My cousin Santuda and myself had trekked to Goumukh glacier from Gangotri and come back to catch the only bus travelling back to the plains. The trek was hard but rewarding in terms of the scenic aspect but we weren't exactly unhappy to get back to have a decent shower and meal once we've reached the proper human jungle. The journey had to be done and when we found that the only avaialable seats were at the back, we knew that the journey would be bumpy and probably back breaking.
The woman wore white from head to toe - white salwar and white scarf covering her head. Her hands were delicate almost perfectly so with fingernails pale white. Her wrists were bare with out any bangles and as I glanced at her face in one quick instance, I noticed her without any jewellery - no earrings, no neck ornaments. Then it dawned on me; she must a widow. The bus in the meantime had been hurling towards Uttarkashi negotiating the twists and turns of the Garhwal Himalayas and at the back seat it was unavoidable that we'd be bumping against each other. In after one such acute turn I apologised to the lady. She told me not to worry in a perfect North American accent. Surprised, I asked her where she was from and what was she doing here in the pilgrimage land. She didn't reply at first, just glanced at her children, her eyes softening as she did that. She had one of the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. Then she told me that she's from Montreal, Canada, travelling through the pilgrimage route in the Garhwal - Gangotri, Jamunotri, Kedar and Badrinathdham. She said her son was eight and daughter ten, and this is first time all three of them had been to India.
I'd met my husband in Canada, she said. He was the most kind and genuine, hardworking man she'd ever met. She was studying business administration and he was driving taxi cabs. The only thing that was common to them was their religion - both of them were Sikh. They married in spite of their social standings and family oppositions and spent eleven years together.
Then on the 25th of June, two years ago her husband boarded an Air India flight called Emperor Kanishka to New Delhi and was blown to smithereens along with 328 other people by Babbar Khalsa, a Sikh militant group in retaliation for operation Blue Star on the Golden temple. He was coming home for a pilgrimage that he promised himself for the birth of his children. I was never religious, she said. I wanted to come here to feel him - my husband, not God. She never believed in God and the tragedy has made her even more a non-believer. So what are you looking for? I asked. Some answers, any answers, she said.
They left the bus at Uttarkashi heading towards Hemkund Sahib. I saw them disappear in the midday sun amongst the thousands others. Big tragedies happen. They touch our lives, but we move on. What remains is the memory of the eye of the widow, looking at her children and then beyond into the Himalayas for an answer that's never there.
The woman wore white from head to toe - white salwar and white scarf covering her head. Her hands were delicate almost perfectly so with fingernails pale white. Her wrists were bare with out any bangles and as I glanced at her face in one quick instance, I noticed her without any jewellery - no earrings, no neck ornaments. Then it dawned on me; she must a widow. The bus in the meantime had been hurling towards Uttarkashi negotiating the twists and turns of the Garhwal Himalayas and at the back seat it was unavoidable that we'd be bumping against each other. In after one such acute turn I apologised to the lady. She told me not to worry in a perfect North American accent. Surprised, I asked her where she was from and what was she doing here in the pilgrimage land. She didn't reply at first, just glanced at her children, her eyes softening as she did that. She had one of the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. Then she told me that she's from Montreal, Canada, travelling through the pilgrimage route in the Garhwal - Gangotri, Jamunotri, Kedar and Badrinathdham. She said her son was eight and daughter ten, and this is first time all three of them had been to India.
I'd met my husband in Canada, she said. He was the most kind and genuine, hardworking man she'd ever met. She was studying business administration and he was driving taxi cabs. The only thing that was common to them was their religion - both of them were Sikh. They married in spite of their social standings and family oppositions and spent eleven years together.
Then on the 25th of June, two years ago her husband boarded an Air India flight called Emperor Kanishka to New Delhi and was blown to smithereens along with 328 other people by Babbar Khalsa, a Sikh militant group in retaliation for operation Blue Star on the Golden temple. He was coming home for a pilgrimage that he promised himself for the birth of his children. I was never religious, she said. I wanted to come here to feel him - my husband, not God. She never believed in God and the tragedy has made her even more a non-believer. So what are you looking for? I asked. Some answers, any answers, she said.
They left the bus at Uttarkashi heading towards Hemkund Sahib. I saw them disappear in the midday sun amongst the thousands others. Big tragedies happen. They touch our lives, but we move on. What remains is the memory of the eye of the widow, looking at her children and then beyond into the Himalayas for an answer that's never there.
No comments:
Post a Comment