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White Fur / Tripolia-Exploring India-Arun Gaur’s Indian Landscape Images

White fur was blooming in a village with no road to approach.

A350, Primary Lenses — 50 mm, 28 mm & the Beercan

White Fur

Often in the mornings of September, I picked up my scooter, crossed the Ghaggar bridge and went around the mud-hills. That is just around 10 kilometers from my home. I reached a village. The road goes upto that point. After that it just vanishes. There are river beds after that. One has to drive one’s vehicle on this river bed or walk on foot if one feels like traveling further. I move my scooter on the bed. It is quite possible to drive; albeit, my scooter slips often. There are rivulet beds. Though not much of water, yet the soil and the sand are wet and tires sink a few inches into them. But overall it is quite possible to traverse that terrain once you get a hang of it. The bicycles, the scooters and walkers now move on the same slim sandy trails and if I drive on this relatively hard and well marked passage, I can drive with my scooters slipping fewer times. If you go on for around 10 kilometers more, you would reach another village. After half an hour we reach that village, which interestingly has been named as the Uncha Gaon (higher village) in contrast to the first one which is named as Nicha Gaon (lower village). The elections are round the corner. When the elections come, every time new hopes burgeon for the villagers. There is white fur in numerous bushes. Plants are green. Hill too is covered with luscious green. I fix my tripod. When someone from the village happens to pass by me every half an hour or so—and sometimes it is an elderly person with a long flowing white beard—he is pleasantly surprised. “Are you from the road constructions department?” They think my tripod is the road-surveying instrument. I say “No. I am just taking a few snaps and this is my camera stand”. With the coming of the sun, I watch the girls coming on foot through the mud. They are all dressed up in blue-gray uniforms and would reach the road kilometers away to catch the bus to schools and colleges. When it rains in the monsoon months of July and August, this terrain becomes a full-fledged shallow river and all are stranded on either side or they have to wade through water to reach the road or the village. Now the elections are coming. The village has resolved--they would not caste a single vote unless the road is made. They would thus pressurize the government to construct the road. During the last elections too the promises were made by the parties that once they are victorious, the road would be duly constructed. The village was happy. They would have now a direct link to civilization. Why shouldn’t they have it? Just 10 kilometers away were the modern townships—Panchkula and Chandigarh—of the advancing India, leaping India, progressing India. The parties won the elections but the road did not come five years ago. These elections have come againin 2009. They come after an interval of five years. This time the village is belligerent. They would simply not caste any vote unless and until the road is made. How many voters are there? Maybe a hundred or two hundred. Who cares? They did not caste a vote this time. Who cares? The road is still not there. The road was not there in 1947. The road is not there even now. Just 10 kilometers away are the high tech military areas, civil hospitals, officers’ bungalows, 5-star business malls. But here the girls still trudge over the slush and wade through water for kilometers to catch the bus for the school. They were wading in 1947 and they are wading still.

White Fur 1

When the early rays of the sun touched the white of the fur, it woke up. It was still a little heavy with the crystal of the dew. It looked around. What green whiff of the lushness of leaves was there! O what green whiff meeting the white of the fur.

White Fur 2

And it lost its shine as the cloud passed over it blocking the rays of the sun. It became soft white. It was fluid white flowing white rinsed white.

White Fur 3

When the sun came again, all the remnants of water slowly evaporated and the stems became darker and the hair sharply luminous and distinct. It was a little golden then.

White Fur 4

Somewhere some burden of the liquid was still there and they arched and bent towards the earth. Graceful was their arching and bending to the earth. The pointed ends were seeking the wetness of the slush and sand. Brown of the sand.

White Fur 5

If not bent, they weaved a fine pattern and softly glistened waiting what would happen next. Would they be jettisoned skywards or made to droop to the surface of the earth?

White Fur 6

And some were ready to grope into the shady air. One has to choose one's way sometimes. Daringly one's way in the web of dark lanes.

White Fur 7

At times it seemed all crooked. Dark black was the sky. The tender arches became crooked stiffness. In the background too there were the scorpions or crabs or big pincers of lobsters of the sea caught out of the storm of the sea. They seemed to be all hungry and sharp.

White Fur 8

Then it showered down the white of the fur of the bears of the jungle. What bears? Not the polar bears or any other kind. Just a rush of the white wind. Luminous wind. Scintillating wind. It was a rush.

White Fur 9

What gathering of power! But we should not call it power. "Pwer" is a word to strong and stiff. It was the soft rush skywards. They were showers of white furry things jutting into the air straight up like upward arrows. It was again a rush. A rush.