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Humour by Rehana Munir: Footnotes from the foothills
A look at the much vaunted charms, and seldom discussed challenges, of mountain life through a city lens
I flee to the hills to escape Mumbai’s pitiless October heat and find myself staring out the window like the trembling heroine of a Gothic novel as the rain and mist conspire to block the Himalayan pine forest from view. There’s been a relentless downpour the last two days, with more rain than was witnessed during the long monsoon; climate change is now screaming from every rooftop while we distract ourselves with Manike Mage Hithe on our earphones.
Home is where the Wi-Fi is
I have a dirty little secret that I’d like to share: I love city life. If you’re imaginative and mindful, surely your aspirations should take you away from the heartless city and into the lap of nature, undisturbed by humans—those creatures that look and sound like you but are merely baleful characters thrown into your life to take away from its magical qualities.
I see the charm of the idyll and I raise you uninterrupted Wi-Fi. Quite apart from the security that amenities like unimpeded power and water supply bestow, I’m a great fan of human interaction, something we take for granted in big cities. The randomness of it is what I truly enjoy; you might run into your ex-crush at a pub or your second standard Marathi teacher in the market, and it dredges up some part of your history that can equally unsettle or soothe. Up in the hills, a visit to the local grocery store will provide you not just with essential supplies but also painfully unentertaining gossip. Like who walked in earlier to buy which brand of rice or whose dog trampled whose garden.
In search of randomness
A few days ago, my companions and I woke up with the noble ambition of following a birding trail. Except, the birds didn’t get the memo. Or perhaps they did and cleverly stayed away, tired of all the pointing and gawking. Try as we might, we couldn’t spot the damn feathered things, leaving us to take extreme close-ups of dew drops on clover leaves and selfies in dappled light. It didn’t help that our genial guide seemed to be untouched by any birding knowledge. We did manage to point out a Great Barbet to him with its hard-to-miss plumage and peculiar cry, so it wasn’t an entirely wasted trip.
A day before, I returned absently from a morning walk, a bit unnerved by the locals who insist leopards on the prowl favour lone women, only to be stopped by two friendly faces, and one wagging tail, driving down the hill. One of the humans had set up an organic farm a few hours away, and they were off to have a look. Would I join, they asked, and I jumped in, hungry for randomness. I returned home for dinner that night, ending perhaps the longest morning walk in recorded history. We drove back with farming equipment, three cartons of double begonia flowers, a sackful of greens, and various other provisions that seem to jump into the boots of cars in areas where Swiggy and Dunzo have never been.
Company is currency
Away from the many distractions of the city, company is currency. The more interesting you are, the greater your social capital. Unless you have a well-stocked pantry, a special talent for fixing leaks or a musical instrument of some sort. You rely on your neighbours for more than just a cup of sugar, with the elements often hemming you in for days on end. Today, we’ve been exchanging sweet messages on WhatsApp and Instagram featuring pakoras, books, duvets and other stormy weather staples. This afternoon, our household bartered some parathas for a bowl of dahi in a throwback to a time when ‘conscious living’ was not just a buzzword but a natural way of life.
Having spent a fair bit of time in this Himalayan paradise over the past few years, I too am working on my hillside avatar. Sample this. The deluge has uprooted the cluster of chrysanthemums in the east-facing flowerbed. The bridge that connects to the city is shut between 10am and 5pm. The Amazon delivery guy, on whose beat this village has recently appeared, is the most awaited visitor. I think I’ll stop here. That’s enough excitement for a Sunday morning.
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From HT Brunch, October 31, 2021
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