Snooper fabulist

Ivan was sent to pass on information to his masters in Russia. But, Kumaon and its people touched him deeply, transforming him...

August 26, 2017 03:51 pm | Updated 03:51 pm IST

Illustration: Satheesh Vellinezhi

Illustration: Satheesh Vellinezhi

Day 2, Month of June, 1880 CE

Jungle path from Almora to Mussoorie, Kumaon Hills

Ivan Minayev flopped onto the boulder with a deep, heartfelt groan.

His guide turned to look at him, amused. “Tired already, Sahib ?” He pointed to the track vanishing into the trees. “Still long way.”

Ivan ignored this (largely rhetorical) question, and took out his pen and papers. Duty called.

Meanwhile, the guide clambered to a tiny roadside shrine.

“Safeguard my path, Goddess, devourer of firewood and stones,” h e murmured, placing a handful of flowers at the base, begging the higher powers for a safe journey.

“Through the rain, on a road that mostly led through the shadow of dense forests,” Ivan scribbled in his diary, following the guide’s thoughts, discarding the government report he was supposed to be writing . “Along noisy and fast-flowing mountain rivulets. The road here either goes along the bank of a rivulet, or even if it parts, that is only in order, having crossed a mountain, to meet up with yet another rivulet as noisy, on a stony bed.”

This particular road was full of pitfalls; rugged beauty and steep cliffs. Still, Ivan’s superiors at the War Ministry in Russia would want to know every detail, however insignificant. And the hill tribes of Kumaon were important. Very important.

“Still writing, Sahib ?” The guide returned. “If you will come, there is a chai shop nearby. You can refresh yourself.”

Discovering Kumaon

“Thank you,” Ivan rose. “I doubt even the British had such good guides.”

“They prefer the other route to Mussoorie,” the guide answered. “From the plains. More comfortable. Interesting.”

“How do you find the English sahibs ?” Ivan asked, as they scrambled along the roughly hewn boulders, listening to the river roaring below. “Are they good to you?”

The guide answered, after some hesitation. “They are all right.”

“And …” Ivan paused. “Choose your words carefully,” whispered a voice inside him. “You would not welcome others in their place? Such as Russia?”

The guide blinked. “Your Tsar instead of Kooeen (Queen) Victoria? Why?”

Ivan decided to drop the subject. The War Ministry would be disappointed with this week’s dispatch, but that couldn’t be helped. And at the teashop, losing himself in the fragrance of wood-smoke, the rise and ebb of Pahari speech and the lush greenery, Ivan rather forgot to bring up the subject.

He felt little inclination, in the next few weeks. The Kumaunis were a gentle but, hardy people. The British did visit the hills, especially during the hot summers of the plains, but they largely left the locals alone. Something, Ivan realised, that had preserved Kumaoni culture more or less intact. It was quaint, and refreshing.

The Russian traveller saw ruined fortresses on steep peaks. He listened to ghost stories around a crackling fire under gloomy deodars. He watched his Kumaoni guide smoke tobacco by making two interconnected openings in the ground, lighting it in one and inhaling the smoke through the other. He listened to old Sanskrit sayings and ancient Pahari folk-tales. In those mysterious valleys and mountains, he discovered that he would rather record these unique people; their stories and their lives in these heights — rather than be ordered to study about defeating them.

An official letter awaited him in Mussoorie. “We need less of folk-tales and more of statistics. You are required to send concise details about a possible Russian invasion in the Himalayas.”

Ivan Minayev sighed, gazing at the high, snow-covered peaks. I must be true to myself, he thought. I must stay loyal to my beliefs and principles.

“We will never reach India,” he replied finally, brutal honesty in every line. “There is no reason why we should come here …”

“I cannot stop the War Ministry’s aggression,” he wrote in his diary, later. “But I can resist their efforts to overpower me by not being a spy, but a storyteller, which is what I really am.”

He paused. The beauty of Kumaon enfolded him and he wished desperately, that he could be sure of an audience, who might someday read what he had written. Understand, and perhaps learn a lesson; the right lessons.

But he did not believe that anyone would, really.

Day 2, Month of October, 1883 CE

Office of Vice-Governor, City of Tula, South of Moscow, Russia

Ivan Minayev was just walking out of the office when someone — an old peasant with a grey beard —stopped him.

“Good Sir, what is the time now?”

“Er, um,” Ivan murmured. “Five o’ clock?“

“My thanks. And you are?”

“Minayev,” Ivan answered, perplexed at being accosted by a complete stranger. “Why do you ask?”

“You have been to India, have you not? I am so glad to meet you. Your stories were wonderful, and your letters and reports...your conviction in your decisions...” the peasant paused. “Your purpose was to explore India, but despite being asked to scout the feasibility of an invasion, you steadily resisted the authorities’ efforts and stayed true to your own mission.“ The peasant stroked his beard. “Such resistance is invaluable. I have even mentioned your work to an Indian friend, who wishes to oppose the British. A youngster by name M. K. Gandhi.”

Ivan was flustered, delighted and nervous all at once. “I ...I am honoured,” he blurted, finally. “To know that someone, somewhere, has read...may I know your good name?”

The peasant was already walking away, but he turned, at this. “Eh? Oh, Leo.” He grinned. “Leo Tolstoy.”

Historical Note: Ivan Pavlovich Minayev (October 21 ,1840 – June 13, 1890) was the foremost of Russian Indologists; his Indian Tales and Legends, Collected in Kumaon in 1875 was a celebrated and oft-referred work. The above-mentioned conversation really did occur between Tolstoy and Minayev; one of Tolstoy’s favourite stories from Minayev’s collection happened to be The Disbeliever.

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