Pratishtha Pandya

Labani Jangi

Illustration

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The cracks were all over the media. Every day she read a new story  with updated numbers about her sinking town atop a mountain in Chamoli district. Media persons kept pouring into the villages to gaze at the cracks, and at the protests welling across  towns. She had refused to move out of her small house last week when they came asking  people to leave their houses Let them kick her out. She was not afraid. The cracks were more of a sign, she thought, of a strange greed that had tunnelled its way through the village. The new projects and roads that kept invading the mountains were not the only invasions. There was something else, far deeper, that was wrong with the world. The divide was in place already. They had cut themselves off from nature, from the gods of the earth, while chasing a new dream dangling from a mountain vine. That vine though was magical. In pursuit of that illusion, who was to be blamed?

CracksIt did not happen in a day. Fine, hairline cracks had remained hidden, like the early white strands of her hair, or the lines under her eyes. Small fissures between the village and the mountains, forests, rivers,  had survived imperceptible from a distance. When the slightly larger cracks appeared, slowly and steadily, she thought, she could still fix those – a small wall here some soft plaster there, like birthing a couple of children to keep things from falling apart.But then giant ones appeared,  staring her in the face  through the mirror-like walls, brazen, unflinching, unforgiving eyes of Narasimha.She knew their shapes, directions – horizontal, vertical, stepped, the special places where they grew – beds of mortar between bricks,  in the plasterboard, on the brickwork,  in foundation walls, and soon  it was not Joshimath alone.  She saw them spreading, like the pandemic, across the mountains, the nation, the streets,  reaching the land beneath her feet,  covering her beaten limbs, her spirit.Too late to leave now Nowhere to go The gods had upped and left. Too late to pray too late to hold on to old beliefs too late to save anything. Futile to fill those cracks with sunlight. This exploding darkness  like molten shaligrams,  unknown rage, a deep-seated hatred was devouring everything.Who had thrown the cursed beans in the valley behind her house? She tried to remember. Or did pests get to this creeper with its roots in the sky? Whose palace could be atop this venomous vine? Would she recognise the giant if she were to meet him? Would  her arms still have the strength to wield an axe? Where does one look for salvation ?  Exhausted, she tried to sleep, one more time, letting her wide-open eyes climb  up and down in a dreamlike trance, the magical beanstalks growing on the old walls.

The beanstalk of Joshimath

جوشی مٹھ کی دراڑیں

జోషీమఠ్‌ బీటల తీగలు

ஜோஷிமாத்தின் பீன்ஸ் தண்டுகள்

ਜੋਸ਼ੀਮਠ ਦੀਆਂ ਤ੍ਰੇੜਾਂ

ଯୋଶୀମଠର ବିନ୍‌ ଗଛ

ജോഷിമഠിലെ ആകാശവള്ളികൾ

ಜೋಶಿಮಠದ ದೈತ್ಯ ಬಳ್ಳಿಗಳು

જોશીમઠનો વેલો

जोशीमठ के दरार

জোশীমঠের জাদুলতা

যোশীমঠৰ যাদুকৰী লতা আৰু স্বপ্নদ্ৰষ্টা

जोशीमठ की दरारें

Bengaluru

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ہمارے بارے میں جانیں

پاری میں آپ کا خیرمقدم ہے

گے۔ اگر آپ کو ہمارا کام پسند ہے، تو آپ ہمارے رضاکار بن کر ہمارا تعاون کر سکتے ہیں یا ہماری مالی مدد کر سکتے ہیں، تاکہ ہم اپنا کام جاری رکھ سکیں۔

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The beanstalk of Joshimath

The subsidence in and around Joshimath has led to cracks in hundreds of dwellings in the town. This poem is written in the aftermath of this disaster

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