Born to a ladakhi mother and a nomadic father of Slavic descent in the quiet village of Dha-Hanu in Ladakh, young Phunsook Wangdu was not one of the typical Dardic children who grew up in the village. At just 3 years old, a very young Phunsook had shown that he had more than just the normal share of curiosity that children his age possessed. He had taken his tiny baby-steps into the old barn near their hut, where his father tended to fine pashmina goats, and made a little hat for himself using the discarded wool that was strewn around. Both his father and mother had been amazed at their little son’s ingenuity. And all little Phunsook had said was “Gooo wooo!!” , trying hard to say ‘Goat wool’ in his baby tongue!
His father, not a very learned man, had illegally immigrated into Ladakh via Tibet five years back, under the pretext of a visiting tourist. Fact was, he had no person left back in his hometown of Kalmykia , a Mongol dominated province in Russia, to look after him and neither did he have any more money to continue existing on. And no means to make money either, having had no formal education and having made no efforts to improve the terrible conditions his poor family lived under. Having decided he had been a miserable failure his entire life, he finally decided switch to a nomadic lifestyle, hitch-hiking from one town to another, often begging for a living, living on other people’s mercy. One day, he had hitch-hiked a bit too far than he would have wanted, into the bustling city of Mumbai in India and then travelling to various other cities before landing in Tibet and finally in Ladakh.
Life had laid his nomadic plans to rest in the village of Dha-Hanu, when had fallen in love with a young ladakhi woman. He had decided that her beauty and simplicity was reason enough to continue living for several lifetimes. And then there was the event that changed his life, the birth of little Phunsook, bright and intelligent from the day he was born, his little twinkling brown eyes revealing a soul that was so pure and pristine.
It was right there and then, that he decided to straighten up his directionless life and decided to learn the old tradition of rearing pashmina goats, harvesting and weavingpashmina wool into beautiful pashmina shawls. He decided it would be enough to make himself and his little family make ends meet.
Days, months and years passed as the cashmere shawls that little Phunsook was covered in at nights, changed from soft yellow to rust red to fern green to dark ochre.
Phunsook was seven now.
Chapter 2
“How does the cracked bulb in the corner of our little kitchen turn white with light when you turn on that switch , Ma? “ , a young Phunsook would often ask his mother. His mother would turn to him nonchalantly, give him a silent stare and go back to making her thukpa, the traditional noodle soup they had almost everyday for dinner.
The same question would be met with a discerning reply from Dorjay Norbu, Phunsook’s only and best friend!
“Electricity, you fool!” , a visibly proud Dorjay would boast out aloud, “My father brings it to your miserable houses”.
Dorjay , 6 years elder to Phunsook, was the son of a labourer who worked at a local company that had won the contract for digging cables for the government’s initiative to bring electricity to all remote villages in Ladakh.
Tall and muscular in front of the rotund and plump frame that little Phunsook had, Dorjay would let no occasion go by when he did not bully Phunsook.
“How did your father lay the cables all the way up there?!?!?!”, a confused and curious Phunsook asked Dorjay one night.
They were sitting by a little rivulet that had formed off the Tsomoriri lake, their feet immersed in the slithering stream of cold water, heads pointing upwards at right angles to their necks, eyes firmly fixed to the midnight sky laden with a thousand glittering stars.
“There’s no electricity up there, you little dimwit!” , growled a furious Dorjay.
“How then, do the stars shine so bright when it is night? Who turns on all the switches ?” ,continued little Phunsook, in his sense of wonderment, paying no attention to the harsh words of his bullying friend.
He turned around to see Dorjay stare blankly at him, his mouth half open, a whole lot of anger in his eyes for little Phunsook was simply not listening to him, and a tinge of embarrassment as well, not knowing how exactly to answer his little friend’s question.
Little Phunsook finally theorized that there must be a similar company to the one they had in their village to lay down cables in the sky, with thousands of workers employed to turn on switches in the night.
With a smile of astound satisfaction , young Phunsook turned back home along with his angry friend.
The following day, when Phunsook's father returned from work, he was welcomed by the sight of one of their little hut's mud walls turn into a canvas for his little son's creative mind - drawn neatly with a crude piece of charcoal that his mother used for cooking - was a picture of the night sky with big five-armed stars wired to tiny little switches and men with their fingers ready to bring on the glitter in full glory.
Chapter 3
With barely enough money to break bread twice a day, Phunsook's father neither had the ambition nor the funds to give his son a proper education. And so , when other boys his age were busy attending daily school, young Phunsook would spend his mornings watching his mother make tsampa, a traditional dish made of barley flour, along with their morning's serving of bod cha, salty butter tea. He afternoon's would be spent in the barn, watching his father collect the pashmina coat shredded off the goat and spin it into cashmere wool .He would then play with Dorjay, as and when he returned from school and his nights would be spent in the kitchen with his mother again, watching her brew the same thupka each day.
The only source for information for young Phunsook's hyperactive mind was the old village monk, Namgyal Lhama. Old enough to not be able to remember his own age, Namgyal was a pool full of witty anecdotes filled with irreplaceable wisdom, for little Phunsook's sponge of a mind to roll in, and absorb all it could. And absorb he did.
It was a golden afternoon , with a cold breeze icing the an otherwise bright day. Little Phunsook was seated in old Namgyal's lap, his tender and plump fingers coiled across the old man's weather-beaten arms. Phunsook was engrossed in the old man's words, his deep brown gaze firmly fixed onto Namgyal's wrinkled face. "And so my dear Phunsook, although we were all created by one single power, call it a Supreme being or simply a consequence of rational science, we have been foolish enough to divide ourselves into various factions. Some refer to Him as God, some as Rama, others as Allah, a few others as Buddha - but there really is just one truth - the one we choose to believe in. Unity ,thus , is a matter of simple human choice.".
Young Phunsook's dimpled cheeks had turned a shade of deep red by now, as he furrowed his eyes into further concentration. Suddenly, a little smile swept across his thin lips, his fingers clutching the old man's hands even tighter.
"What happened, my dear child?" , asked old Namgyal , with a touch of concern at his young pupil's reaction.
"Its nothing, Namgyal la! ", young Phunsook muttered in a sweet singing tone , "I now know who employs the men to switch on those lights!! ".
The old man looked at young Phunsook, utterly stupefied , his face a picture of perfect bewilderment.
That night , as his father and mother were in one of their cycles of REM sleep, a super-attentive Phunsook quietly crawled out of his strawed mattress, put on the lone bulb in the corner of the cooking area, pulled out a piece of charcoal from his soiled pant's torn pocket, and drew a couple of strings from each man who was about to turn on the switch, to a person who was apparently holding all those strings.
His deft little fingers then drew a pointed arrow from the man on top and next to it, young Phunsook wrote in the broken english that his father had once managed to teach him - "LIGTMAN- I beliv in you" .
No comments:
Post a Comment