(IN): OLD MAN AND THE FOREST

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Link: http://www.assamtribune.com/sunday.html

 

OLD MAN AND THE FOREST

 

BHASWATI K. GOSWAMI*

F*rom a tiny ramshackle shed up the climb, he came out as soon as the horn

beeped. With an unsteady gait, yet a great sense of urgency, he was soon

near us. A weather beaten face, roughened and wrinkled, probably more from

hard times and the winds here than the adding years, we once again see his

toothy grin as though in recognition! With a big red nose, a cap on his head

and his most precious possession- the black sling bag across his chest, he

appears striking. Mind you, one needs patience galore to be able to

communicate with our friend here – besides his mother tongue he knows no

other language. At a mere four and a half feet or so, Kwinton Lyndoh has a

large role indeed to play, for he is the guard of the Sacred Forest and we

have yet to come across somebody who is more sincere about his duties.

 

One of the most celebrated sacred-groves of Meghalaya is this particular

grove at Mawphlang, about 25 kilometres off Shillong. It is as though

Kwinton is the actual guardian of this enchanting grove whose beauty will

probably leave the Scottish meadows far behind!

 

Our discovery of this place, however, was quite accidental. A particular

newspaper item about a flower show in Mawphlang caught our eye. The nice

bright Shillong morning tempted us on to it. Complete with picnic baskets

and a refreshing drive amidst pines, blossoming plums, peaches and quaint

little Khasi hamlets, we were soon at our destination. No one here could

however, tell us where exactly the show was. A tiny lane off the main road

was what we decided to explore. Lined up on both sides by cottages, all of

whose frontages had the most amazing collection of flowers in wooden boxes,

we had reached our target quite by chance! This riot of colours led us to a

particular gate beyond which lay the most incredible stretch of green our

eyes had ever feasted on. Wanting to enter this seeming piece of paradise,

we honked for somebody to open the gate and that was our first encounter

with Kwinton Lyndoh.

 

It was only after our first trip here that I gathered that this particular

grove has for long years been a reservoir of interest for eminent and

internationally known botanists. These sacred-groves, which have been

preserved since time immemorial, are in sharp contrast to their surrounding

grasslands. Bordered by a dense growth of *Castanopsis Kurzii *trees, which

form a protective hedge halting the intrusion of *Pinus Khasia* (Khasi pine)

which dominates all areas outside it, the groves are virtually nature's own

museum. The grounds have a thick cushion of humus accumulated over the

centuries, encouraging the growth of myriad varieties of plant life, many of

which are found nowhere else. The trees are heavily loaded with pipers,

ferns and, orchids – a sheer nature lovers' delight! Interestingly, unlike

in most parts of India, more than 90 per cent of Meghalaya's forests are

owned, not by the government, but by communities. A complex ownership

pattern exists by which forest patches can be managed by clans, a set of

villages, a priest or a king.

 

Coming back to Kwinton, once he is at the gate, an invariable repeated

counting of heads would follow, with our friend very often counting himself

in too! Straining his tiny frame inside the car window, he would then check

to see if any one was left behind sitting on the car floor! Once he is

satisfied that he has not been deceived, the next query would be about

whether we were carrying a 'cumura' (camera) with us for which, a little

extra is to be charged. Finally, the toughest part of this entire

conversation was the monetary bit- for unless one is conversant with the

san, *hinrow* and the *siphow rupiyas*, it can be an endless ordeal. I have

still to know how much we shell out each trip, a meager amount though! With

great pride he would then toss the rope round and round to release the pole

and hold it as high as his minuscule frame would allow and let out his grin

to permit us enter his *sanctum sanctorum*!

 

As one enters the sacred forest, there is a warning —the forest is not to

be disturbed. The locals have their own rituals, taboos and ceremonies built

around the groves. One is not to pick up even a tiny pebble or twig from

here, nor take in anything from outside into the forest, lest one incurs the

wrath of the forest gods whom the natives believe, rest here. I was

initially quite oblivious of this and had not hesitated to pick up a piece

of driftwood - till now the fear is somewhere lurking inside! What struck me

at the same time was the brilliance of this scheme devised so long ago by

men of yore to maintain this bio- diversity in its original! Equally

striking about the place is the various megaliths spread out throughout the

area. I could almost visualize the very popular comic character Obelix

appearing from somewhere behind these woods, carrying one of these menhirs

and a wild boar! These megaliths, which appear throughout this Khasi -

Jaintia landscape, appear to be more prominent here. A few locals tell me

these are all related to the various sacrifices which took place here. These

must have been more prevalent during an earlier era- prior to Christianity

taking most of the locals under its fold- when the religion was more nature

worshipping.

 

From a distance, it looks a picturesque but seemingly impenetrable dark

green mass, but a walk into the heart of a grove reveals a contrast. One can

meander deeper and deeper inside these mysterious woods- there is so much to

see, feel and discover. The crystal clear gurgling stream, the various

decibel levels of the feathered friends and the distant mooing of the cattle

from the nearby grazing grounds transports one to a different world! Did I

hope to find a fairy tale cottage like Goldilocks did at the end of the

woods?

 

Again, anybody walking out of the groves can see the contrast, which hits

one suddenly as the bright sunlight. Outside the sharp boundary of the grove

is nothing but hundreds of metres of rolling grassland, popular grazing

grounds for cattle. Besides a football goalpost, standing oddly, the only

vertical outcrops here are the ancient megaliths. The tiny spectators' stand

is equally striking with its stone-built seats, meant probably for the

village chief and the priest and a bench behind for the lesser mortals.

 

Perhaps the communities were aware, as research has shown, that sacred

groves work brilliantly as safety forests, a patch of woods kept secure and

untouched as a gene pool. They could afford to continue to use the other

patches of forest (at times for shifting agriculture), safe in the knowledge

that they could always be replenished from the seeds of the sacred grove.

Perhaps this act of dedicating a patch of forest to the spirits was an

ecologically conscious one. Whatever be the reason behind these groves,

Kwinton's particularly insular life here seems almost a blessing – cocooned

as he is here in his utopia. It would be no exaggeration to say that my

umpteenth visit to this place was as much to see him. The only regret is not

being able to have a proper conversation with him.

 

As we drive out, he is already at the gate, not wanting to make us wait

again. His hands are out for a warm shake and a *khublai*, not to forget the

few coins that he digs out from his sling bag, the change that he owed us,

all according to his own calculation but honest to the core!

 

*Bhaswati k Goswami*

 

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