Ice and the Storyteller (बर्फ़ और कहानीकार)

In the works of Kalhana, Aryaraja has been depicted as the king of Kashmir (300 BC) who was brought back to life from his dead self of Samdhimati – a wise man. Kalhana tells his story as a king who renounced worldly affairs and his throne to take on the ascetic mode of living and became a yogi. It is not clear, more so because of my lack of research, whether it was during his later life or the earlier, wealthier life, that he visited a structure made of ice in Kashmir.

1700 years later, a shepherd, without a specific objective, wandered off to a remote cave – huge enough for a family of giants to live in – and discovered ice.

…

When we reached Baltal – my wife, her colleague and I – we were welcomed by a temporary township of tents tattered across and along the very beautiful, expansive and mighty Himalayas. We had decided to take the shorter route by trekking via Domial, Barari and Sangam and were continually warned against the same. It was supposed to take 2 days to cover this stretch of 14 kilometres, owing to the life-threatening and extremely steep routes, bone-chilling wind, lack of oxygen and our appreciation for photography and intermediate stops.

…

Thousands of years earlier, a wanderer of life, a yogi, a man who loved deeply, a dancer who shook the face of Earth, held the delicate hands of her beautiful wife in the darkness of a cave, lit mildly by the full moon, and told her the story of life and death. Story.

…

2 days and many bruises later we found ourselves in a queue which could easily have been 5 kilometres long. My wife’s colleague got slightly agitated looking at the slow moving queue and we tried our best to cool him down, well actually in that particular environment, to heat him up.

…

Stalagmite.ˈ/staləɡmʌɪt/ noun. A type of rock or ice formation that rises from the floor of a cave due to the accumulation of material or ice deposited on the floor from ceiling drippings.

…

• Are you religious? (I asked)
• Not really. It is more of a habit instilled in me from childhood than a belief. Belief. Yes, however, I do like to believe in a superior power. But I won’t call it being religious. (He answered)
• He is here to be a part of the experience. More for the cave and less for the.. (She intervened)
• It’s huge man. Don’t you see it? (He interrupted her)
• I am all prepared to find giant trolls coming out of the cave and trampling me underneath their feet. (I joked)

Someone chanted loudly in a voice that sounded endearing and many repeated after him. Including my wife. And myself. It was fun.

…

A son sacrifices his life protecting her mother from a man he thought looked dubious – his father. Years later he comes to visit the mountains, escorted by his parents who gave multiple lives to him, and is left to himself to imbibe the solitude at Mahagunas Parbat. Watching his parents walk ahead, he twitches his nose with mirth, and it touches his belly.

…

It had taken us two days to reach the queue but it took us ages to arrive at the entrance.

• Time is relative my friend. (I said)
• What do you mean? (He asked)
• It passes differently for you and me. It passes differently for even just you, in different situations. When I proposed her, five years back, the time between my proposal and her reply seemed like an eternity. When I wrote the JEE, the time appeared to have halved.
• I see. Now why don’t you write your next book on this concept? It would be a nice Science Fiction. Fiction, mind you.
• You can call it fiction but it’s true.
• That’s the problem with writers. They lose the sense of boundaries between fact and fiction. How do you bear this guy? (He turned to my wife) You should have married me instead.
• But she didn’t. (I laughed)
• But I didn’t. (She laughed)

The chant. The repetition.

…

At Pahalgam, he left his vehicle, the bull to graze the fresh grass. At Chandanwari, he left his lamp to explore the darkness under the brightly lit sky and twinkling stars. On the edge of Lake Sheshnag, he left his pet to play. To the company of his wife and telling of the stories, he walked ahead, singing.

…

We were allowed to look at it for almost 3 seconds and were forced to move ahead by the security guard. But as soon as I witnessed it, my hands lifted themselves up and touched each other in the act of paying respect to the power of grandeur that my brain, my highly educated, scientific brain, felt inside the chilling cave. In those three seconds, I had closed my eyes for two, allowing only a second of visibility. We were out of the gate and stood in silence looking at the rocks above us, a soothing windburn left a strand of hair on my skin, utterly frozen. I looked at my wife and she looked at me. But I knew she was still inside the cave.

• I want to see it again. (My wife demanded) This could not have been it. I didn’t travel all the way upto here to see it for a split second.
• But sweetheart, we can’t go back.
• But I want to. I felt blessed but that was not enough. I want to look at it, worship it, take it in my soul. Inhale it.
• But he is right. It would take another 10 hours for us to go back to the end of the queue and come back. (He supported)

Someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned back to find a lady, old enough to show her age on the wrinkles of her face. She must have been 70.

• Yes, Aunty?
• Son, I was unable to see it. Can you please take me inside?
• Aunty, where is your family? They will take you inside. But you will have to be in the queue.
• My family must be somewhere here. They will look for me. Don’t worry. But can you please take me back there? It was our final wish – me and my husband’s – to see it in its entirety, look at it, worship it, take it in our souls, before we die. He couldn’t fulfil it but I came, and I am sure I will never come back here. This is for him and me – for us. Please.

I looked at my wife, astonished. She approached her and

• Aunty. Come with me. I will take you there.

I saw the lady adjust the pallu of her white saree over her head covered with long, grey hair, stuck together in oil and wisdom. She held my wife’s left wrist and walked briskly by her side to the guard near the exit gate. After five minutes of discussions and calls to supervisors, I saw my wife turn back to me with a smile and go inside the exit gate with the lady.

I stood there with him – the guy who had pursued my wife while she was single for almost two years before she chose me – trying to avoid the silence by talking about mountain goats and their various forms. He told me about a variety that could climb vertical cliffs. It was then that I realised that it was because of the presence of my wife that I could talk to him so casually about relative time and religion and weather. She was the glue. And with her gone inside, it was difficult. For both of us.

They emerged amidst the flow of people, almost half an hour later. My wife and the lady appeared to have attained the ultimate knowledge – the knowledge of life. My wife looked – due to the lack of a better word and because of the fact that no other word can do justice to the state she was in – calm.

• Thank you so much. (The lady told my wife and turned to us). Thanks a lot.

I saw a thin film of tears covering her eyes.

• It was my pleasure, Aunty. (My wife said). It was because of you that I..
• I should look for my family.
• Don’t worry, Aunty. I will help you look for them. (He said)
• No. No. They are my sons. They can find me anywhere. You all go ahead.

After repeated requests and counter-requests, she stood her ground and we had to leave. My wife and he switched on the camera and started looking at the photographs while walking and I kept looking back at the lady and saw her walking along the side of the mountain that boasted of the cave. I, suddenly, stumbled upon a rock and the two lifted me up.

When I looked back, I couldn’t see her. They followed my gaze and

• Where did she go? (My wife asked)
• She must have found her family. (He answered)

But she was alone, walking towards the mountain. Even had she found her family, she couldn’t have disappeared within five seconds of my fall and rise. Or maybe, she was engulfed by the crowd and we couldn’t see her.

…

Kalhana wrote a historical chronicle of the kings of the north-western parts of Indian subcontinent, especially Kashmir, in approximately 8000 verses, in 8 books. The name – Rajatarangini. It starts with the Gonanditya Dynasty in 2448 BC describing King Gonanda I as a contemporary of Yudhistira, killed by Balarama, the elder brother of Krishna and ends with Second Lohara Dynasty.

In this book, he refers to a cave of religious interest as Amareshwara or Amarnath.

…

Today when I recall her face, I could remember the wrinkles on her face, the tears in her eyes, the smile on her lips and a peculiar symbol – three horizontal, parallel lines – grey in colour made, most probably with what looked like, ashes.

My wife still recalls the day with fervour. When I ask her what happened inside the cave she always replies

• We sat there. The authorities looked at us and immediately allowed us to sit next to the grill protecting it. And then we came out.

But, I would like to believe, against all sensible odds.

…

Inside the Cave

I must have lost the sense of time when I opened my eyes and looked at her. I found her staring at me and I could easily guess that she must have stared at me for quite some time.

• Shall we go? (The lady asked)
• No one is asking us to leave. We can stay.
• But I think we should leave. It’s been long.

And then suddenly a security personnel came and asked us to leave.

• I would have loved to tell you a story – this cave has a strange power to turn anyone into a storyteller – but it’s been long since I left my sons. They must be getting paranoid.
• What’s your name, Aunty?

[End]

To those who want to believe and to those who won’t.

To those who lost their lives and to those who made it.

To the question no one has an answer to.

To the storytellers, including the first.

References:

Entries on blogs, encyclopaedias and social media on the historical and geographical details of and experiences at Amarnath Temple.

Note:

This is a work of imagination inspired by narrations/recollections of people and any resemblance to true event(s) is co-incidental. The objective is not to hurt anyone’s faith and belief. However, if you feel that the content is objectionable and that it resembles any of your own experiences, feel free to write to me at [email protected]