The world is an ever-changing panorama, bustling with the movement of humans and with them, their heritage. India is a land full of diverse cultures, with differences springing up every few kilometers one could cover. As the universe would have it, not all regions and subdistricts were equal. For it may be our own choices in governance, or just a mishap of fate, the hilly tracts of Uttarakhand remain an untouched beauty. Largely untouched by the vices of the industry yet unfortunately by its virtues too.

Uttarakhand, previously a portion of Uttar Pradesh, has historically battled a lack of employment opportunities and as a consequence, unemployment as well. The terrain allows little land to be set aside for agriculture, with scarcity rising proportionally to the altitude. This left the people of Uttarakhand, then Uttar Pradesh, very little choice regarding livelihood in the early decades following independence.

Before independence, the land housed a plethora of British officials, in their huge mansions and residences which can still be seen to this day. Uttarakhand was land battled over by local kingship and colonizers alike, and in the end, it was left to its dilapidated residents to restructure. The promise of democracy and self-rule inspired the hearts of millions, however, the reality of lopsided priority caught up to the natives of Uttarakhand soon enough. Sharing administration with Uttar Pradesh meant the sharing of resources, resources which from all these years could have facilitated the development of the mountainous milieu and helped the residents upgrade their standard of living. The anti-Uttarakhand sentiments of the Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister at that time, Mulayam Singh Yadav, gave rise to demands for separation through the years, culminating in the creation of the separate state of Uttarakhand as late as November 2000. The major role of students in related movements signifies the entrenched feelings of suppression the Uttarakhandi people had faced throughout the decades and its outburst by the youngest generation.

Our story begins in the early 1950s, a time when nationalism and patriotic fervor ran high in the North of India, untainted by the horrors of the bloody Partition. G.S Rawat, a well-educated man hailing from a long line of zamindars in the Pauri region of Uttarakhand, embarked on a journey to New Delhi in search of employment at the Lok Sabha Secretariat, the Lower House of the Indian Government. With his family in tow, he left behind everything they had known for generations, trading rural life for the bustling capital. Their new home, a cozy government residence, was nestled right beside what would later become the thriving neighborhood of Sarojini Nagar. For decades, he faithfully served the government, dedicating his life to public service until the late 1990s. In Delhi, he and his wife welcomed most of their eight children, severing the immediate connection with their ancestral homeland. It's important to note that this man remains nameless in official government records, and despite exhaustive online searches, his family's history remains shrouded in obscurity. If records do exist, they are buried deep within the memories of individuals who remain beyond my reach, with one notable exception – my mother. As the second youngest child of my Grandfather, Mumma stands as a crucial link to uncovering the ties that bind us, as descendants of Nanaji, to our distant homeland. I have just recently begun to take an interest in my family history and thus began my hours-long talks with Mumma regarding everything I’ve yearned to know. What follows is her recollection of her childhood, a poignant narrative that sheds light on our family's journey and our connection to a place that was once called home.

Her early education was in the local government schools her siblings went to, and with her report cards still a decade away from disintegrating, I am able to configure the condition of education in those times, along with the standards. Her stories of schooling are pretty humorous, yet don’t really mention a yearning, or, lack thereof, for connection with the homeland from which she came. Upon further enquiry, I realized that there is a lack of importance given to minute regionalism, especially among the older generation of migrants. Did it exist in the years of their vengeful youth? Did it disappear with aging? Did it exist, but not in the youth disconnected from their heritage so early? And if it didn’t exist at all, what does that say about our society? I could tell my mother had no intent to answer these questions, judging by the yawn she was clearly struggling to hold back. These questions remain up for interpretation by any elders that may find my article eventually.

Anyways, I asked her more questions, this time attacking the core of my ignorance of my culture, which was, the lack of initiative taken by my mother. Her answer was simple, yet deeper than it seemed. See, the reason she had never bothered to teach me Garhwali, teach me about native customs, or even take me to visit our old village was that she had not been able to experience these things herself. She elaborated, saying that to their family, the urge to assimilate and blend in gave birth to insecurities regarding their differences- their culture. To my grandparents, mixing seamlessly with the crowds of Delhi was more important than preserving their ancestral culture and passing the heritage onto their children and grandchildren. This shook me to my core, aghast at the selfishness of such decisions, I decided to halt my investigations.

It was a decision about the life my grandparents wished to live that continues to affect me to this day. Their decision was definitely valid and reasonable, and my frustration just signifies a shift in the priorities of mankind. We are more willing than our ancestors to exploit our differences for clout and distinction, which is essential to be deemed anything above a non-social creature. We as a society have come far enough that heritage is not a burden or baggage that one must deal with in situations where one must restructure their life; it is perceived as an asset. On one hand, it shows the development of a more progressive and cosmopolitan reality, yet on the other, this utmost urge for an ‘X Factor’ or just a distinguishing quirk is devastatingly concerning. Realizing one’s culture and reconnecting with it is undoubtedly admirable, but the reasons for which one does it change the entire scenario.

On that note, we have recently reconnected with Nanaji’s brother’s children who remained in the village. The bond, now restored, gives hope to me that I may be able to teach our family’s future generation about all that we had lost about our culture and so recently rediscovered. To culture - the mirror to a man’s soul.

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