Monsoon Mists

Himachal Pradesh has a draconian law called Section 118 that rules that a person who is not a Himachali by birth, (even if he is an Indian citizen) cannot buy land to build a home on its soil. But like all laws, this too has some little exceptions under which I had applied to the Hon'ble Govt machinery to give me permission to buy a tiny tiny piece of earth to build my tiny tiny dream home where I had planned to live till the day I died. Well, yesterday, I received a curt reply from the Hon'ble Govt: आपकी अर्जी अस्वीकृत किया गया है! And of course, no reason, none at all was offered for this heartless denial of permission.

I am devastated. There is no justice in this world. Just because I am only an aam junta with no teeth: neither connections in high places nor trunks full of cash , that I have been denied the permission. I feel it is a travesty that genuine Himachal admirers and ardent environmentalists like us are denied such rights on the pretext of conserving the ecosystem of these hills while all along unregulated urbanisation goes on unchecked: tearing down the hills, killing it's fauna and ransacking its flora, activities to which the same Hon'ble govt turns a blind eye because its eyes have been shaded with the colour of money and power.

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The last few weeks had been busy at work, uncharacteristically so and I had been rushing through the days at breakneck speed, trying simultaneously to meet deadlines and to ensure a certain standard quality of work, an undeniably difficult proposition. In fact, I was so breathlessly busy that me, the ardent nature lover, had failed to realise that summer was long gone and that the monsoons had arrived with full gusto.
Yesterday I had gone with some files to the Old Man's room and finding him busy on the phone, had stepped out onto the verandah for a breather. I had stood on this open porch that rings our office watching the world, now sopping wet with rain around me. All was silent and still, like the pregnant calm that precedes a monsoon storm. Occasionally, a faint bird call broke the stillness from someplace high up in the branches of the silver oaks. Soft swirls of mist flowed gracefully, like the fingers of Bharatnatyam dancers, towards and then over me Watching them, I suddenly realised: "Oh my, this was not mist but clouds, real clouds....!!!Oh how lovely!!" I had gushed, unable to control my delight. The clouds swooped over and around me, touching my skin with light, wet touches: caressing, playful, as if they relished my delighted surprise...The Norfolk Island pines on the road below, rose like Gothic shadows from behind the translucent cloud swirls, the cars parked in the driveway looked for all the world like Victorian horse drawn carriages and everything appeared unreal, mysterious, dreamlike. Completely bewitched by the beautiful monsoon vista before me, I had fallen into a kind of trance.
"Yes, isn't it beautiful? So much better than inside the boring old office!" The Old Man's voice startled me out of my reverie. He had emerged from the office after his phone call and we stood together for a few seconds admiring the untramelled beauty that lay around us. But duty called, for a lot of work was to be done and fast and we had to tear ourselves away from the magic, back into our staid old office.
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So, this is how wondrous these mountains are and come what may, I'm determined not to leave this Dreamland. Whatever those red taped, rule-trapped poetry-deficient bureaucrats in their dusty offices decry, I'm unfazed. Like a lover besotted, I will not end my lovestory with these mountains just because they deny me sanction. Oh no, never. My lovestory is older than all their stupid and musty rule books....
जन्म जन्म का नाता जो है हमारा....