Pahaad (The Mountain)

I hate going to Haridwar for any reason what so ever but somehow find myself visiting the place every three months on one pretext or the other. Somehow the way the place is entwined with the Hindu culture leaves one with little choice when the question of following one’s customs and practices arises.

I am no staunch fundamentalist nor connected to the saffron brigade anyhow. Just a commoner with standard religious beliefs passed on by my parents, I am definitely not the kinds to swear by ‘Ganga Maiya’ unless of course you get me drunk to the brim.

The last long weekend of 14^th – 16^th August took me to Haridwar once again - this time bound by the obligation of presence on some religious ceremony to be held on the Ganga Ghats as a mandate.

Though I have couple of interesting anecdotes from this trip, let me introduce you to ‘Pahaad’ to begin with.

I was walking barefoot from the Ghats to the car parking. Barefoot because someone probably needed my shoes more than I did and took the liberty of taking them away (without permission of course) for this life time when I left them for exactly 3 minutes. Anyway, so I was walking down and saw this kid talking to a street hawker selling bhutta (corn on the cob grilled over coal).

The kid wanted to have something in return for his 2/- coin.

He was dressed in a long shirt which might have been white when it was bought but appeared Earthy brown now and it certainly was way too big for his little frame. He eyed me suspiciously as I stood next to him for half a minute before letting a smile escape. His teeth were tartar infested and dyed yellow with a huge gap between his upper front teeth from where he would stick out his tongue every now and then.

I smiled back and asked him what he wanted. He stood there for a while before gesturing back at the corn. I looked at the hawker who appeared resolute as not to sell anything to this kid on the street. My appearance probably softened the vendor a bit and he handed out to the kid probably what was his lunch for the day.

I asked the kid what his name was.

“Pahaad” (The Mountain) he said.

I asked him why did he call himself ‘Pahaad’?

He looked at me, smiled again and then pointed to the peaks and hill tops in the backdrop and said “Woh Pahaad hai, woh mera papa hai, isliye mera naam pahaad hai” (that’s a mountain, he’s my father and so my name is ‘Pahaad’).

I asked him where his parents were.

He replied, “Koi nahi hai” (there's nobody) and looked downwards as if shy at exposing some secret about his life.

I asked him if I could take his picture and he gladly posed.

Here he is - ‘Pahaad’ for you.

I don’t know if ‘Pahaad’ would be able to keep up his smile in days to come or manage to survive doing something other than begging. So much for the Hindu pilgrimage and Ganga Maiya and all virtues associated with the holy dip.