Bhagat Singh and Miss Mary

When we returned from Uttarakhand in the second week of June, we couldn't have imagined in our wildest dreams, the devastation that rains would cause there little more than a week later. Off on another fortnight's sojourn, I watched the tragedies unfold on the web, horrified not only by nature's fury, but also the wanton development of the gentle hills that had left them so vulnerable to disaster. I'd seen the close relationship that the hill folk had with nature, and the indiscriminate building of roads and dams had seemed, even then, at odds with their nature. Again and again, my mind turned to Bhagat Singh, the philosophical guide-turned-friend I'd met in Auli. The first day when he and his mule, Miss Mary, guided us across hill and dale, I realised how unusual he was. He knew the names of almost every wild plant and herb in the mountains. He could predict the weather by looking at the sky and sniffing at the wind. What's more, the 60-year-old had never consulted a western doctor for, as he said, the hills gave him everything he needed.

He had spent his years roaming the mountains. "With my two mules and sometimes my young nephew, I travel wherever tourists need a guide, porter or mules," said he. I've few ties, and wherever I rest at night becomes my home!" The meadows sustained Miss Mary and Juliet, his other mule, while the medicinal roots and herbs abounding in the mountains gave him succour during lonely illnesses.

On our first hike, he realised my interest in botanical matters, and started pointing out plants to me. "The roots of Kilmor are amazing, grind them in water and drink everyday. I guarantee you'll never have heart trouble," he said, pointing to a shrub. Another interesting herb he showed was Kategi, an effective remedy for stomach ache brought on by exposure to the sun. "There are herbs and roots for every ailment, how many shall I show you?" he laughed when I asked for more.

I enjoyed Bhagat Singh's homespun wisdom enough to ask for his cellphone number. "Maybe we could do another hike tomorrow," I said. He laughed. "What will someone like me want with a cell phone? If you want me tomorrow, just come to the tea stall above the ski lift station after an early breakfast," he said. We did just that the next day, and with the eagerness of a new acolyte, I pointed out herbs and plants to him. "That's Vajradanti," said I, pointing to a small-leafed herb, "it builds teeth as strong a diamonds." He smiled: "I call it the Indian chewing gum. You can chew it for hours!"

The next day, I went near the ski lift to ask Singh to take us for yet another hike. He wasn't there. "He left early this morning with his nephew and the two mules," said the man at the tea shop. "He said that maybe he'd get better business in Hemkunt and the Valley of Flowers..." I felt strangely bereft. "We were together yesterday evening, he never mentioned he was leaving!" I cried. The tea shop man smiled gently, "People like him just go when they have to... They don't believe in saying goodbye!" This was on June 7. I have no idea where Bhagat Singh was when the rains swept away the two villages near Hemkunt two weeks later. My mind's eye pictures him in a tranquil vale full of medicinal herbs and roots, his two mules grazing upon flowers and lilies. I hope that's where he is. For he never said goodbye.