What is left ahead is less than what we left behind


“It is not too far,” he repeats what has now become a joke for us weaklings “from the plains” as the locals love to put it. And he goes on to add a new one, “I will take you back by an easy route”. Hah!

I was part of a film crew to document the lives of farmers on the mountain slopes in Pachote, Jammu. Someone had warned us that it was not a good idea to travel there during the rains, leave alone shoot. There were under-the-breath warnings to watch out for terrorists.

On day one, when we got off the car and took a few steps towards our first location, I did experience terror, albeit a more down-to-earth kind. Because I was down on earth having lost my footing. We were on the path to a farmer’s place, except that there was no path. Just slippery smooth mud shining in mischief, stones waiting for a foot to step on them to start rolling and treacherous plants with long thorns that offered the only possible desperate grab-hold to arrest your free fall. This was to become our way of life for the next five days.

If the farmers tell you the descent is easier, they are not telling you about the effect of gravity on a near-ninety-degree slippery slope after your shoes seem to have forgotten all about traction and are just clinging to your feet to save their own lives. If they tell you the ascent is easier, they are ignoring the panting connection between your creaking knees and your heaving lungs, after about five hops from one jutting bit of stone to a clump of grass that may cushion your fall or open a hidden portal to the raging river far, far below, which you can’t see thanks to the thick fog.

We were about to pack up at the end of day four, having lost several frustrating hours to the rain and fog when he offered to take me first to the blessed car on a heavenly, level, firm road, somewhere up in the sky from where I looked. I abandoned all feelings of camaraderie towards the rest of the crew and immediately accepted. I counted on them to understand that when the going gets slippery, the old get to go first.

Lend me your hand, leader

He is no ordinary farmer; he is an exceptionally successful one. He is also the sarpanch of the area, which essentially makes him the prime minister if that small panchayat were a country.

He makes three offers right at the outset. We will go at an easy pace. You can hold my hand whenever you want. We will rest as many times as you want. My male ego cringes when I accept all three. When the mind is full of fear and the head is held low for fear of missing the next step, the ego fast learns to shut up.




Beneath the waste mountain, wounded flowers blossom anew


When you pass through Ghazipur in East Delhi, you are unlikely to stop. Unless you want to buy some flowers, meat, poultry or fish from some of Delhi’s largest markets for these. Surely, you haven’t brought along some garbage to add to the towering mountain that keeps growing thanks to some 2500 tons of waste dumped here every day? If you have friends among the 400-odd families of waste pickers and dairy farm workers, you must brave the filth and stink to meet them.

I did not have friends among them either, when I was there in June to visit Gulmeher, better known to the locals as the place where the “phool-patti” work happens.
No, I will not write about Gulmeher. Discover it for yourself in the video.
Before you go to the video, I will just share one equation with you, that will make more sense after you see the video.

Gulmeher = art + heart + tenacity + hope.

After you see the video, you may want to stop at Ghazipur and be a part of the equation. So that your heart can feast on some painstaking art. And you can help feed the hope that makes wounded flowers and neglected lives rise up and challenge a mountain of indifference.




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