The Landslides of Garhwal

It seems that mountains of Garhwal have a distinctive revulsion for the rains as the downpour often turns them into monsters that ravage roads, wipe out houses and kill the passerby. My first trip to the Himalayas was marred by the series of landslides, but the journey was harrowing, yet fulfilling, as I could feel both the fury of the hills and the tender touch of the people, who live on it.

I was deputed to cover a butter festival at Dayara Bhugyal, a high altitude meadow located further up from Uttarkashi. Even though I left Delhi on 15th August- two days before the festival an entire day was wasted in Dehradun. No driver was willing to drive in the rains and the officials were clueless about the condition of the road. On 16th I decided to move on and the scenic drive from Dehradun to Rishikesh seemed like giving consent to my decision. I thought the panorama was just a glimpse of what was coming ahead. Within a couple of hours I was proved wrong.

The road carved in the hills between Rishikesh and Chamba was higher than the clouds and the green mountains were decked out with myriad streams of milky white water. In that heavenly drive I had the first encounter with the mountain’s wrath. The four landslides between Rishikesh and Chamba prolonged the 60 km journey into a seven hours and I got skeptical about the next 95 kms from Chamba to Uttarkashi. We were forced to stay at Chamba as there was another landslide in the outskirts of the town.

Next day we waited for hours to discover that only a handful of Border Road Organization (BRO) and PWD’s employees work beyond the office hours. Interestingly the state government officials blame the central government as the border road doesn’t come under the state’s purview. I learned the first rule of the hills- people suffer while the buck is passed. A person coming from the opposite direction told us about a bigger landslide few meters ahead of the bend. I was shocked to see that the entire road had vanished. It looked as if the mountain has swallowed the road. Knowing the official pace of work I decided to leave the Jeep and move ahead.

After walking for a kilometer found a bus on the other side of the landslide and like everyone else I was also hoping that it will take us to the next one and likewise we will keep getting vehicles at every landslide spot. The bus stopped after 3-4 kms as stones were falling on the road. We crossed two villages, Klaith and Ratnotalla and from there the road was stained by the debris falling from the mountains. No vehicle could go for more than a few kilometers. We were about 15-20 kms before Kamand and walking was the only feasible way to cover the distance. I was confused whether to carry on or return back to Chamba. But like the others I was also hopeful that the ordeal will get over if I walk with them to Kamand.

On our way we crossed two major landslides where the entire road had fallen in the canyon. The landslide was active, rocks were falling and one had to run in the mud to cross it. Perhaps natural disasters force deeper bonding in human beings and I also experienced that. Starting from a group of migrant workers from Bihar, the list of my companions included a chef in Seattle, a recently married army man, an elderly electricity board employee and three young men from Uttarkashi, all hell-bent to walk. 

Few kilometers before Kamand we took a shortcut by walking down a field and then climbing the hills. Even though I had the lightest backpack but I the climb was too steep for me. I completed it in several breaks and joined the others who, even though were carrying heavy suitcases and bags but were in much better condition than me.

Kamand was far and we stopped at a small shop to buy some water and biscuits. Two army men and three trekkers from Hyderabad were already relaxing there. I had realized that I could not reach the festival but I had no courage to walk back to Chamba all alone. Being in the group was physically taxing but still safer. The new group started walking towards Chham, the next town. Just before the town we got a Jeep and the driver promised to drop us few kilometers before Chinyalisaur, the next town from where vehicles were going towards Uttarkashi.  The jeep could barely cross Chaam as the rocks started falling again. We could have stayed at Chaam but many of my companions were traveling for days and were desperate to reach their home. We decided to walk and that patch was perhaps the worst hit and the most active. It was dark and one can hear the sound of stones rolling down the hills. 

They were exchanging their luggage so that a single person is not burdened with the heaviest load. I could see the pain but I was ashamed of myself as unlike the people of the hills helping others was beyond my physical ability. It was scary to walk through the swamp and the remains of the road which was narrow and muddy. But there was no option as the stones were falling continuously. We were dragging ourselves towards Chinyalisaur. The houses were twinkling like stars studded in the hills. After reaching the town I had no strength even to eat or change my muddy cloths. I pushed some food and I don’t remember when I slept.

They checked out early and paid my bills too. The hotel owner got some tea and advised me to leave because the landslides were continuous and might get stranded in Chinyalisaur for more days. I literally dragged myself to the taxi stand and managed to get a shared taxi which took me to Uttarkashi. Although I didn’t have enough cash and the ATMs were not working but reaching Uttarkashi was a relief.

I saw the control room of the district’s disaster management unit. The official bluntly told me that every tourist has left while all roads are blocked. I am still trying to figure out how? The district magistrate also had a similar reply. Outside his office people were protesting against the alleged manhandling of journalists by goons of pilot baba. Enraged by the reporting on baba’s illegal encroachment of land in the banks of Bhagirathi the goons warned them not to write anything against the holy man. The DM refused to take action against the baba and by now I realized that in India’s last district things are left to be settled on their own while the official machinery is just ceremonial.

The authorities from Dehradoon were yet to reach Uttarkashi, the minister of disaster management was clueless about the scale of damage and the chief minister had announced that the state machinery has left no stone unturned. One can however see that the stones were rolling on their own while the government was busy in issuing statements from Dehradun. 

Fortunately, I found an ATM there. But after waiting two hours, I discovered to my horror that it wasn’t working. Lost and despairing, I roamed the market. A biker stopped and seeing my muddy clothes asked if I needed help. I recounted my story and my dire financial position. He took me to his nephew’s hotel and asked him to take care of me. It was my birthday and as I spoke to the biker. He invited me to his house to celebrate it. For the next four days, I got a taste of the generosity and simplicity of the hill people as they hosted me, either at their house or at the hotel. The bill came to Rs 2,700, but I could only pay Rs 1,500 as that’s all I had. They accepted this with humility and even packed millet parantha and pickle for my onward journey. 

Delhi beckoned, and badly. It was nine days that I had been out for a journey that was to last two days. And when I reached home, the Butter Festival was the last thing on my mind.

Some Random Shots 

A trip to McCluskieganj

From the bustling ‘mulk’ of the Anglo Indians, to monsoon retreat of Calcutta bhadra-manoos, a maoist sanctuary thereafter and today a hostel township, McCluskieganj's history is as deciduous as the sal forests surrounding it. Although Chotta London managed to survive these decades of turbulence and restoration, it is giving up now. On a visit to this place one can see how half of its terrain is taken over by the jungle while modern constructions are popping up on the other. It gives a feeling that soon it will be no different from other tiny dots scattered on the tribal hinterland of Jharkhand.

Noel Gordon couldn’t bury the grin underneath his wrinkles when he talks about his childhood and teenaged years. He unceasingly talks about Mr Kline’s fascination for motorcycle, Mr Mendis’ big game hunting, Mr Booth’s 150 acre plantation and Mr Cameroon’s departure and the stories of his longing to return. “The gunj, if not more developed than Ranchi, was famous for its exotic market,” tells Gordon. “People used to come to buy Chinese silk, latest gramophone records and even Champaign,” he adds.

The Gordon’s live near the half-asleep railway station whose eternal isolation makes even the shrill whistles of the passing trains sound as gratifying as a distant serenade. In the past the station was an eyewitness to an important chapter of Anglo Indian history. In the chaotic 30s when the independence movement was at its peak, trains stopped to bring the children of the Raj from all parts of the country to their only homeland. The crumbling walls and the locked doors of the bungalows dotted scattered around the station have concealed the story of the desperate attempt to create identity for the Anglo Indians, by creating an exclusive address for the community.

These people of mixed ancestry were considered half-caste ‘Chee-Chee’ by the British, while the Indians doubted their loyalty. Apart from the social acceptance, there was an ingrained economic fear as the independence would end the protected jobs. The community, traditionally had reservation in railways, police, posts, telegraph and customs and it was now supposed to compete directly with the others. At that time several pamphlets were circulated to discuss the identity crisis as well as future in India. Mr Gordon inherited some of them. One of which discusses the domiciling of the community in India dubbing them as the youngest people of the great Indian civilization. It suggests them to retain their identities and language like the other regional communities of the country. But for all that an exclusive Anglo Indian territory was necessary, which in the coming years was supposed to become their only home.   

According to Alison Blunt’s monograph, from the Royal Geographical Society’s collection on human and physical geography these pamphlets had a significant impact in creating a general conviction that self help agricultural settlements was the only way to survive and retain their identity. Across India various attempts were made to establish Anglo Indian agricultural townships agricultural. The ganj spreading over ten thousand acres was the largest of them.

Established in 1933 by the Colonization Society of India (CSI), the land was leased by Ernest Timothy McCluskie from a local zamindar of Ranchi.  Although its founder, who was a land and house agent from Calcutta visited the settlement only once and died two years after its formation, the gunj prospered. By the 1940s about 300 families inhabited it. “My father’s was from Madras and mother from Shillong,” murmurs a thoughtful Kitty Memsaab. They wanted to create England in India and hence built their houses like the colonial bungalows as it is illustrated in CSI’s monthly journals. 

“Things did not happen the way they were perceived”, explains DeRozario, the ex Anglo Indian MLA of undivided Bihar. The confusion about future panicked them and many simply locked their houses and left for Britain. For the remaining, several of whom had bought the plots by their provident fund; life was difficult once the money was finished. “The urban dwelling community was not carved for agriculture and hence their exodus was imminent” he concluded. Mr Gordan points out that the Second World War resulted in a shortage of manpower in Britain and hence for Anglo Indians migration became easier. “It continued till the 1990s. The theatre, the gunj’s last icon was closed in 72 or may be 73, but who keeps track of time when sustenance becomes questionable,” he quipped.

By the 1990s the gunj was reduced to a ghost town and the Maoists fearlessly prowled around it. Kitty Memsaab, sitting at the railway station with a basket of fruit became the symbol of the gunj’s distraught condition. “Mr DeRozario, whose wife grew up here gave a new lease of life to the place by opening a school,” says Herald Mendis who came back to his home after retiring from the nearby colliery. “It was a hapless situation then, but the school and then the opportunity to open hostels has revived the economy,” he spoke softly. Today there are over 30 hostels and a little less than 2000 students. For the remaining Anglo Indian families the good days are finally back, but this time at the cost of the gunj. With the new constructions, the town will lose its exclusivity. “Eric Oliver, who had left for Australia came back in 2010 but was disgusted by new constructions and he returned back,” recounts Mendis. “The government has done nothing to preserve our culture,” he sighs.