The Backdoor Entry.

The policeman saluted and asked, “Why didn’t you inform us earlier, Sir?”

My father who towered over me at 6’2” was taken aback too. Without waiting for the answer the policeman had hauled up me in his arms. Other colleagues of his assisted my mom and sister. Some cleared the path hurriedly. I realised we were no longer anonymous figures among the thousands. One of the cops had asked me “Where does your father work?”

I had replied “He was an officer at” but my parched voice had forced me to reply even more softly “the British Council!” Strangely, my answer seemed to be lost in the mayhem of the children of the same God, who were still waiting in that chaotic queue that had proceeded some fifty meters in those last four hours.

After a thirty-six kilometer trek, we stood at the mouth of the Amarnath Caves. It was 12,000 ft above the sea level. Two amazing facts remain as memories of the journey. The cold would grip us and thrash us with its large tentacles when we stopped and when we started to move we would perspire out of exhaustion. The other remains the fact that made me realise the worth of food and water in the place.

I also remember that I had complained to my father of my feet being cold even though I was wearing two woolen socks and a pair of good mountaineering boots. It made my father point out the fact that there was a small kid, younger than me who was trekking over the snow with only a pair of large socks! This is what India and the power of faith is! That had made me realise how fortunate people we were. These were experiences that made me the man that I am today.

The golden snow-capped peaks had shivered in the cascading rays of the newborn sun and come crashing down on this world of mortals as the crystal clear water. Moss had invaded where the conifers had given way. It was here where nature’s beauty raced against its power of devastation. The wet earth underneath would sometimes give way taking horse and rider down the steep precipices.

“The Almighty’s will” someone would say!

Someone else uttered, “The result of past sins,” who bypassed the tragedy. But the single fact remained that the journey of the near and dear ones who were afflicted by this tragedy ended then and there.

Thousands waited ahead of us, to get a glimpse of Lord Shiva before the auspicious moments flew by. There even a nine-year-old boy like me had understood the power of money. Out of the hustling crowd of devotees, people held out currency notes above their heads and they were handpicked by the very enforcers of law themselves. Unfortunately, there was neither Kiran Bedi nor Anna Hazare to look into it!

My father a man of principles had said, “If the Lord wishes to see us, he will!”

However, when the policeman had insisted, he had relented after taking a look at our faces. They had taken us to see the Lord through what one may call the “backdoor entry!”

Then we saw what we had gone for. The petals, the milk, and the green bael fruit leaves had added colour to the Lord. We were fortunate to be able to seek the blessing of the head priest too, courtesy the over-enthusiastic policemen. We even managed to get a glimpse of the two holy pigeons the so-called messengers of Lord Shiva. Suddenly, the hospitality of the cops did change and it was amazing. They stood guarding our shoes when we entered the Amarnath caves whereas the shoes of the other devotees were strewn all over the place. They saluted us at the slightest pretext and even tried to humour us. When my father offered money, they retreated as if the sight of money would damn their souls to perdition. We were shocked at what seemed impossible for commoners like us.

In the late afternoon, we had returned to Panchtarani where we were camping for the night.  We would assemble around the bonfire and drink tea and biscuits. We were relating our experiences to each other and then we noticed Mr. Mishra the old bald gentleman who was our father’s colleagues coming along. It was six in the afternoon and almost 4 hours after all the other members of our trekking group had returned. Mr. Mishra was characterised by a large potbelly and an equally impressive and large camera whose lens zoomed out of this large round physique. His obsession for photography had driven him to capture both nature and the Lord through his lenses.

While sipping coffee he had confessed, “I have spoken a lie in this holy place!”

After taking another sip, the soft-spoken gentleman continued “The Lord be merciful enough to forgive me for it!” It was followed by a stunning silence, but what followed was even more amazing. He pointed to my father added, “I saw Mr. Dhar standing in the queue while most of the others took the easy way out. So all I did was tell the nearest policeman that that tall gentleman was the District Inspector General of Police of West Bengal!”