by Ruskin Bond
A Song of Many Rivers
Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and now has over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of short stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys Award in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award.
Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.
Published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2016
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Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Introduction
A Song of Many Rivers
Sacred Shrines Along the Way
Wilson’s Bridge
A Walk through Garhwal
Cold Beer at Chutmalpur
From the Pool to the Glacier
Tremors in the Night
Ganga Takes All
How Far Is the River?
Angry River
Ferns in Foliage
A Marriage of the Waters
Introduction
Far below Landour, where I live, is the Doon valley. And through it, flows the Suswa river. It’s a river I have seen since I was a child. It’s not one of the great mighty rivers until it meets the Ganga further downstream.
The Ganga emerges from the majestic Himalayas, rushing over rocks and through ravines and winding through valleys till it reaches the plains. In the mountains, while it is still young, it is the Bhagirathi. The paths of the Bhagirathi and the Alaknanda, the two rivers that join to become the Ganga at Devprayag have held me in thrall for decades. I have walked and stayed along these waters. One is blue and restless; the other is greenish and has an air of calm. My special fondness for the Bhagirathi started when I first saw the river, as a young man. Its swift yet deep waters hold out the promise of peace and serenity; and the green forested valleys it runs through and the steep banks on either side dotted with hamlets captured my heart.
Once the Bhagirathi and the Alaknanda become the Ganga the great vault of stories around it becomes larger, much like the volume of water it now carries. Stories from our legends, or those of the people who live along its banks, people who get caught up in its depths, cities and villages that live and die beside it—these are all a part of the river’s story too. And as a writer, I find that there is always a story to narrate about these places and people whose lives are touched by the great rivers.
Of course it’s not only the Ganga. Every river that flows by, streams that gurgle across my path and little pools and lakes I have been close to have opened up their waters for me to plunge into and find something to write about. Of these stories, some of the most fascinating are the ones about real people who lived near them. The tale of Wilson, who built bridges across the Bhagirathi, and who married a local girl only to betray her later for another woman, leaving a grief-stricken wraith to haunt the bridge forever, is one that had lived on in the forests along the Bhagirathi for almost a century, when I first heard it.
Given how storytellers from every age have loved rivers, it’s hardly surprising that legends abound with references to them. Ganga descends and Shiva catches her in his locks; Krishna dives into the depths of the Yamuna to battle with the serpent—these have lived in our collective imagination for centuries. Sometimes they make their way into my stories too. One of my earliest and still popular stories, ‘Angry River’ has a mysterious boy who appears at a moment of despair and guides Sita through the flood. Perhaps some of us have been fortunate to meet such real-life people too, who have steadied our rocky boats and played their soothing tune when the waters in our life have become a bit too choppy for our liking.
As a lifelong ambler, I have preferred getting to know new places and towns by exploring them on foot. On my travels around the Garhwal region or while walking up to see glaciers I have come to know the forests and streams and rivers and bridges more closely. From these travels were born some of my observations about the life in these mountains. The tough life of the hill people still leaves me astonished. And what about the animals and birds and insects and butterflies one encounters in the hills while following a river upstream and downstream? The pines that give way to the deodars, the rhododendron trees flowering wildly and the many known and perhaps some as yet little known bugs that fly or crawl around these places?
Now, every year I hear of a devastating flood or numerous landslides along the banks of rivers all across the country. Our needs seem to be outstripping the bounties that have been given to us by nature. Somewhere, we need to slow down and stop taking so much from her. It’s time to think of giving back, so that many more boys and girls can grow up like me—watching the sun glint on the rippling clear waters of the numerous rivers, big and small, that crisscross this great land.
Ruskin Bond
A Song of Many Rivers
1
Suswa River
When I look down from the heights of Landour to the broad Valley of the Doon far below, I can see the little Suswa river, silver in the setting sun, meandering through fields and forests on its way to its confluence with the Ganga.
The Suswa is a river I knew well as a boy, but it has been many years since I took a dip in its quiet pools or rested in the shade of the tall spreading trees growing on its banks. Now I see it from my windows, far away, dream-like in the mist, and I keep promising myself that I will visit it again, to touch its waters, cool and clear, and feel its rounded pebbles beneath my feet.
It’s a little river, flowing down from the ancient Siwaliks and running the length of the valley until, with its sister river the Song, it slips into the Ganga just above the holy city of Haridwar. I could wade across (except during the monsoon when it was in spate) and the water seldom rose above the waist except in sheltered pools, where there were shoals of small fish.
There is a little known and charming legend about the Suswa and its origins, which I have always treasured. It tells us that the Hindu sage, Kasyapa, once gave a great feast to which all the gods were invited. Now Indra, the god of rain, while on his way to the entertainment, happened to meet 60,000 ‘balkhils’ (pygmies) of the Brahmin caste, who were trying in vain to cross a cow’s footprint filled with water—to them, a vast lake!
The god could not restrain his amusement. Peals of thunderous laughter echoed across the hills. The indignant Brahmins, determined to have their revenge, at once set to work creating a second Indra, who should supplant the reigning god. This could only be clone by means of penance, fasting and
self-denial, in which they persevered until the sweat flowing from their tiny bodies created the ‘Suswa’ or ‘flowing waters’ of the little river.
Indra, alarmed at the effect of these religious exercises, sought the help of Brahma, the creator, who taking on the role of a referee, interceded with the priests. Indra was able to keep his position as the rain god.
I saw no pygmies or fairies near the Suswa, but I did see many spotted deer, cheetal, coming down to the water’s edge to drink. They are still plentiful in that area.
2
The Nautch Girl’s Curse
At the other end of the Doon, far to the west, the Yamuna comes down from the mountains and forms the boundary between the states of Himachal and Uttaranchal. Today, there’s a bridge across the river, but many years ago, when I first went across, it was by means of a small cable car, and a very rickety one at that.
During the monsoon, when the river was in spate, the only way across the swollen river was by means of this swaying trolley, which was suspended by a steel rope to two shaky wooden platforms on either bank. There followed a tedious bus journey, during which some sixty-odd miles were covered in six hours. And then you were at Nahan, a small town a little over 3,000 feet above sea level, set amids hill slopes thick with sal and shishann trees. This charming old town links the subtropical Siwaliks to the first foothills of the Himalayas, a unique situation.
The road from Dagshai and Shimla nuns into Nahan from the north. No matter in which direction you look, the view is a fine one. To the south stretches the grand panorama of the plains of Saharanpur and Ambala, fronted by two low ranges of thickly forested hills. In the valley below, the pretty Markanda river winds its way out of the Kadir valley.
Nahan’s main street is curved and narrow, but well-made and paved with good stone. To the left of the town is the former Raja’s palace. Nahan was once the capital of the state of Sirmur, now part of Himachal Pradesh. The original palace was built some three or four hundred years ago, but has been added to from time to time, and is now a large collection of buildings mostly in the Venetian style.
I suppose Nahan qualifies as a hill station, although it can be quite hot in summer. But unlike most hill stations, which are less than two hundred years old, Nahan is steeped in legend and history.
The old capital of Sirmur was destroyed by an earthquake some seven to eight hundred years ago. It was situated some twenty-four miles from present day Nahan, on the west bank of the Giri, where the river expands into a lake. The ancient capital was totally destroyed, with all its inhabitants, and apparently no record was left of its then ruling family. Little remained of the ancient city, just a ruined temple and a few broken stone figures.
As to the cause of the tragedy, the traditional story is that a nautch girl happened to visit Sirmur, and performed some wonderful feats. The Raja challenged the girl to walk safely over the Giri on a rope, offering her half his kingdom if she was successful.
The girl accepted the challenge. A rope was stretched across the river. But before starting out, the girl promised that if she fell victim to any treachery on the part of the Raja, a curse would fall upon the city and it would be destroyed by a terrible catastrophe.
While she was on her way to successfully carrying out the feat, some of the Raja’s people cut the rope. She fell into the river and was drowned. As predicted, total destruction came to the town.
The founder of the next line of the Sirmur Raja came from the Jaisalmer family in Rajasthan. He was on a pilgrimage to Haridwar with his wife when he heard of the catastrophe that had immolated every member of the state’s ancient dynasty. He went at once with his wife into the territory, and established a Jaisalmer Raj. The descent from the first Rajput ruler of Jaisalmer stock, some seven hundred years ago, followed from father to son in an unbroken line. And after much intitial moving about, Nahan was fixed upon as the capital.
The territory was captured by the Gurkhas in 1803, but twelve years later they were expelled by the British after some severe fighting, to which a small English cemetery bears witness. The territory was restored to the Raja, with the exception of the Jaunsar Bawar region.
Six or seven miles north of Nahan lies the mountain of Jaitak, where the Gurkhas made their last desperate stand. The place is worth a visit, not only for seeing the remains of the Gurkha fort, but also for the magnificent view the mountain commands.
From the northernmost of the mountain’s twin peaks, the whole south face of the Himalayas may be seen. From west to north you see the rugged prominences of the Jaunsar Bawar, flanked by the Mussoorie range of hills. It is wild mountain scenery, with a few patches of cultivation and little villages nestling on the sides of the hills. Garhwal and Dehra Dun are to the cast, and as you go downhill you can see the broad sweep of the Yamuna as it cuts its way through the western Siwaliks.
3
Gently flows the Ganga
The Bhagirathi is a beautiful river, gentle and caressing (as compared to the turbulent Alaknanda), and pilgrims and others have responded to it with love and respect. The god Shiva released the waters of Goddess Ganga from his locks, and she sped towards the plains in the tracks of Prince Bhagirath’s chariot.
He held the river on his head
And kept her wandering, where
Dense as Himalaya’s woods were spread
The tangles of his hair.
Revered by Hindus and loved by all, Goddess Ganga weaves her spell over all who come to her. Some assert that the true Ganga (in its upper reaches) is the Alaknanda. Geographically, this may be so. But tradition carries greater weight in the abode of the Gods, and traditionally the Bhagirathi is the Ganga. Of course, the two rivers meet at Devprayag, in the foothills, and this marriage of the waters settles the issue.
I put the question to my friend Dr Sudhakar Misra, from whom words of wisdom sometimes flow; and true to form, he answered: ‘The Alaknanda is Ganga, but the Bhagirathi is Ganga-ji.’
She issues from the very heart of the Himalayas. Visiting Gangotri in 1820, the writer and traveller Baillie Fraser noted: ‘We are now in the centre of the Himalayas, the loftiest and perhaps the most rugged range of mountains in the world.’
Here, at the source of the river, we come to the realization that we are at the very centre and heart of things. One has an almost primaeval sense of belonging to these mountains and to this valley in particular. For me, and for many who have been here, the Bhagirathi is the most beautiful of the four main river valleys of Garhwal.
The Bhagirathi seems to have everything—a gentle disposition, deep glens and forests, the ultravision of an open valley graced with tiers of cultivation leading up by degrees to the peaks and glaciers at its head.
At Tehri, the big dam slows down Prince Bhagirath’s chariot. But upstream, from Bhatwari to Harsil, there are extensive pine forests. They fill the ravines and plateaus, before giving way to yew and cypress, oak and chestnut. Above 9,000 feet the deodar (devdar, tree of the gods) is the principal tree. It grows to a little distance above Gangotri, and then gives way to the birch, which is found in patches to within half a mile of the glacier.
It was the valuable timber of the deodar that attracted the adventurer Frederick ‘Pahari’ Wilson to the valley in the 1850s. He leased the forests from the Raja of Tehri, and within a few years he had made a fortune. From his horse and depot at Harsil, he would float the logs downstream to Tehri, where they would be sawn up and despatched to buyers in the cities.
Bridge-building was another of Wilson’s ventures. The most famous of these was a 350 feet suspension bridge at Bhaironghat, over 1,200 feet above the young Bhagirathi where it thunders through a deep defile. This rippling contraption was at first a source of terror to travellers, and only a few ventured across it.
To reassure people, Wilson would mount his horse and gallop to and fro across the bridge. It has since collapsed, but local people will tell you that the ghostly hoof beats of Wilson’s horse can still be heard on full moon nights. The supports
of the old bridge were massive deodar trunks, and they can still be seen to one side of the new road bridge built by engineers of the Northern Railway.
The old forest rest houses at Dharasu, Bhatwari and Harsil were all built by Wilson as staging posts, for the only roads were narrow tracks linking one village to another. Wilson married a local girl, Gulabi, from the village of Mukhba, and the portraits of the Wilsons (early examples of the photographer’s art) still hang in these sturdy little bungalows. At any rate, I found their pictures at Bhatwari. Harsil is now out of bounds to civilians, and I believe part of the old house was destroyed in a fire a few years ago. This sturdy building withstood the earthquake which devastated the area in 1991.
Amongst other things, Wilson introduced the apple into this area, ‘Wilson apples’—large, red and juicy—sold to travellers and pilgrims on their way to Gangotri. This fascinating man also acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of the wildlife of the region, and his articles, which appeared in Indian Sporting Life in the 1860s, were later plundered by so-called wildlife writers for their own works.
He acquired properties in Dehra Dun and Mussoorie, and his wife lived there in some style, giving him three sons. Two died young. The third, Charlie Wilson, went through most of his father’s fortune. His grave lies next to my grandfather’s grave in the old Dehra Dun cemetery. Gulabi is buried in Mussoorie, next to her husband. I wrote this haiku for her:
Her beauty brought her fame,
But only the wild rose growing beside her grave
Is there to hear her whispered name—
Gulabi.
I remember old Mrs Wilson, Charlie’s widow, when I was a boy in Dehra. She lived next door in what was the last of the Wilson properties. Her nephew, Geoffrey Davis, went to school with me in Shimla, and later joined the Indian Air Force. But luck never went the way of Wilson’s descendants, and Geoffrey died when his plane crashed.
Wilson’s life is fit subject for a romance; but even if one were never written, his legend would live on, as it has done for over a hundred years. There has never been any attempt to commemorate him, but people in the valley still speak of him in awe and admiration, as though he had lived only yesterday.
