The Hindu Business Line : Grass in the sky

The grass that grows at altitude is fancied food. It is a tough strain and the wisdom of the mountains has it that those who eat good food become strong. The bull looked me in the eye, six feet from my small tent. It was tough – no question about that. Head held up, it matched me in height; had cannonball shoulders, hindquarters that screamed stud and a forehead so agitated by restless hormones that I stood strong chance of being mistaken for a cow.

When it wasn’t inspecting the human intruders camped in the valley, it marched slowly back and forth on the other side of the Rupin River, sniffing out submissive candidates from a vast harem. The lower villages set free their prime livestock here to graze and reproduce.

bull’s throne

Rolling in the mud and coating themselves with dung were challengers to the bull’s throne. None seemed ready for confrontation. The king’s lazy travel was punctuated by periodic soulful bellows; a fog-horn in wilderness to me, likely music to his lovers. Two years later, this was the image that surfaced in mind as I returned from the Pindari Glacier to a newspaper stall in Ranikhet and reports of a minister cautioned for using “cattle class.” Were they discussing austerity?

The report sat prominent on the front page of the newspaper. When I went to the cyber café to check mail, the screen exploded to the same topic. Had people gone amok over a passing remark or was it language gone amok in changed times?

cattle-chattel

I have travelled with friends on dusty rural roads in creaking, groaning vehicles packed to the brim that we called cattle transport. The Internet traces the word ‘cattle’ to the old French word ‘chattels’ meaning all that a person owns. So what exactly does cattle class mean, if not my class or lugging our homes around as we always do? The maximum I experienced was 23 persons plus baggage in a jeep. The driver sat at the corner of his seat, steering and braking with stretched limbs. We could drop metaphors, forget the cattle-chattel; keep the description sterile. But that would be like asking the big bull to stop wooing and go straight to the business of spreading its seed. The prosaic becomes memorable only as a story. Who can resist spice for flavour? The writer-minister couldn’t.

Late September, rucksack checked in, I boarded my low-cost carrier at Delhi airport, economy class. The seat pocket in front held the usual safety manual and a booklet advertising things for sale, none of them interesting to me. There were no newspapers to read, no magazines. I badly wanted a cup of tea or coffee; was even prepared to shell out the fifty rupees.

“We don’t serve either,” the air hostess said smiling. I counted clouds floating by the window; then tried sleeping with the dull drone of the engine as lullaby. Suddenly the captain’s voice crackled in that couldn’t-care-less tone – how nice it was to have us on the flight and the so many lovely articles we could buy. But can you sip a watch or FM radio? Across the aisle, a man overcome by sheer boredom pulled down the tray table in frustration. Then amazingly, he rested his elbows on it, cradled his head and dozed off! Just like some animals do; they stand still, shut their eyes and touch peace. I spent the rest of the flight in a valley of succulent grass in the sky.

(The author is a freelance writer based in Mumbai)

More Stories on : Domestic Travel | Impressions

Article E-Mail :: Comment :: Syndication :: Printer Friendly Page

Stories in this Section
Pouring woes

Sample surveys and their pitfalls

The battle for Maharashtra

International migration: The gender angle

Grass in the sky

Coke’s bumpy ride

Urban problems