(Published in Fountain Ink-December 2012)
The story of Rashol is the story of an ancient,
isolated mountain village whose visions of the mainstream world are framed by
the tiny windows of its hallucinated houses; it is the story of how Italian
Hippies, in their pursuit of a comfortably numb life that could be measured out
with chillum drags, re-wrote the destiny of a people.
***
“The most passionate
examination of hash-smoking will certainly not teach half as much about
thinking (which is an imminent narcotic) as the profane illumination of
thinking about hash-smoking. The reader, the person thinking, the person
waiting, the flâneur, are just as much types of Illuminati as the opium-eater,
the dreamer, the intoxicated, and they are profaner.” –Walter Benjamin (On
Hashish)
***
November 4, 2012. The day of State Assembly polls in
Himachal Pradesh.
The polling booth in
Rashol, a rundown primary school building where most families don’t send their
children to, stands empty and abandoned. The polling officer and his assistant banish their yawns away
bird watching and feeding biscuits to fluffy, hermit mountain dogs. A
disinterested policeman stands outside, and is greeted with warmth by an occasional villager who passes by--a visitor who does not care to stop and
vote. His destination is elsewhere; the compelling crisis of his moment
is not democracy.
Farther, farther up, on parts of earth
accessible only to the people of the mountains, and to compulsive seekers of
highs, the entire village is toiling in the ‘kutlas’, farms of a plant that once was of the
forest and dreadlocked ascetics, but now is a cash crop that caters primarily
to the recreational demands of a fugitive world. For the villagers, ganja is a
season that commences in the last week of September and ends by the first week
of November; a period fraught with many perils; a frantic time of the year
where they have to earn as much as they can, for no other season brings them
money. Women abandon their homes, children their schools, and they join the men
in the farms, furiously rubbing the plant into charas that in the last forty
years has garnered universal recognition in the cannabis world as among the
best in the business.
On this day, though they have not bothered to
vote, the polls are a major topic for much tittle-tattle, a welcome digression
from the everyday stuff of chatter in the farms that usually hinges on
surmisals, often paranoid, of who has sold how much to which mafia and who the
new C.I.D’s in the village are. But eventually,
all the talk boils down to charas and the future of ganja farming: Will they help
us to work in peace? Will they stop sending the police to cut our farms down?
Will they legalize ganja cultivation in the valley? Lakshmi, known amongst the
villagers as a woman with hands hallowed by Renuka Matha, the patron Goddess of
the village, to divine the finest charas, points her greasy, golden brown, fingers
to the distant yet somehow touchable range of snow capped peaks that glisten
under a regal blue sky and asks: “But for ganja, all we have is white snow and
black rocks. What are we supposed to do if they take the farms away from us?”
In the mountains, the sun disappears in
dramatic fashion, and by around three in the afternoon, a lush wash of
crepuscular glow graces the ganja farms. Women and children light fires and do
the last bit of rubbing for the day, while most men have by now retreated to
the village square down below where they would gamble, drink and smoke, or
engage in animated, masculine discussions on everything and nothing, or make a
business deal or two.
At Gangabhai’s grocery shop, a group of five
has already assembled: Paul and David, two charas fundamentalists, the former a
man from Karnataka who runs a guesthouse in the village which has now been shut
for the winter and the latter a vagabond from Mumbai and a friend of Paul who
was arrested in 2009 with two kg of charas but was later acquitted—after being
an undertrial for two years—on account of want of evidence; Karmi Bhai who
considers the fabled Malana cream an overrated brand that may win the Cannabis
Cup in Amsterdam year after year but whose ‘nasha’
will never measure up to that of the potent Rashol cream’s; Ramji, an old,
sagely man whose nostalgia for the days of yore when ganja was a medicine
translates into a propensity to regale his audience with pithy anecdotes;
Gangabhai, the shop owner who is torn apart by the dilemma of choosing between
the lucrative prospects of selling alcohol and the all consuming wrath of
Renuka Matha if he does so—tradition forbids the villagers from selling alcohol
and a fine of Rs 1000 is levied against the violators, though this has not
prevented the rise of rampant alcoholism in the village.
Karmi Bhai hands a piece of Rashol cream to
David who crushes it assiduously and then mixes it with the tobacco that he has
emptied out from a cigarette. A roach is made from the flap of the cigarette
pack, and the mix of charas and tobacco is carefully placed on a long OCB
rolling paper. As David rolls the joint, Karmi Bhai winces. “These papers are
not really healthy to smoke. Charas is meant for chillums.” Paul nods his head
in solemn agreement. “The sadhus always knew it.” Once the joint is ready,
David hands it, as if like a religious offering, to Ramji who lights it, takes
a long, hard drag and then says ‘Bom Bholenath’, the customary salutation to
Lord Shiva who
eons ago consumed sacrilegious amounts of Charas from the valley’s ganja
forests and bowed in meek surrender to its mind altering essence, slumbering
into a thousand-year-world of quiescence.
As the joint changes hands, the conversation
picks up momentum. Whoever wins the polls, according to Ramji, should take immediate
initiative to build a road to the village from Kasol. “A road will bring development
to the village. More people will go out and work.” For Paul and David,
outsiders to the village and runaways from a maddening society and its sophisticated
traffic rules, the charm of Rashol is that of an antediluvian village snapped
off from the rest of an ordinary world, and as such, the prospect of a road is
one they dread. “Why do you need a road, Ramji?”, asks David. “Look at what
happened to Malana after they got a road. Now the police come there every other
day and they have lost their peace. A road to Rashol means easy access to the ‘kutlas’ for the police, and if there is
no charas, how will the village survive?” At this point, Paul butts in with his
pet theme: decriminalization of marijuana. “Ramji, whoever wins the polls,
according to me, should take immediate initiative to press for the
decriminalization of marijuana. If that happens, the villagers can cultivate
ganja and sell charas without fear of the police. A road can wait.”
The conversation is interrupted by the entry
of a drunken man who plonks his heavy army boots down on the shop’s floor. Dressed
in a pair of faded blue jeans, a black t-shirt, a Calvin Klein feather down
jacket and a baseball cap pointing backwards, Meenaram, the intruder, is a
local legend; a man who rubs so fast that on good days he makes up to twenty tolas of charas, but who eschews its
intoxication because he thinks it screws his head up; a whiskey addict whose boozy
howls in the night swell and sink across the valley like cries of a wounded bird;
a manic gambler who more often lives than dies by the dice he rolls. Clearly in
the mood for some frolic, he offers a tola
to Paul as ‘prasad’, then turns to
Karmi Bhai and asks who he thinks would win the elections. “I go for Ram Singh
(BJP)”, replies Karmi Bhai. Meenaram is rooting for the Raja, (Maheshwar Singh, the King of the valley and a former state
BJP chief who is contesting from Kullu assembly segment on the ticket of the
newly formed Himachal Lokhit Party, an outfit of BJP rebels founded by him) and
after arguing for some time about the merits of the two candidates, both men,
neither of them having cast their vote in the day, decide to bet on the winner
for a whopping Rs 50,000, an amount not too big in the harvest season.
Before the group disperses from Gangabhai’s shop, Meenaram
opens his wallet and pulls out a currency note of Venezuela which he got from a
tourist in Kasol to whom he had sold charas worth Rs 30,000. He shows the note
to Paul and says: “The people of this country snort cocaine using these notes,
and so their government makes notes which too have some kick. I hope, our
country also does something like that.”
***
Perched in the remote regions of Parvati
valley in Kullu district, Himachal Pradesh, Rashol is a tiny hamlet that is
home to around 1500 people, comprising mostly of upper caste Hindus whose
adherence to a tradition seeped in a rhetoric of exclusivity is non-negotiable.
Traditionally shepherds and herb hunters, they had their first tryst with the
people of lower altitudes in the seventies when forces of modernity irrupted into
their world in the form of charas that the radicalism of a disillusioned,
guilt-stricken post-war Europe was craving for. Indeed, the story of Rashol is
the story of an ancient, isolated mountain village whose visions of the
mainstream world are framed by the tiny windows of its hallucinated houses; it is
the story of how Italian Hippies, in their pursuit of a comfortably numb life
that could be measured out with chillum drags, re-wrote the destiny of a
people.
When the Italians
first arrived in the valley, it was at the outskirts of Malana, Rashol’s
neighbouring village, that they pitched their tents. Until then, ganja was used
primarily for medicinal purposes—for both humans and their goats—and for making
fabric and ropes from its sinewy fibre; the plant’s powers of intoxication
sought mainly by wandering Sadhus. Italians taught them the art of rubbing charas
from ganja and the rest is a legend called Malana that has been chronicled
often enough—the world’s oldest republic and its myriad cultural idiosyncrasies,
the village that produces the most expensive charas in the drug market—not to
warrant one more telling.
Marriage brought charas to Rashol. Renuka
Mata, the village’s patron goddess is the wife of Rishi Jamadagni, the patron
god of Malana, a holy alliance that gave sanction to marriages between their
people. The
secret of Malana’s burgeoning economy was picked up by Rashol, and in no time
the ganja forests were transformed into ‘kutlas’.
There, though, is a vital factor that distinguishes the ganja farming cultures of
Malana and Rashol. While Malana, which learned the practice of rubbing directly
from the Italians, considered it as an art form on whose aesthetics much
emphasis was placed, Rashol treated it as pure business; unlike Malana where
charas smoking is a lifestyle of the people thus making the village an
important consumer of its own product, Rashol views charas smoking as merely an
avenue for recreation. And despite Malana’s recent espousal of the commercial
path, the contrast in cultures is still starkly delineated; while Malana swears
by quality, Rashol trusts the might of quantity. The eventual economic outcomes
of both situations, though, are nearly identical.
***
Typically, the ganja farming in the
valley consists of three phases, the first of which is in the month of April
when the soil is ploughed and made ready. In the third week of September, the male
plants are cut to prevent them from pollinating the female plants; the state of
ruminative bliss that charas offers is a function of the unsullied feminine. Pollen
is detrimental to the quality of charas, often wrecking the trip with sensations
of nausea and tedium. Jack, a thirty year old guerilla ganja farmer—someone who
grows ganja in land they do not own—from the United States who has been staying
in Rashol with his Indian girlfriend for the last eight months has been urging
the villagers to cut the male plants much early. “Third week of September is
too late, by that time some pollination would have surely happened. They also
need to cut the male plants more regularly, not just once like they do here.”
The rubbing
season starts towards the end of September. Among charas producing communities,
hand-harvesting is unique to India, sieving and filtering being the preferred
modes in countries like Morocco and Nepal. In the rarefied atmosphere of snowy mountains,
rubbing charas is an art in meditation, one that asks from its practitioner
penetrative powers of perception and hands that have a heart of their own.
“What is in the hand comes from the love you have for the plant”, says Lakshmi,
and Jack agrees. “Really, there is no reason why Malana cream should be better
than Rashol cream. Both villages are at similar height, and the plants are of
similar quality. It is the hand that separates Malana from Rashol.”
The objective of rubbing is to extract maximum oil content from the plant. The leaves
are first removed with great care after which the buds and crystals of the stem
are rubbed with tender force. Too much pressure will eke out water and
chlorophyll from the plant, polluting the oil, while too little pressure will
fail to extract any oil. Once a sufficiently thick layer of oil settles on the
palm, it is scraped out into balls which are then packed in thin plastic bags
and left to age. According to
the extent of the oil content, the charas from the valley is classified as
super cream, first cream, second cream, medium cream, business maal, sabjee and
junglee. In recent times, the village, in addition to the hand rubbed charas,
has been producing ‘ice’ too. ‘Ice’ is charas made using ice and
filter—the ice takes out the water and plant material while the filter extracts
the oil out.
Though children,
women and men all rub during the season, women are acknowledged as the
producers of the finest charas. “Everything about charas is womanly until it
reaches a chillum”, says Lakshmi with a wry chuckle. But the women of the
village do not smoke, preferring instead an occasional evening drink. “The men
smoke and drink and gamble. If we too start smoking, the whole village will be
asleep.” Incessant rubbing, though, means that the women too are bound to be
sufficiently stoned with charas that is absorbed into their bloodstream through
the skin.
Throughout the
harvest season, Rashol, despite the high degree of insularity provided by the
absence of a road, lives in fear of cops cutting their ‘kutlas’ down and depriving them of their sole livelihood option.
Around 30% of the farms were destroyed this year alone, with newly appointed
women cops taking charge of the destruction. According to Ashok Kumar, Superintendent
of Police, Kullu, regular police action
has resulted in cultivation getting shifted to higher reaches that only skilled
climbers can access. “In spite of the obstacles that we are met with, the
success we managed is evident from the drastic reduction in area under
cultivation in personal lands, something which was common earlier.”
Inaccessibility is not the only test the
police have to pass; they also have to front up to the physical might of the
villagers. “If I go in mufti to the
village and show them my ID card, they won’t care one bit”, says Sher Singh,
sub-inspector at Jari, the nearest police station. “But the reality is whatever
we do and how much ever we cut, ganja is ganja. It will still grow in the
mountains.” Most significantly, since the relatives of most cops own farms
themselves—in Himachal Pradesh, the rule states that the constable and the head
constable will be posted only in their home districts— the news of a likely
raid reaches the villagers much before the police is able to reach them.
In addition to traditional farming, the
police, according to SP Ashok Kumar, are also investigating the possibility of
hybrid ganja farming where marijuana seeds from the valley are crossbred with
marijuana varieties having high resin content, and then sold under different
brands in the international market. Though they are yet to hone in on any firm
evidence, it is widely understood that hybrid farming is done through a set of
foreigners who gets the hybrid seeds and another set who stays back in the
valley and conducts the farming with the assistance of locals. “Hybrid crop is probably a gift from foreigners to local
people”, says the SP. “By seeing the shape, size, colour and time required to
grow the plants, anybody can tell their nature. In some places, the ganja
plants are more than 12-foot tall. Indian ganja does not grow that high. The police
have requested the Forensic Lab to provide details about the plants this year,
but it will take some time. We have information that a foreign company is
selling marijuana seeds under the Kullu brand.”
Kumar says around 150-200 kg of charas, which amounts to nearly
one-fifth of the gross produce, is seized on a yearly basis from Parvati
valley. This year, 142 cases have so far been registered under NDPS (Narcotic
Drugs and Psychotropic Substances) Act. A draconian legislation (it even specifies the death penalty in
certain cases), it was introduced in 1985 by the Rajiv Gandhi government which
at the time was said to be under pressure by the United States administration
to ban ganja. NDPS, which brought ganja, a plant that has been a part of spiritual
and social culture in India, and other modern synthetic drugs under the purview
of the same law, is held by many to be culpable for the valley’s transformation
from a Shangri-la to India’s Colombia, from a dwelling house of lonely Gods to
a playground for the international drug cartels. In Karmi Bhai’s words, “The
government created a law to create a crime.”
The Italians set
up shop shop as early as in the seventies, and still have a stranglehold over
the European smuggling network. While those who smuggle minimal amounts of
charas for personal consumption usually prefer to wrap it in plastic and
swallow so that they can later crap it out, the mafia deals in elaborately
convoluted modi operandi that often involve the deployment of massive creative
ammunition, forcing even the Superintendent of Police to “confess” that “smugglers
are smarter than the police.” The most common yet the hardest to bust mode of
smuggling, he says, is one that is done through “the creation of bogus
cavities.” Various ways have also been devised to evade the threat of sniffer
dogs, raising the levels of challenge for the police drastically.
The Italian
mafia, according to the villagers, operates through old timers who have made Old
Manali, Tosh and Kasol their valley hubs, and who, in a real life pastiche of
O. Henry’s Cop and the Anthem, get
themselves frequently arrested with small quantities of charas so that they can
extend their visa period. “We are well aware of the situation”, says SP Ashok
Kumar, “and have started making a
list of all foreigners involved in NDPS cases in the last few years. The list
is being sent to the MHA (Ministry of Home affairs) so as to black list them
from coming back to India.”
Following the Italian trail, the Japanese Hippies came to the
valley in the early eighties and established their own network. The eighties
witnessed a surge in drug trafficking (and a corresponding surge in the rate of
other crimes) from the valley, a phenomenon that is sometimes traced to the
nine-year long (December 1979-February 1989) Soviet intrusion in Afghanistan, a
nation that until then was a prominent purveyor of hashish in the global drug
market. In the mid-nineties, the Israelis started coming to the valley, soon
converting Kasol into one of their many Little Israels in India, and setting up
a Chabad House there; they too, the villagers and the police say, have a
smoothly operating mafia network in place.
The first decade of the new millennium witnessed the prolific
rise of the Indian mafia with Mumbai and Delhi as its lynchpins. According to
Karmi Bhai, the finest charas from the valley is shared by the Italians and the
filthy rich of Mumbai and Delhi. A tola
(11.663 grams) of super cream that costs Rs 2500-Rs 4000 in the valley is sold
for Rs 5000-Rs 8000 in Mumbai. A charas nexus exists, according to SP Ashok
Kumar, between Goa and Parvati valley too; a contention corroborated by the
claims made by certain young men of Rashol of their proximity with some
high-flying DJ’s of Goa’s trance party circuit.
A young, corporate India’s flings with the
perfunctory thrills of a backpack culture and its phony fascination for a
bohemian fashion statement called the Himalayas has resulted in the rise of a
local mafia within the valley: the café’s and guesthouses of Kasol. After
Manali, Kasol is the favoured destination of Indian tourists in the valley; a
Little Israel whose villagers are fluent speakers of Hebrew and whose cafes
evoke cinematic images of a spooky underworld. A casual affair with charas from
the Parvati valley is what most of these tourists hanker for and the subsequent
upsurge in the demand of charas is what the café-guesthouse mafia of Kasol cashes
in on. In what can be perceived as a microcosm of how the valley’s charas has
segued into a marquee brand, ‘tolas’
of the worst quality the mafia buys from the valley’s villages are sold to
Indian tourists as Super Cream for
prices that are exorbitant but with which hardly any arguments are made. The
villagers of Rashol are in perfect cognizance of the abuse their venerated
product is subjected to, but they do not deem it necessary to take any sort of
ethical responsibility for what is happening down below. “If that is what these
tourists deserve, then so be it. It is their bad karma. In any case, even if
they were given real Super Cream, they wouldn’t really be able to appreciate
its quality. So what difference does it make?”, asks Karmi Bhai.
Esconced in the company of so many mafias, Rashol too has birthed
a few of its own. But instead of institutionalized networks, the mafias of
Rashol are quirky individuals; they are eleven year old kids like Choppu Mafia
who has already established his alpha-maledom among other kids of the village
through the speed of his rubbing and the profitability of the barter deals he
strikes with travelers: five ‘tolas’ for
a Sony camera, two ‘tolas’ for a
football boot; or they are trippy twenty one year old chess mavericks like Keku
Bhai, who at the age of fifteen reached the Israelis through charas, and then
at sixteen reached LSD through Israelis, and at eighteen reached a rehab
through LSD, who now at twenty one tells his lover at Malana that “I am your
don, and I will call you my donness.”
**
Quantity of charas seized in the last decade:
Year
|
No: of Cases
|
No: of Persons
Arrested
|
Quantity of Charas
Seized
|
2001
|
92
|
111
|
160 Kg
|
2002
|
135
|
162
|
385 Kg
|
2003
|
111
|
124
|
146 Kg
|
2004
|
81
|
90
|
161 Kg
|
2005
|
67
|
79
|
124 Kg
|
2006
|
111
|
108
|
109 Kg
|
2007
|
52
|
63
|
66 Kg
|
2008
|
121
|
132
|
147 Kg
|
2009
|
130
|
169
|
209 Kg
|
2010
|
148
|
174
|
180 Kg
|
-Courtesy: Himachal Pradesh Police
***
Incredibly enough, for a valley that is synonymous with
charas, the quantity of charas that is now pumped into it from the outside tops
the quantity of charas that is produced in the valley, an upshot of the
staggering rise in the global demand for Parvati charas. Most of it comes from
Nepal, and reaches the valley through Nepali labourers who are hired for the
harvest season. The Nepali charas which has high pollen content is then mixed
with Parvati charas, and sometimes the ratio of the mix is such that a tola of super cream that costs Rs 4000
could just be a chunk of Nepali maal
coated with a flimsy film of Parvati charas for the effects of colour and
aroma. While for a casual smoker, it is virtually impossible to discern mixed maal from pure Parvati, even a
knowledgeable smoker would find it an onerous task to identify mixed maal from
just its smell and colour. The only proof of charas is in the smoking; if pure
Parvati flows inside the head like a pristine stream, the mixed maal thunders like a violent sea.
Usually, Nepali labourers are hired for Rs 500 per day.
Farmers with large kutlas sometimes
give a portion of their land to the Nepali labourer and employ him for Rs 300
per day to work in the rest of the farm. The charas made from the portion of land
allotted to the labourer is sold to the farmer who owns the land. “It works
better for us that way, it is the safe option. To get into the business of
selling and dealing with the mafia is dangerous for us”, says Vikas, a labourer
who came to the valley from Nepal a year ago. “And trust me, it is not just
Nepali maal that is mixed here, even
goat shit would do sometimes,” he giggles. After the day’s work, Vikas works as
a cook in a village guesthouse. This year, he left for Nepal a week before the
official wrapping up of the season—the season ends with the ritual of offering
a goat to Renuka Matha. Two days later, he came back to the village empty
handed after he was badly beaten up on his way in Manali and looted of everything
he had earned over a season’s sweat and toil. Lighting a beedi filled with
charas scraped from a tola of the purest of pure super cream he made for
himself, he wonders what they mean when they say “Ye Parvati hai, yahaan pe sab shanti shanti!”
Down the valley, Parvati the Princess of Mountains, an
enigmatic mélange of fury and indifference, flows like a raging dancer,
sometimes enlightening a crippled Baba who has run away from the sea to her
banks, sometimes carrying the tattered corpse of a white woman down its
foaming, mica-flecked, turquoise course. For Parvati, beauty is the alter ego of
her violence.
***
