Nope, not by dynamite, although that is certainly one of the tools. Not by JCB, although that comes later. But by human greed, surely, and terribly, and effectively. That is how you kill a mountain and forever alter the ecoscape. I don’t know if villages mourn mountains, or if there are burial rites prescribed for dead mountains, because we have never had such phenomena in our cultural history. Perhaps someone should write a dirge and get the villages to chant it over the mountain that is being killed a few kilometers beyond the main landslide area along the Kohima-Dimapur road.
One day I will find out the name of that mountain and, even if I can’t lay roses at its foot, I will help unborn generations to remember that here used to stand a mountain. It was home to birds and smaller animals. It shielded the sun from falling on the road too early in the morning. It birthed wild plantain and scrawny trees. It did not yield soil for bigger trees, because it was made of rock. That was its only flaw. Where other mountains are made of a thick top layer of soil, this particular mountain lacked the soil cover to hide its rocky frame from marauders.
Let’s give it a name for now; and a mouth to tell its sad story. Let us call it Chüpo-o.
Once a little bird travelled a very long way from home. It came from a Burmese village in the east and kept travelling westward until the roar of the highway stopped its progress. The little bird sought shelter at the foot of a tall mountain. Soon the bird and the mountain became friends, because that is the way of all citizens of the natural world. “You may rest here as long as you want,” said the mountain, “and you will find food at my feet where the berries grow.” The bird thanked the mountain, and rested for many days at the mountain, eating berries and insects. Laishena the bird, stayed on, always remembering to express her gratitude to her host. But one day she was saddened to see her host looking ashen-faced.
“What is it, Chüpo-o? Are you in pain?” she asked in great concern.
“I am dying, Laishena. Do you see those men driving up the road? They have been cutting me up every day for many months now.”
Laishena was alarmed. She looked at the place where he had indicated, and saw great gaping wounds in his side.
“How could anyone do this? Murderers! We must get them to stop!” she cried.
“There’s nothing we can do about it, Laishena. They will spare no expense to blast out the rocks from my side. Unfortunately for me, I am largely rock and that is what the men want. They are selling the rocks at great price and therefore, every day they come back to extract more rocks. Do you see that road curving up on my eastern side? That is where a man drives up a JCB and makes deeper inroads so they can take away the rocks they have extracted.”
“Isn’t there anything anyone can do?” Laishena had tears in her eyes. “Aren’t there any humans who could help me to stop this killing?”
Chüpo-o’s voice was low when he replied her. “It’s too late for me now, Laishena. They have already cut my arteries and made it impossible for my life to be rejuvenated. In a few months, if you come looking for me, I will no longer be alive. And the sun will curse them and shine more strongly than ever. It will dry up all the water sources so that people will have great difficulty trying to cultivate fields around here, or even grow the hardiest of plants. And in the absence of vegetation, birds and squirrels will abandon the place. No natural force will be there to carry seeds around and help them germinate in the soil. If the birds leave, all that will be left will be silence. Silence and deadness.”
“No, no! I won’t let that happen to you, my friend,” Laishena cried despairingly.
“It’s too late for me, my little friend. No one can save me now. But you can fly from place to place and tell my story to anyone who will listen. That will perhaps save some other mountain’s life. Now go and dry your tears. I will endure their blows until I die. But you must live to tell them to stop killing more mountains else they would end up dying themselves when they have killed the last mountain.”He then closed his eyes and sighed a great sigh and spoke no more.
This is how you kill a mountain: with something very dark, something as small as a seed-thought. You kill a mountain with blind, unthinking greed that has no power to foresee the future.
