I could only think of Walt Whitman’s lines in the song of the open road, The Picture alive, every part in its best light. We were accompanied by a man from the Idu Mishmi Tribe Timai, who we now call a friend. We sensed the reverence in his relationship with the land and that drew us into conversations – deep, profound and revealing. He felt we were searching for something beyond the adventure – beyond meeting the mountain with our bodies measured by endurance and fitness. We were lovers of his land and its mysteries. He then allowed us gently into her wonders. He took us into a forest. I had heard of the Japanese art of forest bathing. This was a bathing experience – in sunlight, in the drizzle from the waterfalls, in the magic, in the mystery. We grew inwardly silent and he showed each fern, each mushroom, each leaf, each bark with such tenderness with which one might touch a newborn. He told us many stories. One that I was touched by the most – In many trees there were small cuts on the trunk and he said when they need to cut a tree to make a home or another human need, they take a small piece of its trunk and place her in their home. And speak to her and ask for permission to cut the tree. The forest mother then speaks to them in their dreams and sometimes is a Yes and at other times No and they respect it. How can they not? She is Asha – the spirit of the forest and they worship her. We could feel her energy permeated in the forest. They have forests which are called the Sacred Forests. And as strangers to the land we could not go there. These forests are permeated by the ancestor spirits for they bury them there. What we call a burial ground is a sacred forest to them. The Mountain Spirit is called Golo. They are their gods and protectors. When we began talking about spirits we meandered into Shamanism and I asked him, “Will you please take me to meet a Shaman?” And he was non-committal.
As we walked and cycled through these mountain passes we had to stop. A hundred times over. Sometimes to drink some tea, sometimes to find warmth over the fireplace, sometimes to make a picture, sometimes to just sit and cry at the beauty of what was in front of us. There was a certain sacredness to the land that engulfed us. We camped briefly in a place where the tribe meet for their ceremonies. All around were mountains and waterfalls from every corner, a stream, white mountain tops afar. A kind of echo you could hear that told you this place was a temple of a kind.
And as you walk amidst the white and the green you will see the flaming rhododendrons. And the white orchid trees. And in the valley the cherry blossoms and the peach blossoms. In the same day you could see winter in the white avalanche, spring in the rhododendrons and the peach blossoms, autumn in the fallen red leaves and summer in the sun that shone on us. In response to our song all morning manifesting the sun – Mr Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, Please shine down on me. It was a silly song that had become a chant and a prayer for we really wanted the sun that morning.
I felt in those mountain passes that I was drinking in everything – the river, the air, the sky, the waterfall, the green, the red, the meandering road, everything animate and inanimate. The wildness, the rawness, the purity. This is what Thoreau must have meant when he wrote –“We need the tonic of wildness”. It was the tonic of wildness I ever came close to.
For the night, we reached Tamai’s house. To the fireplace. Every home here, has a hearth with a fire alive, all day and night, all seasons. We met his mother, sister and the whole family. We spoke of tribal wars, the invasion of Tibetans, the bloodshed, the folk lore of the tiger as the brother to humans and many things that at once moved us. And took us to the heart of their culture, their trials and their stories. Some stories spoke louder than others. I asked Timai how long their Bamboo House will last in the falling snow and the falling rain. He said, Seven years. And I asked, “what after that?”. He said, every seven years they rebuild their homes. The whole village came and built it for them and at the end, the family throws a feast. And they have a new home – bamboos that were held in the hands of their lot. Now a new home proclaiming the truth of their lives – the crucible of the village. I walked around their bamboo house imagining members of the village, singing and building. And Timai sang a song. Only a song could coat the air of this moment of imagination in my head. Of the village, building their house and every house.
That night we slept deeply cradled by the mountain, the mysteries, Naba’s blessings and the stars that spoke to us.
The next morning we asked Timai’s sister for some Idu Mishmi food. And when we came from our hike, she looked her hair wet and her face glowing. And she told us how she went into the forest to gather the herb- fiddle heart to cook for us. It was fiddle heart, indeed. The people of the land, feed their guests with a generous and warm hand and heart. The experience is not merely of eating but feels like a different kind of communal experience – sitting by the fireplace, listening to their stories and an odd cat that sits along. The plate with its many portions, each one announcing its travel from a faraway forest or the kitchen garden behind.
We had to leave. All good things come to an end. We made a circle – our friends planned somethings for a circle, Chitra stitched and embroidered Nanri a Tamil word that means gratitude, Vijaya found a stick which they could hang it, I gathered some peach blossoms, Geetanjali planned a song and Hari a warm sharing. The children spoke from their heart and we had a circle around the fire for farewell. It moved them deeply. And a part of us did not want to leave.
We set out on our way through the lashing rain to the warm plains of Pasighat. We could remove all the layers and perhaps jump into the river with ease. Our trip came to a grinding halt because of a landslide. The landslides were part of the Arunachal experience, we later learnt. A small hut opened its doors, set a fireplace and provided a home to all passers-by. Their beds became dorms for people that night. Their living room a place for the fire, their kitchen a brewery of tea and their creaking old dishevelled hut – a congregation for stranded souls. Strangers invited us to rest in the beds that was offered to them. People checked on each other, their supplies, their journey. Moments like this show us the spirit of being human. How kindness and generosity flows through our veins and how it finds expression on an extraordinary cold and uncertain day and night like this. We spent several hours in uncertainty, in cold, in hunger and yet in a strange warmth with each other, the mountain and its people.
She is the founder of Yellow Train School, which is inspired by the principles of Waldorf education and founded on the dream of creating a loving and nourishing environment for children. When Santhya traveled with us to Eastern Arunachal Pradesh, she brought the same passion and enthusiasm, engaging deeply with the local culture and environment, enriching her commitment to holistic education and community interaction.
