I have everything I want in this small room — books, writing materials, two desks, a comfortable bed, a glass of water, an old watch running slow like me, a window with a view and a rubber plant covering the wall.
"How we go from outrage to apathy, again and again"
The view hasn’t changed much over the years, but the rubber plant has really taken off in the last two years. It has taken over most of the wall, a couple of pictures, part of the desk, and now it’s reaching down towards my pillow as though it would make love to me. I love its dark green heart-shaped leaves, pink when they are small and just opening, its strong purposeful stem ready to take hold of any rough surface and travel along it, finding sustenance as it spreads. One branch reaches for the ceiling, another advances towards my bed, and a third is heading for the door as though to claim its ownership of the room. Ficus elastica, the travelling fig.We live side by side, in perfect harmony. I have grown old in this room. My elastic friend is still in his prime. But we are partners, as plant and man should be.
Last month I was in Bhutan, where there is a happy synthesis between plant and man. Instead of attempting to dominate over the natural world, the people blend with it. And nature is kind to them. In the valleys, apples and peaches flourish. So do roses and sunflowers. And the people, in their russet robes, appear to have sprung up from the land, blending perfectly with the landscape.
As the plane from Delhi approaches Paro, it takes a wide turn, swooping like an eagle over the low hills and making a spectacular descent along the valley, the runway hardly noticeable as it threads its way through bright green fields and pastures. A winding motor road takes you to the capital, Thimphu.
The raven is the national bird of Bhutan, but I see pigeons everywhere – bathing in the fountain outside the hotel, mingling with the visitors outside a Buddhist temple, cooing in the eaves of an old monastery. More pigeons than people. If only that were the case everywhere…
The Bhutanese take pride in the cleanliness of their roads and public places, and the neatness of their shop fronts and houses. You don’t see any litter lying around. And no sooner was I back on the outskirts of Dehradun that I was greeted by mountains of garbage – probably the same garbage that had been lying there the previous week. Of course we have the excuse of a massive population, but sheer apathy has a lot to do with it.
Apathy is the root cause of most of the disasters that we have witnessed during last August: Several child deaths in a Gorakhpur hospital; horrendous railway accidents due to the usual negligence; collapsing buildings and flooded drains in Mumbai….
A few words of outrage, and we move on to the next calamity. Swachh Bharat, a cleaner, healthier India, is the dream of our Prime Minister. And to turn that dream into reality we must shake off our apathy.
Everyone was very kind to me in Bhutan. Especially my publisher, Meru Gokhale, who ensured that I had two days off during the Lit Fest. The Queen Mother, a book lover, was very gracious. And we had a very helpful taxi driver, who drove us all over the place. And of course, Rakesh and Beena were with me, to push and pull whenever there were steps to negotiate or a steep path to climb. Lots of steps in Thimphu, but none as troublesome as my own steps in Landour. But I don’t mind, as long as my steps discourage some of the more inquisitive tourists from climbing them to see how this writer lives.
There are people who expect to find me living in a spacious mansion, against a backdrop of the eternal snows. They are disappointed to find that I live in two small rooms — one for my books and one for my bed and boxes. And of course there is a window, to let in the clouds and sunshine. But as for snow….Well, I’ll tell you a secret. I hate snow. After the first fall, it’s messy, it’s dirty, and it’s dangerous. Dear tourist, be careful not to slip on my steps.
Watching the news channels always depresses me. Recent events moved me to verse (or worse), and I jotted down the following lines for Mr Trump and Mr Kim, who have been threatening each other with instant obliteration:
Rash men make bombs,
We like to curse ’em,
But time will come
When they must burst ’em.
You’ve made your cake, sirs –
Now you must eat it,
The grave is dug –
And you’re standing in it!
DISCLAIMER : Views expressed above are the author's own.