful personalities.
We spent almost half an hour, each of us engrossed in our
own thoughts, aware of each other but no one intruded into the
other’s silences and memories. Somi looked at it from different
angles. “It is so alive,” she marvelled. “Look at that skin! It
glows.” To Somi the portrait spoke i/die future, of a looking
forward as it had done to Gurbir.
For Somi, Oona as well as her mother are alive. Co
iversation between us very often gravitates in diis direction
and the mother-daughter relationship. She says that she was
only able to come to terms with her mother’s death through
Oona’s. And that ultimately she could think about them and not
become depressed.
Ajit was very, very quiet. He didn’t express an opinion
other than that it was good. Somi says that he has talked of his
399 TIME TRANSCENDED

grandmother, Dadiji. That she had a full life, and that it was
time for her to go; he feels a void but not sadness. He has told
me that too, but he has never talked of his feelings about Oona
generally, or specifically during that week when she was on the
brink of the abyss. He still cannot. Somi told me that the day
Ilya died all he would say was, “Little Ilya. Why her? She was
so young...”
Ilya and I had a little secret about Ajit. It revolved around
the subject of being careful. “Naughty Ajit Mama!” He earned
that when he shut the door of the car catching her foot, wedged
against the side of the seat. That was the evening we were
returning after she had a splash around with Jaikaran and Asis
in their inflatable pool. Ajit took a video of their frolicking. I
haven’t seen it, perhaps some day he will show it to me. Seeing
as much of cousin-siblings was part of the plan in the bringing
up of Ilya to undercut the shortcomings of being an only child.
At home there was Raveena. I see so clearly, all of us in the
downstairs bedroom. Bodi Ilya and Raveena on the bed, Oona
sitting there with a plate in her hand, feeding both of them.
And Ethel watching. But, a year later, when Ilya wanted to be
quiet, she would prefer to go upstairs, she couldn’t cope with
the distraction of conversation at table. She preferred to eat
separately and to be told a story at the same time.
In Pune it was Juhi. A little older than Ilya, very possessive
about her toys, but protective too when Ilya went with her to
school as a guest-student. Oona and Sushil had it worked out
that for at least two or three months of the year Ilva would be in
the company of some child besides the children in Satoli.

I have made a start tidying up. In the process I found two letters
from Oona written during the summer of 1995 when there
were devastating fires all over Kumaon. There had been no rain
for months and the hills were like a tinderbox. When I went to
spend ten days in June there, while Sushil was away, part of my
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 400

work was to water the plants which Bachi had planted in the
upper field. It was too far for the water pipe to reach, we filled
buckets instead and carried them by hand in relays.

7 July 1995
What a peaceful Tuesday. Ilya is flaked out, Tara despatched,
the cat and dog are snoozing. I’ve also had my weekly indulgence
(afternoon snooze) and have just finished a bout of weeding. With
the monsoons come the weeds and the leeches. Both not nice, so I’ve
a swollen right hand from pulling out at least 20 kg of weeds and also
leech bites.
The crops are doing well. Your beans survived. Well done. And
we have peanuts, maize, peas, tomatoes, achar mirch, hara mirch,
kaddu, baigan, karela, beans, rajma, soyabean, potatoes, gobi, ganth
gobi, Simla mirch, greens. I think we are doing okay: Bachi and
Anandi and Tara. I have suggested to Tara that she could also come
to Delhi with Ilya. It will give you a little flexibility. What do you feel?
Let me know.
The Hindi books were very, very nice. I just love the cricket plus
Munia one. They are superbly illustrated. Ilya can’t resist kissing the
‘Tidda’ on every page! She strokes it, saying, Nice, Nice.
So Ilya will start school tomorrow with Tara in tow. Let’s see how
she fares. I’m sure there will be some temporary chaos but it should
work out all right. I’m quite happy about our Aarohi Bal Sansaar.
Wouldn’t have been happy with the local Anganwadi plus Primary
school. That is called foresight.

A big scrawl at the bottom of the page, in a different pen:

“Ilya LOVES her school. It’s too sweet really. Lots of individual
attention. Tara takes her.”
It was then almost three years since Aarohi had been
registered. Till then permission to receive financial aid from
foreign donors had been granted on a case by case basis. Each
application had to be supported by the necessary paperwork
and followed up. The procedure was irksome, but under the
rules, unavoidable. Aarohi had also run into a problem with
401 TIME TRANSCENDED

the fact that Oona and Sushil were the main office bearers,
and being married to each other they were slotted as ‘family’.
Apparently that was not a healthy unit for an NGO. The fact that
they were both professionals, with different spheres of interest,
was not considered to be an asset. I never could understand
that, and I still don’t. To me it seemed the ideal combination
but the bureaucracy would not see that. I remember asking, at
one point, whether they should be divorced, would they then
be a more acceptable combination? The answer I got was no,
one should step down. Sushil did. And the fact had to be duly
recorded with the Registrar of Societies, and proof provided
to satisfy the Home Ministry. “Hope you got the letter to the
Registrar plus the relevant minutes and have done the needful
regarding their letter which you would have also seen. Are we
almost there? The suspense is killing me. If I need to stalk the
corridors of Lok Nayak Bhavan let me know, but till then I think
you are being effective on the phone...keep it up.”
Oona was then negotiating a herb initiative and was keen
not to miss the monsoon season. “Wonder what news from
Sarah Hall. Do give her a ring and find out what’s up.” Sarah
Hall was the South Asia representative of a UK-based agency,
Find Your Feet. The choice was to route the funding through
another agency, or to obtain their own accreditation quickly.
A possibility for the former was to go through Peter Chovvfin,
based in Bareilly with an NGO, who was an associate of Sarah’s
and on whose organisation Oona was inducted as member in
1996. It was Sarah Hall who wrote the obituary in the Falmer
magazine of Sussex University.
Oona decided to wait. Things were moving, inching along.
She wrote on 18 July 1995:

It is pouring buckets and I don’t know whether I’m coming or

going. When that happens I just banish everyone and start tidying my
table and writing letters! As a result, by the end of the day some 10-15
letters get written and a lot of work gets done. But you are high on my
list, Mummy. Lots of things to tell you so let me get them out... Letters
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 402

from NAEB are all here. I now have to tackle that. God, they are
pedantic...shall do my homework and send it to you plus Mr Eswaran
first to have a look at and then on to them.
The Intelligence Bureau people came yesterday, from Haldwani.
They were as usual courteous, polite, thorough and even interested —
they should send their report in the next 5-10 days. Mr Sharma says
that you need to push/persevere that end, that’s a MUST otherwise it
will get lost in the thousands of applications. And no need to bribe,
just push.
Met Mr Tolia recently. He was asking if he could do anything
— he brought it up himself. I said not yet, we will wait, we don’t want
to overpush. Should we seek his help, he is Commissioner, Kumaon?
Please ask Mr Eswaran. He is really able. At least this IB business is
cleared and behind us now.
I’ve written to Jasleen confirming 1-8 October. Please do come
too and handle Ilya then, Mummy. With some luck the new room
will be ready by then. Work is going on there. Planted lots of trees for
Harela...

As I recall it took another month, but it happened. Within

exactly three years Aarohi was formally recognised by the
Government of India. Reports had still to be submitted every
six months but che first hurdle to stability had been crossed.

That summer Gurbir and Esh attended the third annual general
meeting of Aarohi in May. Sarindar and Swati had also gone
up with Gurbir. I missed the worst of the forest fires but Swati
remembers them vividly. She had gone up on behalf of the
National Institute of Design to do a feasibility survey for a project
that Oona had been pushing for two years—a documentation
of the woodcarving craft of the region. She hoped to establish
a training centre where Ganga Ram, the master craftsman who
had done all their doors and windows, could train younger
people.
403 TIME TRANSCENDED

“It was such a wonderful trip,” she said sighing ecstatically,

her moonface beaming. “It will always remain etched in my
mind.... It was the most beautiful three days I have spent in my
life. But I never saw the mountains!” She recalled the extreme
heat of the plains and the haze up in the hills, the summer haze
thickened by the smoke of the fires.
Swati spent time with Ganga Ram who came up from
Diyari, and discussed her ideas about finding a market in the
city for likhai-crafted items, non-traditional items such as
picture frames and side tables. Ganga Ram was sceptical that
anything could be achieved through a government organisation.
Swati persevered and assured him that there was a market and
the money for setting up a training centre could be found. But
who would be trained? Swati felt that perhaps Ganga Ram was
reluctant to impart his knowledge and skill. She may be right.
On the other hand, there might be no takers. When they tried to
identify who else could be inducted into the programme, they
could find only three persons from about seventeen villages.
Finally it was organised as a crafts documentation project.
The report was completed in 1996. Oona did not see it. It carries
a dedication: In memory of Ilya and Oona Sharma. Sushil sent
me a copy.
Ganga Ram is a very happy man. His eldest son was
selected as a typist with the U.P. government, the ultimate
sinecure, a job with the government.

Swati reminded me of her early contact with Qona and Sushil.

I had sent them to see her when she had a bad back, five? six?
years ago
“It was soon after they were married. They seemed to be
so happy together. I was in excruciating pain but, because I was
laughing and joking with them, they teased me. ‘What do you
expect me to do when you are here? Cry?’
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 404

“Oona filled Sushil in about my marriage not having

worked, and told him how brave I was to be managing on my
own.. .The message I got at the end of it was that of Oona’s
attitude. That if one makes the effort things have to work out.
We talked again about my situation in 1995, during that trip,
and she was so encouraging, specially because I was worrying
about the future of my children. She told me that she thought I
was doing a bloody good job with the children.
“Perhaps her confidence came from the fact that things
turned out well for her despite her shaky start... She had been
through a tough upheaval to marry Sushil, you know the
conservative family and all that. To me, she was always full of
reassurance. Don’t worry, it will work out....”
Tell me about the fire, I prompted her.
“That was horrible. It was so scary. By the time we got
back from the meeting in the evening, Ilya was very cranky. We
had been back scarcely ten minutes when somebody came and
asked for Sushil. There was some problem, so Sushil went off
with this person. Gurbir was looking after Ilya and Oona and I
went up on the roof. She pointed north and said ‘That is Binsar
out there.’ There was a huge ring of fire, a snaking orange line, a
little way below the crest of the hill. She told me how dry it had
been, fires had been erupting all over the hills.
“Suddenly there was a commotion on the hill behind the
house, with people rushing by yelling ‘Aag lag gai.’ She was
galvanized into action. She asked if I had film in my camera,
took it, and took some shots of the flames which we could now
see quite clearly. Ilya started bawling again downstairs and we
climbed down quickly. ‘I hope they have put water and can
contain it,’ she said. Simultaneously, two or three people came
asking for buckets to fill at the spring. ‘Can you handle Ilya?’ she
said to me as she set out with them. Gurbir followed. I offered
to go too but Gurbir told me to stay back. So did Esh when I
wondered a little later again about going.
“It was so weird. While all this was going on, someone
arrived to deliver a chicken which someone had apparently
405 TIME TRANSCENDED

brought from Nainital.... By this time, Sushil returned. He was

very worried about the fire, it was quite close to the house. I
could hear the crackling of the flames and a rhythmic crunch
crunch, I guess they were beating it with branches... I could
hear Oona’s voice clearly. Then Sushil went off too. They were
away about an hour.”
I checked out with Esh what happened that day.
“Oh, yes. The fire. That’s right. Swati was in and out of the
kitchen.” What were you doing? I asked quite aggressively.
“Sarindar and I were having a drink, I think...”
When Swati says ‘behind the house’ she actually means
to the east. I remember Oona explaining to me where the fire
had been. It was on common land, contiguous with the eastern
boundary of their place beyond the ravine. That part of the
property had been left wild and overgrown and I often used
to see the black partridge foraging in a little clearing there. It
is also there that the langurs used to come to raid the apricot
trees. Bison, the black bhotia from Mirtola ashram, used to get
very excited when the monkeys came. And it was dangerous
to let him loose to scare them away because that was also the
leopard trail.
Oona made the point that all the fires were in forests
administered by the Forest Department —mostly pine forests
where the carpet of dried needles acted as tinder. There had been
none in areas which were managed by the local communities,
at least none that were allowed to go out of control. The choice
of species for afforestation work was a constant tussle between
the government and non-government organisations. It was the
struggle between viewing the forest wealth of the country only
as commercial timber and other forest produce or seeing it as
a livelihood support base for the communities who lived there.
 20
Happiness

he thought of the waste of a life which had so

much yet to give used to gnaw at me. I don’t like
wastefulness in any form. I use scraps of material,
wool, paper, everything. I am using all the colourful wool
remnants from Ilya’s sweaters to knit for Raveena now. I have
also started to knit with the wool I had bought to make leggings
and a jacket for Ilya for the winter of 1996. When I cooked for
the children I enjoyed most creating a new dish with whatever
was at hand.
“Pick up the pieces,” Oona had said to me when she
plunged into that murderous looking gully full of soft snow.
That is what I do now. Pick up the pieces she has left with me
and put them together again. She provides me with all I need.
Among the letters which we saved are those she wrote from
England, when she made another set of good friends in Sussex.
Some have been to visit. Besides Ute, there was Laura Lockwood
and Jackie Shroff, who came together soon after Lite’s first visit.
I think of Laura’s connection in Tokyo and the message I sent
her about my Buddhist chanting and the prayers held for Oona
and Ilya in the main temple. She was there teaching English.
When it happened she shared the news and her distress with
her students and told them of Oona’s work. She has recently
sent a contribution for Aarohi. It was the amount the students
paid for one month, they mutually agreed that it be donated for
this cause.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 408

When Oona returned to England after her visit to India

in August 1991, she went for her practical training to Bangor,
Wales, from where she wrote.

Many thanks for your letter of 1 September...I’ve settled in very

well here and have just completed my first week. I’ve a small room on
top of the hill five minutes from the sea on one side and five minutes
from my office and the town centre on the other. Quiet and it also has
a tub bath just next to my door. LUXURY! It is such a pretty place and
I’ve already made lots of friends, know my way about the library, have
a sprinkling of nice music to listen to and also a phone in the office. So
I keep calling friends and Diljit often. Unfortunately it doesn’t accept
international calls! I did try.
The evenings are so wonderful. I finish by about 5.30 or 6.00 and
then set off for a long walk. Have found some interesting pockets of
forest, fields, beaches and sea fronts and just love wandering around,
quite completely alone.
Sorry for losing control that day on the phone, that was really
absurd of me. It was just that the British Council man in London was
so inauthentic that I really felt as if I wasn’t being understood. It was
not right, as you said, of me to have taken it personally. So talking to
you all just made all my anger come gushing out. I was pretty happy
by the evening in Diljit and Aju’s good company. They really have
been such friends and a haven here.
The work scene here looks very very exciting. Dr Good, the
Head of the Institute of Terrestrial Ecology will take me up to Kilder
Forest in Northumberland and show me their research here locally.
He is such a friendly person and seems to think very highly of me, I
don’t know why! I also go out to Exeter and the south-west of England
with the M Sc Agroforestry group for a week. Daniel, the main person
I will be working with here, me and someone else. May visit some
organic farming place in Wales which should be fun. And for the rest
of the time I and Daniel will develop and test his system of knowledge
elicitation on the knowledge base that I have of the Central Himalaya.
And I’ve also developed some databases for the International Council
for Agroforestry. And may be in early October my knee will be seen...
Get yourself Microsoft Word S. It is really good. I’m just dying
to have my own. I’d do a six month stint in a big organisation just to
get that provided I’m based in Satoli. Have to setde down there now, I
409 HAPPINESS

really look forward to that. Nice feeling to know one has got one’s own
home at this young and tender age! That was a brilliant stroke of luck
for Sushil and me!

The excitement in the letter continues: “I’ve carted my

diving stuff here...What joy that sport has given me, I’m
obsessed by it, ” and spills over into a huge THANK YOU! “Can
you imagine it all worked out? It is the will and the ability to
dream. Dream and it shall come true, plus of course a little bit
of help from a lot of friends.”

Friends. Relationships. Family. That is what mattered most to

Oona during her life, it is what has made mine worth living
after her death.
When I had the Ramanujan biography on my Bibliophile
list, in 1993 perhaps, I sent her a copy. The Man Who Knew
Infinity — a Life of the Genius Ramanujan by Robert Kanigel.
I thought she would enjoy the mathematics in his life as much
as anything else. I have just read it myself. He died at the age
of thirty-two, his self-taught genius having been acknowledged
in the world of science, honoured by his own country, having
crossed the waters and come back. She would have been pleased
at that. But what struck her most, as Gurbir told me when I asked
if they had discussed it, was how lonely his life had been. A life
without friends, without the warmth of human relationships.
He had no contact with his young wife either. His mother
intercepted his letters to her, and presumably discouraged any
from her. In fact, she manipulated events to drive her away
from the family home. Ramanujan, ill and lonely, was left to
assume that his wife did not care for him.
When he was ill, his mother went to an astrologer who
read in the stars “the chart of a man of world-wide reputation
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 410

apt to die at the height of his fame, or one who, if he did live
long, would remain obscure.” He did not know that it was
Ramanujan’s chart he was preparing and tried to backtrack
when he found out. Ramanujan had read his own horoscope
which predicted his death before the age of thirty-five. Kanigel
remarks, “Cut cruelly short, Ramanujan’s life... lacked follow
through, roundedness, completion. It never had a second half
to give it shape. So we continue to give it shape, years after his
death.”
In writing about Oona, I ask myself if that is what I am
attempting to do? The answer comes as No. There is no second
half, her life was whole. It is what Ambika saw, it is what Ramu
Gandhi said at the kirtan. In a way it is what her math teacher,
Nandita, in the University remarked too.

It’s very difficult to think of Oona as gone, for she was the
very personification of life. She bubbled like champagne and shone
like a ray of sunshine. A conscientious student, she was a relentless
explorer. Her innate sense of adventure often led her into completely
unchartered territory, a world of fantasy almost. She was immensely
innovative but not always completely rational.
Oona came across as someone completely genuine and
transparent. There was no trace of artificiality or subterfuge, not
a whiff of fashionable cynicism or preoccupation with external
appearance. In an institution where snobbery often substitutes
for class, and stereotyping for a sense of identity, Oona was like a
breath of fresh air. Her class lay in being completely classless in her
interaction with peers, her goodness in her reluctance to condemn
or write off anyone, however offensive or unpopular.
Oona was warm, generous and loyal. Although quite clear
about her own views, she did not hold them with the aggressive
certainty characteristic of young adults but was quick to appreciate
differences in thinking. Needless to say, Oona was one of the most
popular students our College has had.
Oona was an idealist... from the very core of her being. She
could no more help being herself or giving of herself than a tree
can help giving shade, or a flower its fragrance. It was completely
appropriate that Oona should go to Anand after College, and then
411 HAPPINESS

start the kind of work she did.

On second thoughts, perhaps it was inevitable that Oona
would leave us so soon. People like her usually do. But her simplicity
and charm, her passion, her integrity and the flow of her warmth
and compassion will remain with us forever.

Mahesh and Som both admired, and perhaps envied,

Oona for the path she chose. Of himself Mahesh remarked
when he had assessed Oona’s potential for work in the real
world: “All I can do is to think, coordinate, analyse, read, write
and speak. Of course I do want a broader knowledge, etc. but
in essence my specialisation will be here: this will be the scene
for battle.” After his Ph D from Balliol he came back and put
precisely those qualities to work. A Research Fellow at the Teen
Murti Nehru Memorial Library, he is sought after by the media
as a political analyst. And Som, though an academic, did not
abandon his interest in ecological concerns.

In the packet of letters labelled 1985-86 is one dated 23

October 1985 from Ashish Kothari, the moving spirit behind
Kalpavriksh, addressed jointly to Oona and another girl, Ranu:
“It was pice to receive your letters—unfortunately too late,
only when I returned a week back. Quite frankly the idea of
coming to Anand never did strike me...” He spoke of his own
battles. “The Narmada meeting was OK — no better or worse.
It ended with some useful practical suggestions on networking
and information exchange but was otherwise somewhat dull.
The dams issue itself is of course hotting up—with hundred
cropping up all over the place and threatening forests and
tribals all over India. How many fights can one fight? It is at
times like that I really feel sorry (I won’t mince words here)
that people like you, who are so desperately needed elsewhere,
are rotting in places like IRMA. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but
that’s how I genuinely and sadly feel.”
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 412

The letter was written ten months after the Bhopal gas
tragedy which killed and maimed thousands. “Talking about
fights, we’ve just started a campaign here to get a couple of
hazardous chemical units shifted out. They’re using chlorine,
which can be quite lethal, and have awful safety precautions.
After an initial investigation we decided to start the campaign
through a dharna (21 October) in front of the factory—over
20 organisations, several local residents, and the workers trade
union took part. We might go to the Supreme Court too.”
He ends with a complaint: “You people hop in and out of
Delhi without letting us know. Next time you’re coming, please
do tell me in advance. I’d like to meet both of you.”

Vivek Mishra, the third of the Kalpavriksh group, did not

succeed in making the switch from physics. Like Anjolie, Vivek
saw both an inscrutability and an openness, and of course that
incredible vitality, in Oona. “ It is great to read your letter again,
it is as if I am getting hold of the lost self in this jungle here.
God! You’re good at exhorting. How spirited you must be to
write all this! How convinced and determined!” In 1985 Oona
was concerned about the best people leaving the country. “If
there is a debate Oona, there is no contest from my side. Self-
reliance is what is supposed to be achieved at adulthood...who
is gonna feed me, and for how long, if I return now. I’m fighting
the system here as well. These guys here are not willing to leave
me and the odds are against me...”
The stream of Vivek’s letters continue through two years:

How beautifully you express your thoughts on paper—neady

and honesdy. I’m not jealous of Madhu. Envy I still have, for his
strength and single-mindedness. What is the difference between
envy and jealousy? Do I have respect? I don’t know.
I’m reading the Upanisads... An old friend of my father’s was
extremely worried about my insincerity—being a Brahmin but not
413 HAPPINESS

fulfilling the task of being a torch bearer of society.

How are things in India with Rajiv Gandhi trying to modernise
India by leaps and bounds and you trying to uplift the rural poor?
I hope you are making suitable progress. Don’t you ever be stopped
by the wall as a dead end, for confidence, sincerity and honesty of
purpose shall always provide you with the strength to walk thru the
wall. Are you practicing that? Or do you prefer to vaporise clouds?

Rajiv Gandhi, Prime Minister, was the chief guest at Oona’s

convocation in 1986. He did not have much time after that.
Mid-January 1986, Vivek wrote again.

Yes, Oona, I know what you mean. Got your letter 16 hours
back. And as usual spent a while in figuring out what you are talking
about. Actually the first couple of times hardly anything heads in for
such is the excitement (and your handwriting). I’m relaxed now, so I
can take liberties! It is not a complaint, it is a characteristic—Oona
Mansingh’s thoughts and handwriting both evade but not forever.
Sometimes when I re-read your letters, say after a month or two, I
think, ‘Hey! I had figured all that last time’ but it is a new journey
again, actually revisiting a somewhat familiar place.
How is Aloke? He seemed pretty serious about coming over
to the States. How and where are your folks? Are you going to
Chandimandir? You looked great in the pool that day when the setting
sun was shining its last few orange rays from behind the clouds and
you were gleaming in its iridescence with your dark body clinging to
the suit perhaps saying how liberated you were to be in water.

I have always thought of water as Oona’s special element

but Vivek saw it as space. “Just finished Bach’s Illusions. In fact
what motivated me to start this letter was the part of it which
I read on the flight. How close it came to me! You remember I
talked about the period in which I refrained from reading. It
was such ‘flights’ I used to be in. Simply exhilarating. I more or
less understand you and your flying. Perhaps you are living your
aspirations. And that silence when I questioned your flying.”
In a self-assessment paper I notice that she saw the
goodness in herself. She also saw a downside. The second
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 414

half of that self assessment notes: “I feel I am not able to love

completely. To give of myself totally.”
She did though. She gave herself completely, and trustingly,
to Sushil.
And Satoli happened for her.

My mother survived my absence in December when I went

to Uttarkashi for the winter camp in 1997. She also survived
January with only a minor mishap when she fell off her bed
and cut her head on the comer of a chair. No broken bones.
She had mended well enough to attend the thanksgiving kirtan
we had on 8 February 1998 which turned into a double event.
A few days earlier she received news that her only surviving
sibling, her brother who lived alone in Solan, died. I didn’t see
any sorrow or grief. She merely remarked that the timing was
perfect and that we would pray for the peace of his soul.
In March I left for America to visit Aloke. He had been
pressing me to take time off but I felt I had to stay with Oona
and finish saying what I needed to say. I am almost done.
My time in America in the spring of 1998 became for me
another pilgrimage, one which revolved around Oona’s friends
wherever they were. I spent time with Bulbul, Aparajita, the
unvanquished, to give her formal name, in Atlanta. Her third
child, a daughter, was a few months old. Shanta had been to
visit just before I reached. We skirted around memories, Bulbul
nervous initially, not wishing to trigger unhappiness. But there
was only happiness to recall. Oona’s visits to Manali, their trek
together to Chandra Tal when everyone other than Oona got
high altitude sickness but where she succeeded in wrenching
her knee. Som, too, was in Atlanta and Girija and Esh were
visiting. Bulbul invited them over and we cooked an elaborate
meal, while the four boys ran around in the yard inventing
games, competing, and then complaining that the other one had
cheated. I visited Rajesh Thadani in Yale and we met another set
415 HAPPINESS

of Oona’s friends from IRMA. Wherever I went there was Oona

talk. Wherever I looked there were Oona impressions.
Aloke and I went for a walk to Watchung Reservation
and came to the little causeway. It had water flowing over it
unlike January 1994 when Oona had picked her way across the
frozen waterfall gingerly. “You remember?” Aloke said. Yes, I
remember. She had sneakily collected a pocketful of acorns
from the other side. Then she had buried them in snow outside
Aloke’s apartment and dug them out the day we left.
I visited Kooka too, in Charlottesville; she teaches at the
University of Virginia. There was an Oona-lifetime worth of
association there. Kooka who liked the idea of Oona-flowers
growing on the hills around Oona’s home, nourished by Oona-
elements.
I visited Mytri and Rani. Mimi was away in Stanford.
Shaila, then in Manhattan, handed me a set of keys, for her
apartment on 4th Street West. “It is your home, come and go as
you please.” Diljit and Aju also came to New York in June. All
of them came to Aloke’s home but there was no need for Oona
talk.
Wherever I went I played the cassette I carried with me,
the Song of the Soul. It is a recording of the mantras and prayers
sung by Swami Bhoomananda’s disciples, both academics who
left their careers and worldly life to join him. They have devoted
their lives to his cause—the teaching of Brahma Vidya, the
highest knowledge.
And in my own quiet time, I read the quotation which
travelled with me. It is what the Buddha spoke in the Bamboo
Forest long before it was time for him to go.

At the time I was the plumeria tree I witnessed all these

events.
I learnt that if we treat others kindly, we will be treated
kindly in return; but if we treat others cruelly, sooner or
later, we will suffer the same fate. I vowed that in all my
future lives, I would endeavour to help other human beings.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 416

Future lives. I hold that close. The plumeria is none other

than the frangipani. Also called the temple tree.

On my way back in June, I stopped over in Germany, with

Vijay, Kooka’s uncle, Kausi’s brother, who had got the Silimarin
for Oona. And I visited Ute in Darmstaadt. She had great need
to talk.
Ute told me that she met Oona in winter at the swimming
pool the first time she went. “She smiled at me and we became
friends. ” When spring came they went running together,
“leaving the campus area, running through the Downs, stopping
at an edge and enjoying a great view of the valley in front of
us and then running back.” To explain why Oona remains
memorable for her she told me of two incidents. “In Spring,
I took a Philosophy class, where I had to write some essays. I
asked Oona to help me and we lay in the meadow and discussed
Hobbes. She questioned every statement I had put down and
together we worked out what Hobbes had really meant. I
studied maths for ages, but she had the ability to ‘simply’ apply
this way of thinking to literature or philosophy.”
She supported this with another incident when a friend
visited her, a magician, and Oona invited them both over for
dinner. “She cooked delicious Indian food and as his thank
you Mathias wanted to present one of his best tricks. I’ve seen
it before, it never fails. This time it did.” It was a card trick.
“You pick a card, he forms piles, you say which he should take
away and at the end your card remains.” He said Oona’s way
of choosing the piles did not fit the patterns he knew and Ute
extended the argument to “her way of thinking, a very clear
mind, able to find extraordinary solutions.” She took me to
the same forest where she had taken Oona. There, she said,
Oona had a ‘small discussion’ about trees with her mother,
who doesn’t know a word of English yet they had no problem
417 HAPPINESS

understanding each other.

One of the evenings we were together she showed her
slides of Satoli—the marvellous views of the forests, the
terraced hillsides, clouds swirling in the valleys, and above all,
the mountains. There were slides from both her trips. In 1992,
when Oona was recovered from her knee operation and they
had walked down to the river to swim. Oona in her huge straw
hat, keeping the ultraviolet off her face, Papoose, the golden
mixed breed which the leopard carried away, snuggling with
her. Sushil, barebodied, sitting on a boulder with his feet in the
water, a little way behind, a little out of focus. It was before they
got their first jeep and the only way to get around was to walk.
It took them two hours down, and three to return. I remember
that well because Oona was pleased that her knee could take
the strain.
The next lot was from Ute’s trip in December 1995, just
after Aloke and Yasmir had visited. Ilya is bundled up in a shiny
bright red parka which they had brought. There is a strip of
plaster just below her chin, she had fallen down and cut herself.
Her eyes are wide open and glisten with tears just barely
held back, the resolve shows through her lips tightly-pressed
together. Another of Oona and Ilya inside the house, seated on
the floor next to a dying fire. Oona sitting on her knees, weight
on her heels, with a bowl on the floor next to her having just
fed a tearful Ilya. She is looking down at Ilya, a beatific smile
on her face.
Four early morning shots of the three of them. It is
before dawn and they are underexposed. Ilya riding on Sushil’s
shoulder. Oona and Ilya in a tight hug, their faces cheek to
cheek, both smiling broadly. Happiness. Ute had some copies
made for me, in particular a blow up of Happiness. They are
sitting on the roof of the house, with the mixed pine forest
behind them. In the foreground is a cane basket, perhaps
chillies left out on the rooftop to dry in the sun. Every detail
of the patals, the slabs of slate, is clear. There was a blueness
in the slide rather than the grey of imminent daylight. Oona’s
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 418

body faces the mountains, perhaps she was waiting to catch

the first rays of the sun light up Nanda Devi and Trishul. Ilya
fits into a close embrace, her arms around Oona’s neck. Oona’s
shawl is draped tightly around Ilya. They are one entity. The
only colour is her left forearm, in her maroon sweater visible
below the shawl, which curls around Ilya across her hips. Faces
turned towards the camera, happiness shines in their eyes, their
cheeks, in their identical smiles. Oona’s perfect teeth, and Ilya’s
showing indistinctly. Ilya seems to be a miniaturised version of
an adult Oona. Joy. Bliss.
The photographer we went to said he would be able to lift
the faces into more light but the sky would be sacrificed. That’s
okay, ja? Yes. In the process a strange thing happened. The sky
became a void, a whiteness. But the grains of this whiteness
have crept into the tops of their heads, ready to engulf them,
where I would have expected the black of their hair to define
the space beyond. The jagged silhouettes of the trees have also
faded into the middle distance rather like the effect one sees in
Chinese watercolour paintings.
I remember the elements of the dream my mother had.
Whiteness, radiance, joy, trees. She saw the whiteness of a snow-
covered landscape. Here it seems to be a cosmic whiteness
flowing over darkness.
I remember what the Reiki Master said. That Ilya was a
saint, an evolved soul, and that Oona’s role was to facilitate her
passage beyond this world.
I remember Tsagaadai, his palm up, extended into the sky,
assuring me that they were fine, that they had reached God.
They were in no need of my prayers.
They may not be in need of my prayers, but I find I pray
anyway. They are prayers of gratitude. Of acknowledgement. I
begin to know that my will counts for nothing.
“I feel that the purpose of our life is the attainment of
happiness...” The Dalai Lama at the 12th Dharma celebration
in November 1997. “Encountering death in a relaxed way and
without experiencing unhappiness is very much dependent
419 HAPPINESS

on how you live your daily life. If our daily life is meaningful,
positive, then day by day, week by week, month by month, year
by year, when the end comes at least you will have the feeling
that what you did was meaningful.” I think of Oona asking
Khalid, about ten years before that moment arrived, ‘Is there
meaning in my life?’
Where happiness lies is the difficult question. In the finite?
Or in the infinite? In the day-to-day, moment-to-moment,
living of life or in a hypothetical hereafter? What and where
is this hereafter? Ultimately it is the same continuum called by
various names. The ten realms of existence, encompassing hell
and heaven and everything between, exist within us. They are
states of mind. How often the phrase Tm so happy’ occurs in
Oona’s letters despite some disappointments.

Back in Delhi, Sara Ahmed came to see us, she teaches

at IRMA now. She too brought some letters from Oona, some
Sukoon- Satoli letters. They have known each other since they
were about seven years old but lost touch until Oona went to
Sussex. Sara was then at Cambridge working for her doctorate;
they found each other through Mahesh at a seminar.
The first is dated 28 August 1995. Oona had exactly one
year left.
“It’s raining cats and dogs here. Just doesn’t stop. The roads
are just about holding out and we survive. The phones have been
down for ten months so it has ceased to be an issue. Otherwise
the family is fine. Ilya is growing up real nice—she has got into
the conversation phase and is growing out of babyhood. My
parents are fine and Aloke is coming in November after four
years. First time after he got married....”
Sara had met Ilya in Anand when Ilya was about four
months old. About a year later, Sara married a colleague. There
is a short one to acknowledge her news: “And how’s the mother-
to-be? Hope you are keeping good health, and looking after
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 420

yourself. Enjoy this very very special time in your life. It may
come only a few times so ENJOY! I’ll be thinking of you and
praying for a safe delivery.”
A work update: “Here we are fine and in a perpetual
spin. Sushil is in Bangalore and Ilya has gone to visit her
grandparents in Pune. So, I’m alone, lonely, high, low, listening
to a lot of music, and working hard.” The funding remained ad
hoc and they had to spread the net wide. “Work is growing.
What is so refreshing is the excellent atmosphere at the district
level vis-a- vis development organisations. I don’t think it has
ever been so good. They are so consultative, accommodating
and cooperative. Lots of new and interesting things going on.
Research on Pine Needles, Herbs and Medicinal Plants. We are
involved in a UNICEF study on the status of health of women
and children in the U.P. hills and Himachal. Fascinating.”
A scrawl in March 1996: “I got the bit on the Gender
Workshop. Can’t afford it in time and money! Life has become
so busy here that it is hard to keep up. Sushil was down with
mumps. One month went in caring for him + holidaying/
recuperating in Pune. Spent a lovely few days at Kihim by the
sea in a friend’s beach house. How are you managing with
Ishaan? Life is tough with kids to bring up plus work, specially
in a structured establishment. Ilya came with us everywhere
when she was small as you saw.”
Another scrawl in April 1996: “Life must have done one
huge somersault for you.... When I think of the times when
Ilya was small and think how we got through those days, I’m
still amazed! We are fine and things are going well. There is
a very dynamic environment that NGOs are going through
in the Hills. Lots of new things happening that involve much
interaction, networking, and contact with the government.”
June 1996: “Good to hear from you. Amazing that you can
still reply with a baby to look after and work. I think that is what
boarding school did for us—made us good correspondents! We
have two young IRMANs with us, Vijay and Vinod and I find
they are a good help. Vijay seems a seasoned lawyer in addition.
421 HAPPINESS

I am sending a copy of our Annual Report for you. Please pass

it on to the library when you finish with it. Work is great here
and I’m happy to be here in the cool weather while the rest of
India swelters. Ilya is three-and-a-half now and full of fun. It is
beautiful for her to be brought up amongst nature here. Lots of
love to you and regards to Akhil.”
The staccato tone of Oona’s letters to Sarah, the same
period when I had those forebodings, reflects what the Satoli
people said. That her pace had quickened; that she juggled with
twenty different things all at the same time, as though she was
in a hurry to finish what she had undertaken.
Had she finished? “I’m done with Aarohi,” she had said to
me in August. “They have to stand on their own feet now.”

A book I picked up at the Buddhist prayer meeting—The

Writings ofNichiren Daishonin, Volume Five—fell open and I
read: “You say you have now reached the unlucky age of thirty-
three, and for that reason sent offerings. I have reported this to
Shakyamuni Buddha, the Lotus Sutra and the god of the sun...”
It is a gosho, a letter, written 800 years ago. A note explains
that the idea of unlucky ages derives from the ancient Chinese
philosophy of Yin and Yang. It continues: “The ages of nineteen
and thirty- seven were also considered unlucky for a woman.”
A balancing of Yin and Yang is the basis of Shangung that
Tsagaadai taught us, which my mother and I continue to do.
“Everything in the world has two opposite sides,” the booklet
he gave us explained. “Heaven is yang and earth is yin. The
heavens above are motion, the earth calmness. In between these
two poles is the human being in whom the polar energies are
combined. These energies are not static, but dynamic. The two
dots in the symbol of yin and yang mean that when either of
the two energies reaches its extreme position, it carries the seed
of the other.” The dance of the molecules, Kalyan said. Cosmic
expansion and contraction. Inhalation and exhalation. Living
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 422

and dying.
Thirty-three! And nineteen?
In the box of Oona’s papers which I opened last month are
her IRMA assignments and term papers, newspaper clippings
and newsletters of Kalpavriksh. I also found a carbon copy of an
article she wrote after her trip with Madhu and Khalid to Orissa
in the summer of 1983, the summer she nearly died of cerebral
malaria. She was then nineteen.
I begin to feel sick .
“That night I started fading out. The fever and headache
came back. It was really cold at night; there was no fire and
the floor was hard and hurt.” I remember when Khalid brought
her back and have a ghastly sense of deja vu. God knows what
agonies she went through then.
“One morning the vomit was as yellow as the colour
of my lugra. I was stunned, and it was filthy bitter too. God
awful. Never felt more ill in my life. I collapsed that day. The
next morning I couldn’t stand. I could only see black and white
dazzling explosions, slump down again and break into a sweat.
Thought I was going to die—I really did. Wild thoughts
and weird episodes ran through my mind. I didn’t think I’d
make it through the night. I could sense that Khalid and Madhu
also must have thought pretty much the same.”
Didn’t think she’d make it through the night, she says
at nineteen. The same thought, thirteen years later, was in so
many minds, when she was
thirty-three. Unlucky ages for
a woman?
Her account was
published in Facets in early
1984. The motifs she drew
belong to the prayers Dashera,
the medicine man, chanted for
two nights.
She was spared then, and
I had offered thanks. I offer
423 HAPPINESS

thanks again for the thirteen years of grace given to her.

It is the 7th of August 1998. She would have been thirty-five.

About a week later, the day after Rakhi, after my Buddhist
prayers, the question came up again. “Why are humans born,
and what is the purpose of continuing to live in this world?”
This was the theme of the sermon at Myoshinji Temple, Japan,
by Reverend Jiho Takahashi on 8 September 1996. The purpose
of Oona’s life, and Ilya’s, had been in my mind when we had
the kirtan for them, on the 7th. It seems that the answer to my
question was already there but it has taken me two years to find
it.
“As people who embrace the Buddhism of Nichiren
Daishonin, we have a simple and straightforward response to
this query. The objective of our lives is to become happy.”
The fifth prayer is for those who have departed this life,
that they may attain Buddhahood. The second part is a prayer
for ‘the impartial benefits of Myoho-Renge-Kyo to spread
equally to the farthest reaches of the universe.’ It is a prayer for
all existence to attain the tranquil state of enlightened life.
My mother began her prayers from the Granth Sahib when
1 left in March and she is now ready to conclude them.
She wants to have a kirtan. It is arranged for the 22nd.
My friends will be at the head temple on the 22 nd and the
2 8th. I have asked for a toba to be inscribed this year on
my behalf for Ilya and Oona. Toba derives from the Sanskrit
stupa, initially a funerary mound to hold relics of the Buddha.
A special memorial service is being held on the 22 nd for which
they expect about 3,000 visitors from all over the world. This
overseas gathering was scheduled perhaps a year ago. My
friends will be there and will do this for me. They did it last
year, too, but they tell me that it is more effective if done by a
family member, someone close. I have asked for one toba, Oona
and Ilya are together. It is entirely coincidental that we decided
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 424

to have the kirtan for them on the 22nd in Delhi.

Either date is good enough. It will be two years. We chose
the 22nd because Oona’s Aarohi family in Satoli will probably
do something in the Hindu tradition on the 28th anyhow, as
Sushil did last year.
Love and compassion flow effortlessly, and she, with her
dazzling smile, was the fountainhead. I quote from the sermon:
“The life of the Buddha is generally characterized as ‘joraku
gajo’. ‘Jo’ is a free and unbinding lifestyle that is indestructible.
‘Raku’ means an absolute happiness characterized by joy in life
itself. ‘Ga’ refers to a powerful sense of self that is unswayed by
the emironment. ‘Jo’ signifies a pure life condition that remains
forever unstained by the surroundings.... We must bring
forth this Buddha nature from within our lives and use it as a
springboard from which to deal with our daily existence...”
I see elements of all those qualities in her. Incapable of
being corrupted, Khalid had said. Unstained. I look at the letter
Vidya wrote to explain his silence after he returned to Bombay
from Rishikesh. His son had also come down with Hepatitis
B.... It is a long letter, printed and in the form of a booklet to
show me a layout.

They are Oona pictures I have not seen before. The young- adult
Oona in 1985. Happy Oona. The madonna. Joyful despite the
425 HAPPINESS

cryptic ‘abuse and self abuse’ she mentioned in her last letter
to us.
I look at the writeup of her trip with Bulbul to Chandra
Tal. At the bottom of the second page is a sketch. Four figures
walking along, the sun shining, snow covered mountain peaks.
Anoop dreaming of the huge trout he hoped to catch. The
porter leaving a trail of rice... “We were now on short rations....
We were counting on Anoop’s trout but it was as elusive as the
Delhi monsoon this year. I believe all the fault of the stupid
Paraguayan El Nino.” Was that 1986?
Some things don’t change. The sun rises. The stars shine.
The full moon appears regularly. .And El Nino continues.
“I want to save the Himalayas,” she remarked to Mohit. The
Himalayas need saving. In 1996, August, pilgrims to Amarnath
were caught in a snowstorm and over a hundred died. This
year, 1998, on 13 and 18 August, the rock and rubble she wrote
about on her trek came down in an avalanche of mud and stone
burying two hundred people and wiping a little village, Malpa,
off the face of the hillside. Among them were forty pilgrims
en route to Mansarovar. Shiva dances his dance of death and
destruction, some would say. Others, human pressure on a
fragile ecosystem, unbridled development.
There are diaries, files, and other packets of letters. I will
let them be.

Kalyan has sent us some pictures of their early working days

together in Chirag.
“Grassroots has taken new turns, which in many ways, is
good. For we need to keep more busy than ever. Time will roll
on and on, but our memories will stay. Rock solid, just like our
friendships. Here are those snaps of Oona...out of old slides.
Just after we had painted our verandah windows golden brown,
thinking the colour would match the magical mists which
seemed to surround us in the glow of those early Sida years. A
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 426

new time slot, bursting with dreams.”

There is Oona with Joey in our first nursery’, supported

by VBE, at Simayil. Three of us moved around a lot, walking,
motorbiking and finally in that desert green jeep. The other one
is under the famous pear tree, that gorgeous giant of a tree which
kept us so happy. Whenever, or whatever would overtake our lives,
the shade of the pear tree would set us right. Like entertaining
nurserywomen on a lazy Sunday.
That’s Oona in our kitchen...late Sunday afternoon, preparing
exotica for the evening meal.
And over at Naukuchiatal, when Theo came up.
And when the first lot of saplings had to be planted at the Sitla
school by the children.
This one is at Kilmora, the big bungalow, devoid of life for ages,
till we arrived. The creepers had started happening with a lot of help
from Oona. The one with the big lenses was Mohit’s first birthday
with all of us, in July 90, on our w7ay back after a night in Binsar,
discovering the bakhlies of Peora. Sukoon-Satoli hadn’t happened
then.

I made Oona stand in front of

the improved variety of wheat we
had got from the Vivekananda Lab at
Haw’albagh, a place very dear to both
of us. We plagued those chaps to come
out of their desks chasing doctorates
and help those who could really do
with some help. Some wheat! It gave
a green fodder cut early in December
and then the full wheat in April plus
lots of extra crop residue. These plants
were taller than Oona!!
Oona in her maroon sweatshirt
wras probably the most common factor
in our lives, so was her smile and usual
brilliant self, like in this picture in our
upcoming garden.
427 HAPPINESS

Now Kalyan too looks ahead. New plans. New dreams. A

new future. “Anita and I were discussing that if we folks do not
push real hard and move our ideas into actions over wider and
wider spaces, then there are slim chances of ever being able to
attract young professionals. And if we fail to do this, then the
alternate scenario is pretty weird and messy. Our little setup
gets taken over by strange hands and moved into different
shades which may have nothing to do with our lives and our
very unique dreams and visions.
“Here we are, sitting like fools on our hillsides, without an
iota of strategic planning to ensure that good rock solid dreams
have a chance to weave the eternal magic decades after we are
lost to mother earth ”
“Fly like a silver bird...” wrote Kalyan when she was
twenty- five. She did. She left the nest, found her home and her
life partner. And she experienced motherhood.
“I love you,” Ilya said to her when she returned to Satoli
after her week with us in Delhi mid-August 1996.
“I love you too,” she said to Ilya.
Strangely, I asked her about love during that week on her
second last day here. She was mostly quiet in the evenings and
didn’t want to be chatting, content to get her massage. Reading
between the lines of some of the ups and downs of the last two
or three years and her last letter to us, I asked: “Does Sushil love
you?” She was silent for a while. “Yes. Sushil loves me.” And
added, after another pause, “In his own way.”
And what made me tell her, after we finished with
Aurobindo Ashram, what a remarkable young w’oman she was?
“You really think so?” Yes, really I do.
 21
Peace

ona, you asked for it.

You asked me, scarcely two months before it all
happened, to tell you stories about you two when
you were children, of your lives, and I couldn’t think of anything
specific then. Well, you have it now. More than you bargained
for, or me for that matter.
There are a few things that I still need to tell you. You may
know them anyhow, but I need to tell them, like the Ancient
Mariner.
When Aloke came in December 1997 for ten days, the sun
shone for about half an hour the dav before he left. It was not a
fallout of the forest fires in Indonesia but merely an inversion
over north India—all the pollution trapped under a cloud
blanket. I know because when I went to Uttarkashi we emerged
from the smog at about 3,000 feet and had clear blue skies and
bright sunshine for the week we were there.
Driving up, the Bhagirathi Ganga seemed to be a ribbon
winding its way deep down in the gorge. Green stubble
wherever there were fields. Winter wheat. And before that, all
the way up from Haridwar, bright patches of mustard in flower,
such a cheerful, clear, clean yellow. To think that a large part of
this valley will become a lake when the Tehri dam is completed
seems bizarre. The hills were mostly bare. Perhaps the pilgrims
denuded them of trees, perhaps the goats and sheep did—we
could see them on the hills on the other side of the river where
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 430

there were still some trees, white, like large maggots.

We reached the ashram on Christmas Eve and that evening
tribute w’as paid to Christ. I have noticed that all holidays, as
holy days, are acknowledged as are the basic precepts of the
various religions. The winter camp was being held for the first
time, it was special because it ran into 1998, the 108th year
since the birth of Swami Tapovan, the recluse who attained
mahasamadhi in January. He was not cremated but jal samadhi
was performed here, at the river just below where we did our
Ganga puja last summer. I was not clear what that meant and
Swami Nikhilananda explained.
“Mahatmas are never cremated. They are consigned
directly to the river, weighted down with stones tied with a
rope. The fish then...”
“Like little children?”
“Yes. Like children.” I don’t know if he knows. Ilya had
been a saint in her last life, Renoo had said. Saint translates to
mahatma. The fish, and the turtles and microbes feast.
I like the term jal samadhi. So much better than ‘consigned
her to the river’.

“Negate the body. Negate the w’orld.” That was our introduction
to the text, Hymn to Badrinath. It is a paean of praise to the
Lord, in this case Vishnu conceptualised as the Creator and
worshipped as the Divine. Negate, he emphasised. Not neglect.
Focus on the Creator rather than on the creation, the names
and forms. The body perishes, the Spirit is unchanging, eternal;
it is not subject to the laws of Matter.
I saw the moon on 2 8 December, Oona, early in the
morning. It was a silver crescent, exactly like the sliver which is
Shiva’s ornament. I saw it above the same place where I had seen
the full moon in June silhouetting the pines. It was six months
and a day for Dadiji, and sixteen months for you. It begins to
seem quite irrelevant.
431 PEACE

We spoke about Time. The Scriptures say that there is

no absolute beginning, nor an absolute end of creation—the
cosmic universe merely passes through phases of potentiality
and manifestation. It moves in cycles. The Puranas say that there
are four yugas which together form a great cycle, a mahayuga.
We are now in Kali yuga, an age in which virtue fights a losing
battle, its duration is 432,000 years. Fortunately, it is the briefest
of the four. It started with Krishna’s passing and 400,000 years
have already passed. Satya yuga, the golden age when Truth
reigned supreme, was four times as long. Then followed Treta,
thrice as long, during which Rama lived. And Dwapar, twice as
long, during the end of which Krishna lived. I added it all and
came up with a very neat figure—4,320,000.
Thirty-two thousand years of Kali yuga left. We have done
2,000 by our current calendar. What is thirty-three years, or
three and a half, on that scale? Merely the flash of a rainbow, a
double rainbow.
“Ilya is in great spirits,” you wrote to Dadiji. You didn’t say
‘shape’ this time. “Talking away, and now beginning to tell us
stories! About Bhaloos and Wolves and Cinderella!!! Finally she
is getting a sense of colour and numbers. She hasn’t developed
a sense of tune yet!” You enclosed a painting by her—unsteady
spirals crisscrossed by long lines. We had just been up and you
remarked that ‘she dotes on her Jasjit Nani’. She was two and a
half then.
I remember a full moon in Hauz Khas when she was
about three. We were both upstairs on the terrace and she
saw the reflection of the moon in a shallow pan of water. She
looked at it, at me in a kind of surprise, and then up at the sky.
Puzzled. Two moons? So we had a little game, looking at the
pan from different angles, making the water moon disappear,
then touching the water to distort it. We were doing shadows
in the garden in the daytime, getting East and West sorted out.
What pleasure it was helping her to learn. She could read the
numberplate of Esh’s bright blue car — DBU 29.
They say that ‘birth’ is not a random event. The disembodied
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 432

soul chooses the circumstances it needs to continue its

evolution. I wonder whether we did well, well enough, by both
of you. That you did us proud I have no doubt.

I need to share with you something that I found quite by chance.

In my last list for Bibliophile I included some books on
spirituality’. Earlier I had Swami Bhoomananda’s Vedantic
Way of Living. In the January 1998 list I had a biography of the
Buddha by Thich Nhat Hahn: Old Path, White Clouds. I dipped
into this. The second last chapter titled ‘Be Diligent!’ caught my
eye and I read it. Diligence was one of your qualities too. It was
his last teaching.
They were in a sal forest and they knew that the Buddha
would ‘pass into nirvana’ that night. The Buddha looked at the
trees and spoke to Ananda, his foremost disciple: “It is not yet
spring, but the sal trees are covered with red blossoms.... The
forest is truly beautiful. Do you see the western horizon all
aglow from the setting sun? The Tathagatha finds all these things
lovely and touching. Bhikkhus, if you want to please me, if you
want to express your respect and gratitude to the Tathagata,
there is only one way, and that is by living the teaching.”
Sal blossoms out of season? The flowers in your garden
wilted on 28 August 1996, the night you went, having told me
three days earlier, “I think I’m going....” Three pages later, he
speaks quietly: “If there is birth, there is death. Be diligent in
your efforts to attain liberation!”
I wondered about the red blossoms of the sal tree. I know
only the sal trees of the lower foothills of the Himalayas, and
they have white blossoms. Kushinara would not be that far from
the Himalayas, in the plain north of the Ganges, in north Bihar.
I would imagine that the tree with red blossoms there would be
the palas, or dhak: Butea Monosperma. That incredibly beautiful
tree which lights up the scrub forests, the same one which is
equally incredibly ugly when it is bare through winter, gnarled
433 PEACE

and crooked. Could sal be a local dialect for this, I wonder idly.
I read on. Or rather I read backwards. The title of the
previous chapter caught my eye and made me sit up straight.
‘Sandalwood Tree Mushrooms.’ I read it and it blew my mind.
Listen.
The Venerable Ananda speaks to the Buddha who is about
eighty years old then, and weak, “I never saw you so sick in
all the years we have been together. I felt paralyzed. I couldn’t
think clearly or carry out my duties....” The others, he says, had
given up hope but he felt that until the last testament was given,
the Buddha would not enter nirvana. Moreover, a successor
had to be announced, and Sariputta was already dead.
The Buddha speaks that he has held back nothing, and
reiterates: “So many times I have reminded you that with birth
there is death. That which comes together must separate. All
dharmas are impermanent. We should not become attached to
them. You must transcend the world of birth and death, arising
and dissolving.... Open your eyes, Ananda, and you will see
Sariputta everywhere. Don’t think Sariputta is no longer with
us. He is here and will always be.”
“Is here and always will be.” That is what I feel about you,
Oona. That is exactly what I was describing when we went up to
Satoli, Ranikhet and Sanawar last August. Here, and there, and
everywhere. With Arjun in Australia, with Aloke in New Jersey,
with Robyn in England, with Bulbul in Atlanta. I feel it in my
gut, and I know it in my heart. And through the Vedanta classes
I understand it in my head.
While they rested, and Ananda was doing his walking
meditation, “the earth suddenly quaked beneath his feet. He felt
both his mind and body shaken.” He returned to the Buddha
and told him about his experience. The Buddha said: “Ananda,
the Tathagata has made his decision. In three months, I will
pass away.”
Now to the mechanics of this passing away.
Seven days later, among a gathering of hundreds of
bhikkhus and bhikkhunis, he announced his decision and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 434

he exhorted them “to carefully and skillfully study, observe,

practice, and verily for yourselves in order to transmit it
to future generations.” One touchstone is to compare any
authentically claimed teaching to the sutras and precepts. If
there is contradiction discard it.
The Buddha was travelling north, and teaching along the
way. The destination was the mango grove at Pava, where the
blacksmith Cunda, who had been Sariputta’s attendant and
who had been told to go to the Buddha, invited everyone to a
meal. He cooked a special dish for the Buddha. “It was a dish
of mushrooms picked from a sandalwood tree and was called
suAara maddava.” The Buddha ate. When he finished eating, he
told Cunda to bury whatever remained of the mushrooms and
not allow anyone else to eat them.
Could you please tell me why you cooked the special dish,
why Ilya and you ate, while Sushil and Samina only had a taste?
“That night the Buddha was seized with violent stomach
cramps. He was unable to sleep all night.” But they continued
on the journey to Kusinara. “All along the way, his stomach
cramps worsened until he was forced to stop and rest beneath
a tree.... The Buddha asked Ananda to fetch some water for
him to ease his thirst.” They continued the journey. When they
reached the banks of the Kakuttha River, the Buddha bathed
and drank some more water and spoke to Ananda.
“Ananda, the meal we ate at lay disciple Cunda’s home
was the Tathagatha’s last meal. People may accuse Cunda of
serving me an unworthy meal, so I want you to tell him that
the two meals I treasure the most in my life were the one I ate
just before attaining the Way and my last meal before passing
into Nirvana. He should feel nothing but happiness for having
served me one of those meals.”
He knew. Yet he ate. And he protected others from eating.
My hair stood on end. Not that I am drawing comparisons of
either knowledge or intent but simply because of the parallels.
“Mushrooms were only an excuse,” Naniji had said at that time.
I checked with Naniji. Did she know how the Buddha
435 PEACE

died? Yes, by eating stale meat. And she brought out her
Punjabi book, Gautam Buddh, and read out the passage to me.
It said stale meat. Some people say pork, she added. Then how
can Thich Nhat Hahn be wrong, I asked her, and I gave her
the biography to read. We decided that the mushrooms/meat
must be the different cultural association of something ‘not
wholesome’.
So, Oona, I checked with everyone in the Nam-Myoho-
Renge-Kyo group if they knew. None did. I browsed in the
bookshelf and found another biography, a translation from
the original Japanese: The Living Buddha: An Interpretative
Biography by Daisaku Ikeda the spiritual leader of a lay sect
which follows the teachings of Nichiren Daishonin. I quote the
relevant points briefly: “Chunda unwittingly managed to involve
himself in the Buddha’s entry into Nirvana...had a special meal
prepared for them, the main ingredient of which is said to have
been some kind of mushroom.... After the meal, Shakyamuni
began to suffer violent pain and soon became seriously ill.
The nature of the illness is not known but is presumed to have
been dysentery, since it is recorded that it was accompanied by
diarrhea and intestinal bleeding.” How much more specific can
that be of your clinical symptoms?
Sal trees are mentioned, and a dramatic account is given.
“The sal trees burst into full bloom out of season, bent down
over the Tathagata, and showered the body with their flowers,
as if to do the Buddha supreme honour. And the world was like
a mountain whose summit has been shattered by a thunderbolt;
it was like the sky without the moon.”
I looked up your book, Myths and Legends of the Hindus
and Buddhists by Ananda K Coomaraswamy and Sister
Nivedita which Madhu gave you as I see from the inscription:
‘To Nuni 1984’. Nirvana is mentioned briefly as Parinirvana or
Final Release. “Chunda prepared an offering of pork, which was
the cause of a sickness resulting in death. Buddha became very
faint.... All this was endured that others might be reminded that
none are exempt from old age, decay, and death.”
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 436

Old age, Naniji says, is the biggest curse. Decay is also

unavoidable. In such situations she sees death as release from
suffering, as with Dadiji, and she thanks God. And death? It
stalks us from the moment we are born.

Naniji had another encounter towards the end of January, in

fact it was on the 26th, Republic Day. The year before her illness
started on the 10th, her birthday. She has often told me she
will die in January. This time she fell down, at night, and cut
her head on the corner of the bed. I saw her in the morning,
covered in blood. She had lain on the cold floor for some time
and then dragged herself back to bed. Her face was a mess. I
asked Ajit to come and see her though she resisted. He thought
she might have fractured her nose, nothing needed to be done
about that, and he said that the cut at the back of her head and
the gash on her left eyebrow would heal without stitches. Both
had bled profusely.
“I lay there feeling quite comfortable but I couldn’t see
anything.”
The nightlight was on but she insisted it was totally dark.
She must have been blinded by blood. So she lay there, doing
her japa. Remembering God. She doesn’t know for how long,
only until she began to feel cold.
“Did you feel fear?” I asked. “Not at all. I didn’t think about
anything. Just God.” The bruises and the puffy eye had cleared
up by 8 February when we had our thanksgiving kirtan and she
wasn’t embarrassed to meet people. It turned into a double bill.
Naniji’s last surviving sibling, her only brother, died so in her
mind it assumed the nature of last rites for him. Just look at the
timing, she marvelled. It brought together an extended family
of nieces and nephews, and their offspring, from her side of
the family. All your cousins in Delhi from Papa’s side were also
there. Incidentally, Gita has had another baby; nothing went
wrong this time, but it took her ten years to overcome the fear
437 PEACE

that it might. She is called Tara.

I felt a little nervous about how she would fare while I was
away. She read my mind and assured me that she would be fine
and that I should not think about changing my plans about
visiting Aloke. Should I make it a short trip, I asked her. “No,”
she said, “don’t change your plans. Take a break, have a good
holiday. Don’t worry about me.”

I have to tell you about the new Swami who came into my life
directly because of you. Adit Advani and his mother came to
condole a few days after the kirtan, he lives in California and had
not been to India since August 1996. He didn’t write because he
didn’t know what to say. I told him about the other common
friends from the time you knew him, Rags and Mahesh in
Kakanagar, and how I have come to be in regular touch with
them. I’d forgotten he was not at the University but at the School
of Architecture. He told me he last spoke to you after Ilya was
born when he phoned to invite you to his marriage. He didn’t
meet you then, nor ever see Ilya.
“I have never met anyone quite like Oona, not before and
not since.”
“What was it....?” I asked hesitantly, not wanting to push,
nor seeking platitudes.
“Goodness. Just sheer goodness. She had no malice, no
rancour, regardless of what happened.”
He went on to describe himself as being far from that.
Anyhow, his mother was enchanted with the garden and asked
if she could stretch out on the lawn. The peach tree still had
some blossoms left, some fresh ones at the top. She asked if she
could return and spend time here after Adit left. She came thrice
the following week and I gave her the first few chapters to read,
to let her know the facts if nothing else. She made it clear she
did not want to intrude and that she didn’t need me to keep her
company. I took her at her word and worked inside but took my
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 438

coffee break with her and we chatted. When she found out I was
interested in Vedanta, she mentioned a very good teacher and
invited me to the class she attends. I went out of curiosity and
also because he had just begun the Bhagavad Gita. I thought
it would be good to have an overview instead of plunging into
various chapters as had happened over the past year.
So, Swami Bodhananda came into my life. After the
second class we got into conversation. He had been with the
Chinmaya Mission but he left some years ago and started his
own institute in Kerala, the Sambodh Foundation. I dropped
him home, and over the weekend 1 went to see him. We talked
for five hours over two days. I told him about you, about my
unrest before the event, about Ilya’s hysteria, about how I had
come to be interested. And I told him about my writing.
He had some extremely interesting remarks, he also asked
to see what I had written. When I took it across I took some
pictures too. “Just look at that face, that smile...” He shook his
head in sorrow when he saw Ilya. After a while he spoke.
“Some people are programmed to leave this earth in their
thirties. Their life work is done, and there is no reason for them
to hang around. You see there is a curve, the peak of a human
being’s creativity is around thirty, after that there has to be a
downcurve—” I thought of Dr Dewan who said you had gone
into a downward spiral.
He opened the file and turned some pages. I found for him
the bit about Ilya and Indira’s remark: “Us ko dar baith gaya.”
He read it. Closed the file, leaned back, and cleared his throat.
“In Scriptural literature,” he said, “it is often said that evolved
souls have a premonition of death about six months in advance
of it......” And he smiled a wry kind of smile. Then he sighed
deeply and continued. “They say that the sound of the hooves
of the black buffalo are heard. You know, of course, that the
vehicle of Yama, the Lord of Death, is the buffalo?”
I tried to think if I knew. No. But I do know that Indira
had said Ilya saw a big dark shape.
When I got up to leave Swami Bodhananda asked if he
439 PEACE

could keep the file and read it. “It is very interesting what you
say, and worth exploring. Continue to write and we will discuss
it again.”
The next time I met him, in March, he asked if I would
attend the Shiva puja he would be performing on the 25 th
for Shivratri. On the spur of the moment I told him that the
first fourteen bits had been offered to the gods on 18 August
1997, could I bring the next bits which were printed out to the
puja. “Yes. Bring them. And your lingam.” I didn’t have one, I
explained. But I did have a picture. I happened to buy it when
Aloke was here, it is a painting on glass and very unusual. Shiva
in his aspect as Ascetic, seated on the bull Nandi, and he has a
huge star-shaped halo around his head as you see in icons. The
gallery owner had asked me collect it after the exhibition but I
went away to Uttarkashi and forgot. He had brought it across a
few days earlier. “That’s fine. Bring that.”
The next day, in the morning class, Swami Nikhilananda
talked about Shivratri and explained its significance. It is the
night of no moon, amavasya, when devotees fast in purification,
perform puja and meditate. The Lord then appears to those
who are worthy. He also told us a story.
Brahma and Vishnu quarrelled one day about which of
them was Supreme. While they argued like two little children
a glorious lingam appeared. They were puzzled because neither
of them had created it and if either of them was the Supreme
he should have known. Therefore, the logical deduction from
the fact of its appearance was that there was a Power beyond
them. The point of the story was also to stress what he had told
us earlier, time and again. That truth needs to be subjected to
three tests for it to be real. First, it must have the authority of
the Scriptures and be in accordance with natural laws. Second,
it should stand the test of logic. Third, it must be directly
experienced. Hearsay will not do.
I looked up the story in your book on myths. Chapter 6.
The Supremacy of Shiva. It is only two pages long. “This story
is related by Brahma in answer to an inquiry of the gods and
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 440

rishis. In the night of Brahma, when all beings and all worlds
are resolved together in one equal and inseparable stillness...
I beheld the great Narayana, soul of the universe, thousand-
eyed, omniscient, Being and Non-Being alike, reclining on the
formless waters, supported by the thousand-headed serpent
Infinite....” That, Narayana, was another name of Vishnu, he has
a thousand altogether.
Brahma spoke to him, with tenderness and affection.
“Welcome, my child...” Great indignation. How dare anyone
call him child, “He who is the cause of creation and destruction,
framer of the myriad worlds, the source and soul of all?” Full of
pride, Vishnu bristled: “Knowest thou not that I am Narayana,
creator, preserver, and destroyer of the worlds, the eternal male,
the undying source and centre of the universe?” The argument
ended as “there appeared before us a glorious shining lingam,
a fiery pillar, like a hundred universe-consuming fires, without
beginning, middle or end, incomparable, indescribable.”
They decided to find out. Vishnu said he would descend,
and assumed the form of a boar, to find the base of the lingam.
Similarly, Brahma became a swan, “white and fiery-eyed, with
wings on every side, swift as thought and as the wind” he sped
upwards for a thousand years but could not find the top.
“Then Shiva stood before us, while there rose about on
every hand the articulate sound of ‘Om’, clear and lasting.”
The argument was settled. Acknowledged as the God of
Gods, “thereafter has the worship of the lingam been established
in the three worlds.”
Then, Oona, and you won’t believe this, I listened to the
kirtan with Naniji and the last one was De Shiva var
mohe
“Grant me a boon, Shiva,” it begins. “Give me the strength
to do good and noble deeds, the strength not to put them off.
Let me not be afraid to take a stand, but have full confidence in
its outcome. I have only one desire: To sing always your praises.
When the time comes in the course of living life that a sacrifice
is necessary, let me be ready to lay down my life.”
441 PEACE

“Shiva?” I asked her.

“God,” she said. “The Almighty, the One God.”
It is a prayer of the Tenth Guru, Guru Gobind Singh, who
faced severe persecution from the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb
in the seventeenth century. They weren’t empty words, nor only
song. He sacrificed his life for his faith, his convictions. Naniji
forgave Aurangzeb long ago. “Poor misguided zealot.” She
doesn’t find it possible to forgive the citizens of Delhi, the mobs
and their instigators for the revenge they took in 1984.
“What about Ayodhya?” I ask her when she starts that
topic. “There will always be fanatics,” she says. “They must be
held in check.” She reminds me that God doesn’t live in masjids,
old or new, nor in temples. To Guru Nanak Allah, Rahim, Ram
were all the same.
“Look here,” she says, pointing to her heart. “Look within.”
“Be open,” Swami Nikhilananda had said at the camp when he
quoted from the Sermon on the Mount. “Within.”

I have to tell you about Aloke. He has been incredibly

sensitive and is in touch so frequently that the bonding between
us grows stronger. He listens. We talk quite often about you.
And Life. And Death. Not in any morbid way, but just to share
experiences and thoughts. You used to think that anyone who
chose to live in America was a virtual write off but that is not so.
And I want you to know it.
Aloke wrote in longhand, his handwriting is worse than
before and the fact that he used a pencil does not help. They
were on their way back to America after a brief holiday in
France. It is dated 17 February 1998 from Paris.

It is always a good feeling to be heading back home after a trip.

For Naniji specially: We were sorry to hear about your fall but we
hear you are doing fine now. Also we got the news about Darbara
Singh and the kirtan which you had on 8 February, originally planned
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 442

forNanaji’s 100th birth anniversary.

Among the other books I have read recently, such as Seat of the
Soul by Gary Zukav, while in Paris, and on the way there, I finished
reading the translation of the Bhagavad Gita which my mother [he
means me!] gave me about seven or eight years ago. At that time I just
read it, I could not see much meaning in it, or much I could relate
to and associate with. Now I feel I get more from reading spiritual
books. What I get is the fact that I am able to simplify my life more,
and my actions too. A lot of this is related to the readings suggested
by Jasjit [he let me off the motherhood hook, you didn’t]. For a long
time we have admired your sense of peace and lack of attachment to
the distractions of life. Now I feel that I may be beginning to get closer
to an understanding of how that is to be achieved and maintained...
The last three days in Paris have been pleasant and we have
admired the beautiful city and the people, fashions, museums, etc.
However, people here, and in other places, are accustomed to a
continuous assault on the senses. The daily routine consists of waking
up, drinking coffee, work, dressing up, putting on plenty of make
up and perfume. Have lunch, more coffee, perhaps some wine. In
between and with the coffee, smoke cigarettes. At night, drink more
wine, eat elaborate food, meat, followed by more coffee. In between
one has to negotiate busy streets and traffic as well as the constant
risk of stepping on the byproducts of dogs! Here, as a tourist and an
outsider, one is able to observe other peoples’ customs and habits,
while even participating to some extent in them. In the course of one’s
own daily life and work one is not always as easily able to slip into the
role of an observer.
I doubt very much that I will pursue [I decipher that with great
difficulty, the ‘p’ is clear and the rest is a squiggle] a life of renunciation
as the body still has to be taken care of and one has to fulfill one’s
duties (as Krishna told Arjuna in the Gita!). These duties are towards
society and the world in general. It is along these lines that I see
further development and growth for myself. Simplification of food,
entertainment, etc. will enable me to free up more time for thought
and reflection in this direction. Elimination of practically all forms of
shopping will also be a step in the final direction...

You see, Oona, he did not get seduced by the trappings of

the ‘good life’ of a consumer culture. Neither he nor Yasmir feel
443 PEACE

the need to be constantly shopping for things.

“Time for thought and reflection”, he says. That is very
similar to the inscription in the second book I bought at
Uttarkashi, lshwar Darshan—Shravana, Manana, Dhyan—
which Swami Nikhilananda wrote by way of advice. The
listening, shravana, is specific—it is to the scriptures or to
expositions on the texts. But Aloke is wrong about ‘renunciation’.
None of the Swamis I have been listening to this past year say
that you must renounce the world of action, in whatever field
that action lies. Nor the obligations and responsibilities that
go with it. To lead a serene, fulfilled life, one has to perform,
to do one’s duty, to the best of one’s ability but renounce the
expectation of reward. Nishkaam karma. One must have goals
and be motivated to achieve them but not because of whatever
it is you hope might be the result— whether money, or power,
or status or possessions—they are all transitory, ephemeral. It
is the desires of the senses, for objects of the material world,
which need to be curbed, renounced, because they can never
be fulfilled. For those who seek money, has any amount ever
been enough? The work, the right work, the satisfaction in
performing it is itself the reward. That is what Karma yoga is
all about, the subject of the first part of the Bhagavad Gita. I
don’t remember giving it to him, but he says it is the Swami
Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood translation with a
foreword by Aldous Huxley.

Strangely enough, the first letter Aloke wrote to us after, in

October 1996, also touched upon what Swami Bodhananda
said about programming except that I was too caught up
in questioning to pay attention. “This is not a situation,” he
wrote, “that we can just plunge into our daily lives and expect
the rhythm of daily routine to pull us out of these dungeons
of darkness and despair. One has to climb out, one step at a
time, sometimes slipping back as we do. This is going to take
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 444

‘conscious’ effort, it will not just happen.” So what is the larger

scheme? he asks. “Jesus Christ was martyred at the age of 30
or so. Did his life have a meaning? The larger plan was not
apparent at that time. But if we look around now we see a lot of
things that missionaries have done in India, in schools, colleges
etc. They had a sense of purpose...”
Did you know that Shankaracharya died at the age of
thirty-one? And see what he achieved—a kind of spiritual
unification of India through his teachings and commentaries
on the Upanishads, and the brilliant concept of establishing the
four seats of pilgrimage, centres of learning too, one for each
of the Vedas, in the four cardinal directions. And Vivekananda
who took Vedanta to the West, did you know that he foretold
his death to the day? He would not live to see forty, he said. The
day he picked was 4 July.
“Oona’s life,” Aloke continues, “had a clear meaning and a
larger purpose. It has been said by many and I don’t feel bad to
say it again. The people who were touched were many. The folks
in the villages in Gujarat and Kumaon will be the first ones to
admit of the larger scheme. One does not see a lot of Doscos or
Sanawarians crossing paths with the folks of Amari Mandali,
Sitla and Satoli. It does not happen by accident. We are lucky to
have been touched by it, but we cannot take credit for it.”
I showed, or rather read out, both of Aloke’s letters to
Swami Bodhananda and he remarked that the boy had a
Vedantic vision!

Did I ever tell you the story of the little bird?

It was sitting on the branch of a tree early one morning,
singing sweetly its song. Suddenly it fell silent. It had seen
Yama, the Lord of Death, go past and look towards it. In some
sort of surprise. The bird was convinced that Yama had come
for it. In panic, it prayed. It grayed to Garuda, the vehicle of
Lord Vishnu, to save it. Garuda appeared. Said the little bird,
445 PEACE

“Please, please, save me. Carry me to the furthest part of the

globe, across the seven seas, to that little island. There I will
be safe.” “Hop on,” the gracious Garuda responded, “and hold
tight.” With a mighty swoosh of his wings, he lifted off, and flew.
Westwards. The eight-foot span of his wings cleaved through
the air, he climbed higher, and sped on, past the mountains,
past the continents, past the seven seas. He flew non-stop,
for almost eight hours. Finally, he banked, and the little bird
saw, nestled in a sea the colour of Pangong Tsu, a jewel of an
island. Clothed in dark green, and rimmed by glistening white
sand, the breakers danced on the sands in a great primordial
rhythm. Crashing in, rippling up the beach and seeping back
into the sea. In. Out. In. Out. “There!” said the little bird. “Let
me off there.” Garuda came low over the trees, and the little bird
spread its little wings and launched itself into the cover of the
forest. Safe, it thought.
When Yama returned from his morning round, he looked
at the tree again. No bird. Hmmm. He said to his companion, “I
was a little surprised to see that bird here this morning. It had
no business here. I am scheduled to collect her this evening, at
a place far, far away. In fact, it is a little island across the seven
seas....”
Why did you need to check your ticket twice that Friday?
Reservations on the train are hard to come by, and you did have
a meeting in Nainital on Monday. Granted. But you didn’t used
to get mixed up over days and dates. “I can’t afford to make
a mistake,” you said. A restlessness brought you to Delhi that
August. Sushil said you felt you had to be with us. You were
here that July, too. And you were scheduled to come again in
September. Did you have to be in Satoli for those mushrooms?
Yet, like Naniji, you were calm when you told me: “I think I’m
going...”
They say that Life is only Existence visible. That birth
and death are only constructs in the mind, two points in time,
taken to be Reality by one ignorant of the true nature of the
Self, the entity which expresses itself as Existence itself, the pure
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 446

Consciousness.
You discussed with Khalid the concept of Self, and in
one of your letters to Vidya, when he broke his ankle, you
wrote: “Thank God (!) it was not a halo-ed appointment.” The
exclamation mark is yours, meaning Thank God it was nothing
worse than that. When his plaster was to come off, you ‘prayed’.
That answers for me the question you asked when you were
young, “Is there God?”
The word God belongs in the context of religion, as Swami
Bhoomananda told us. In philosophy, the same construct is
termed variously. In Vedanta it is the Brahman, the same as
the Self, the One. Or simply That, which is beyond definition
through language, which cannot be known through the intellect
alone. But the process of knowing is well defined. The first steps
are what Swami Nikhilananda wrote for me.
I have done a lot of shravana. Seeing that we as a group
were seriously interested Swami Nikhilananda started a regular
course in Vedanta. We studied the Ishavasya Upanisad first
and I finally understood the Shanti mantra which was chanted
so often in Uttarkashi. I used to split it Om Pooma-midah
Pooma-midam Pooma-mudachyate. I know now that it is Om
Poomam-idah Poomam-idam Poomam-udachyate. This is the
Whole, That is the Whole, from the Whole rises the Whole. It is
all One. Separateness is the illusion.
When Swami Bhoomananda came for his spring visit he
did a fairly recent text—Shankaracharya’sAparokshanubhuti.
Let me quote you a bit from the preface: “This manual, while
presenting a brief description of Vedanta, deals specially with
that aspect of it which relates to the realisation of the highest
Truth. Such realisation, unlike the knowledge of objects
through sense-perception or inference, is an immediate and
direct perception of one’s own Self....”
The emphasis is on ‘immediate and direct’. “The central
theme of the book is the identity of the Jivatman (individual
self) and Paramatman (Universal Self). This identity is realised
through the removal of the ignorance that hides the truth, by
447 PEACE

the light of Vichara or inquiry. To enable the mind to embark on

such an investigation into the Truth, certain disciplines are laid
down, which are not peculiar to Vedanta, but are indispensable
for all such enquiries into the highest Truth.”
They recommend a frugal life style. Work, they say. Look
after your own needs. Be active. “You have to take care of your
physical body, it is only common sense.”
Nevertheless people die young. Accidents happen.
Longevity is actually a desirable and there are many rules which
cater to this need, for example a regular routine, moderation,
calmness of mind, and so on.
“Why can’t you meditate?” he asks us. “Is it too much to
sit still and be centred for half an hour? People say they can’t
empty their minds, and their thoughts drag them away.” And he
laughs, scornfully. “It is the nature of mind to think, of course
thoughts will come. But do they physically drag you? Tell me
how.” Sitting quietly with eyes closed shuts out distractions,
disturbance; it is itself the first discipline. “Shift your attention,”
he says. “From the material world to the Self, the ‘I am’, the
Consciousness, the Witness of all that happens. The objects are
many. The Self, the subject, is One. Let there be no doubt about
that.”
The practice is the important thing, not discussions, nor
arguments, nor any amount of reading. On the latter I see you
did well by the books on your bookshelf and your conversations
with Madhu and Vidya. And without my teaching, you learnt
self discipline. You learnt it before you went to Sanawar, when
you were only about twelve years old. I’ll tell you how I know
it. We lived on Copernicus Marg in those days, in the one-and-
a-half-room apartment when Papa was posted to Delhi from
Tehran. Aloke was already in boarding school in Dehra Dun. I
needed to finish an assignment and woke up at six one morning
to find you sitting huddled, wrapped in your quilt, in the living
room. You had woken up at five to revise something for a test.
I was impressed.
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 448

Lakshmi came to visit just before I left for America. I remember

it was 12 March, full moon. Holi. She came before the storm
broke. Menacing clouds, pregnant with rain, were ripped apart
by great flashes of lightning in pink horizontal streaks. The wind
rose rattling doors and windows. The trees swayed, dancing the
eternal dance. We talked Chirag news and, of course, as we
do whenever we meet, you. They came down from Sitla some
weeks ago, but have been busy. Kanai had a back operation; a
portion of a disc had to be cut away to relieve pressure on the
nerve. He had felt unwell for many months but he didn’t say a
word. We talked about the reticence of men. I’m glad Aloke is
not like that.
I showed her the Ramgarh peach which was in flower, a
pale pink unlike the deep pink of the other peach tree which
blooms in February. And she identified the shrub in the garden
with profuse bunches of blue flowers—Delacanthus nervosa.
The dark green leaves are deeply ribbed and we decided that is
what the nervosa was about—nerves. I deliberately didn’t prune
it when I should have, and it makes a rather splendid splash
even though it hasn’t quite grown bushy enough to cover the
gap in the shrub hedge.
We walked around the garden and took in the various
citrus fragrances. What a profusion of blossoms, bunches on
the trees and the ground beneath the trees carpeted in white.
The Japanese flowering plum still had two miniature blossoms.
She was surprised to see that here in Delhi.
What I saw everywhere was your favourite colour. The
cineraria were at their best.
Around town the kachnars were in blossom again, both
the light pink-plum and the deep violet, the Bauhinia variegata,
with the big blooms. And I saw, or rather noticed, many
Tabebuia rosea, the Mexican import, a few days later—totally
covered in tubular clusters of flowers creating a mauve cloud
crown.
449 PEACE

Why do I write to you? You told me so often that when I wrote

my long, chatty letters, you loved them. They made you laugh.
And what did I write to you about? Silly things. Ups-and-
downs. My skirmishes with Naniji, all the tensions between
the different lots of Mansinghs: Pooji, Tauji, Papa, with Dadiji
caught in the crossfire. She used to tell me that I was the only
one she could talk to, meaning confide in, and get a straight
answer from. The externals in the lives of your various cousins,
sometimes their inner conflicts and problems that they came
to me with. You were such a good, sensible sounding board. I
do the same with Aloke now. I love the way both of you always
included Naniji in the salutation. That is as it should be, even
though she seldom wrote back separately.
You know it took me many months to stop asking for a
letter from the Aarohi boys who came to Hauz Khas for the
apricot oil work. You always sent a note by hand, the monkey
mail. I’d catch myself, but ask anyhow, expecting the same habit
to continue the only difference being that it would be in Sushil’s
hand—a sort of proxy connection, a continuation. There was
the odd work-related note, but no real communication. It was
so unreasonable of me to expect it, considering you were the
communicator, even with his parents.
PRS sent me copies of all your letters to them. Before I left,
I received, sent through Sushil, two files. He didn’t bring them
over but had them dropped off. One is of letters neatly indexed
and numbered, and another of photographs meticulously
captioned. What difficulty I had in drafting that first letter to
them so that it would say enough. Not more, nor less. It is so
long ago, and yet it feels like yesterday. Out of a total of 175,
there are only five or six from Sushil. This is PRS’ labour of
love for you, Oona, over this year past. This, besides the weekly
synopsis he has been sending regularly.
I was so pleased to read that your education, as you called
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 450

it, was not totally neglected. PRS made up for what I didn’t do.
You thanked him for the little Vivekananda book. You couldn’t
have done better than to learn from him. Last year when I was
talking to Sushil, during the trip when Manoj was telling me
how palpable a presence you were to him, someone you never
met, Sushil remarked that he could never get you to discuss
‘spirituality’. Spirituality is not for discussion. It is only for
experiencing.

You see, Oona, you haven’t gone. You were the silent
presence when I met Shaila in New York, and when I saw those
beautiful spring flowers—the cherry blossoms, the daffodils,
the irises and whatever else you loved. You were present when
Aloke and I walked in Watchung Reservation and we passed
the place where you collected the acorns.
You were there when I saw Bulbul. Last year when I sent
her the picture of you, carefree and smiling, against the blue
blue waters of Pangong lake, she had written:

Thanks again for the superb photo of Oona. I miss her terribly.
I feel stupid saying that to you, but I still hurt so much when I think
of her. Sometimes I still think it is so unreal, but may be it is because
I am so far away. Sometimes I get so angry. And then sometimes I cry
and smile when I think of some of the silly things we did. Sitting and
drinking rum and coke in front of the tandoor in Manali and talking
about what we lived for...and agreeing that beauty of every sort, in
any form, was what moved us. How I love and miss her, this beautiful
daughter of yours — gobbling down kilos of butter with hot parathas,
hugging me and smiling that brilliant, dazzling smile of hers. How
we once made an entire meal out of at least two and a half chickens
turned into various kebab forms. We giggled and licked our fingers
and groaned about the give away tandoori and onion breath we were
saturating the atmosphere with.... I sometimes go into a hopeless,
powerful rage that she won’t tumble out of some airport to our utter
delight and my children will never say ‘Aunty Oona’.
451 PEACE

I need to tell Bulbul that she must not cry for you, that of course
her children will call you ‘Aunty’. Or just Oona. She has had a
daughter, her third child. Tara. That is how everyone explained
Ilya, that she had become a star. Well, Bulbul will tell them
stories about where you lived. How you lived. About your dogs
and cats. About Ilya. They won’t see you but they will know
you anyhow. She liked the salwar I wore—the fabric and the
colour—a handloom cotton in a muted peacock blue shot with
black. I told her it was yours and she asked if she could have
it. Did you make it? Yes, I had. Around the house she wears
salwars and a long T shirt—it is comfortable and also masks her
size. She will not worry about her size until she stops feeding
Tara, she expects to do that when Tara is a year old.
One day we cooked an enormous meal, she uses turkey
meat instead of chicken for a curry. It was in honour of Esh and
Girija who were also in Atlanta visiting Som and Rohini. You
see how people come together simply because they knew you at
different times in your life.
I went to Yale also to see Rajesh Thadani and again a group
formed. And you drew them together. Bala, whom I knew years
ago as Brinda’s friend, works with Rajesh. She took us both to
have dinner with Shiny, your classmate from IRMA. Where,
then, have you gone?
The forest that Oona grew, Rajesh Thadani said. And
Andi Eicher’s comments. Oona did this, and she did that.
Krishananand and the knoll we dedicated to you. Oona’s Place.
Darab told me a baby girl bom in one of those villages has been
named Oona Devi. Will you pass into legend? Will they tell
their children stories about the girl from the city who came to
live in their land? The girl and her child to whom this terrible
thing happened.
God’s will, they believe. They believe also in the immortal
soul. “Atma to amar hai,” so many of them said that to me.

l
 ona MOUNTAIN WIND 452

You worried about a second baby. You already had two. Aarohi,
born in August 1992. And Ilya, bom in December 1992, one
day short of your first wedding anniversary. The Aarohi annual
report carries a cameo of you two, that lovely one Sushil
took when Ilya was two weeks old, the mother-daughter one.
Thinking back it is as though you had twins. They were both
your children, you nursed them through their critical phase.
Did I tell you that Aloke and Yasmir are expecting a baby
towards the end of the year? We have left it open whether they
will want, or need, me to come. Either way it is all right.
When we come to earth, they say, we manifest as living
entities in the gross body, with the span already determined in
both space and time. It is not the soul that leaves the body, it is
simply the body that drops off. We also come with a quota of
energy. When that is expended, life is snuffed out. Never mind
the mechanism.
You lived your life fully. Like a meteor flashing through
the night sky, you lit up many lives. Madhu called them Oona
fires, they remain glowing.
Or think of it the way Jean put it. She likened your life to
the golden sun, which casts its warmth on the earth, and then
gently slips over the horizon.

Our Vedanta classes begin, and end, with the chanting of the
mantra OM. It is a very important part of the process. Swami
Bhoomananda asks. “Do you feel the vibration inside? Do you
feel energised?” I can truthfully say yes to both. Perhaps that
answers Papa’s question about Tsagaadai’s remark to me about
a year ago, that my energy level was very low, and Papa wanted
to know what energy. Spiritual energy, I guess. And along with
it physical.
For me now there is a blurring, a merging of identities.
You are so much with me that I don’t feel you as an ‘other’. For
me the OM itself becomes you, and those were your initials too.
453 PEACE

Each prayer ends with

OM OOOOMM OMMMMMMM.
Shantih, Shantih, Shanti-ih.
Why thrice?
It is a prayer for protection. For Peace. A prayer to avert all
possible obstacles in the course of study. I add life. Obstructions
from forces unseen. Obstructions from forces known and seen.
Obstructions from forces within our own minds.
Peace that one may pursue the path of inquiry unhindered.

There is Peace, Oona.

Without and within. Mostly within.
We had a kirtan for you in the garden on the 22nd.
The Raagis sang. Friends sang.
And 28 August came again. We lit candles for you under
the plumeria tree and wherever the zephyranthes was blooming.
And PRS wrote about the mysterious will of God. He knows
nothing about Thich Nhat Hahn or what I have quoted, yet he
wrote that you had attained Maha Parinirvana in a short spell
of time.

You haven’t gone, Oona. You are everywhere.

You are Nuni, Little One, loved and cherished.
You are the water and the land you loved so well.
You are the tree that bore fruit. You are the seed,
Oona-thoughts scattered far and wide.

You are the Mountain Wind.

Sing Mountain Wind, sing

Sing the song of peace,
Sing it sofdy in the silence of my soul.