Poetry in the Mountains

At the risk of sounding Wordsworthian, which I’m not because neither have I been educated by Nature, like Lucy, nor have I ever conversed with trees or brooks, I have come to believe that the best places to live on earth are either the seaside or the mountains. The vastness of the sea, its frightening power, a whole world of fauna and flora underneath it, strikes a feeling of awe, while the sultry breeze fans the face and knocks at hidden desires. Robert Frost observes that people on a beach ‘look at the sea all day’, despite the fact that ‘They cannot look out far/ They cannot look in deep/ But when was that ever a bar/ To any watch they keep?’

On the other hand is the majesty of the mountains, especially the Himalayas, of which Swami Vivekananda wrote after his visits to Almora (where I live) and other places in Uttarakhand:

“This is the land of dreams of our forefathers, in which was born Parvati, the Mother of India. This is the land which, since my very childhood, I have been dreaming of passing my life in…yet it is the hope of my life to end my days somewhere in this Father of Mountains where Rishis lived, where philosophy was born”. Born and brought up in a city, Lucknow in Uttar Pradesh, that continues to cherish an urban, feudal culture, I could sense a ‘paradigm shift’ when I joined my duties at the University Campus in Almora:

No turbulence,

just a soft flow

The languid air

makes one stop, ponder,

change focus.

Even the Mahatama squats, cross-legged,

his hands shielding his loins.

Although I had been writing poetry, sporadically (I still don’t write too much), ever since I was a University student, yet I could not muster enough courage to publish my poems, in the form of a book or even in Journals or magazines. ‘In the mountains, there you feel free’, wrote Eliot, and slowly I began shedding my inhibitions, overcame many of my fears and gradually flowered into a poet and a teacher. I decided to send the typescript of my poems to Professor P. Lal and it was a unique feeling to receive a postcard in his calligraphic handwriting, accepting my first book of poems for publication from Writers Workshop thirty years back. I slowly realized that I had been consciously withholding myself, a diffidence born out of conformity, of the expectation of being ‘politically correct’, of saying the right things at the right time. It was about time, I decided, goaded by the mountain breeze filtered through the Deodar and Pine trees, the primal, the elemental, the laid-back attitude of the inhabitants, the Karmic acceptance, that I must try to replace sincerity by authenticity (the two terms as explained by Lionel Trilling). More than any other form, poetry is best suited for expression of authenticity, the bitter-sweet fruit of looking inwards, of absorbing the pain of discovery, the gradual acceptance of myself as I am. There has been a development of a still-centre, which has acted as a defense mechanism for all conflicts, within and without. With the passage of time, I could speak out my mind without the earlier fear of consequences, and my poetry has become, in contrast to many, more confessional, sometimes fiercely so, to the extent that I have written a “Poetic Obituary” for myself recently. The mountains, the Himalayas, have contributed immensely to my growth as a poet, teacher, father and an authentic human being. It’s not for nothing that Julie Andrews sang in the 1965 film, “The Sound of Music”, running around excitedly in, what we term in local lingo, a ‘bugyal’:

I go to the hills when my heart is lonely

I know I will hear what I’ve heard before

My heart will be blessed with the sound of music

And I’ll sing once more.

*