By Joanna Van Gruisen, with inputs from Kashif Farooq Bhat
“Death has nothing to do with going away. The sun sets and the moon sets, but they’re not gone.” – Rumi
Abdul Rehman Mir was one of the first people I came to know after moving to India in 1981. Kashmir was my first abode – peaceful, beautiful, and with a seasonal climate similar to the U.K. – wonderfully distinct autumns, winters, springs and summers. All this made me feel at home and won my heart, but this was also on account of the Kashmiri people – welcoming, gentle, gracious, generous, and safe.
Abdul Rehman Mir had all these qualities and more. At that time, he was a young wildlife guard in Dachigam National Park, and along with his senior, Qasim Wani, was deputed to work with us as we trod the forest making a film on the Kashmir stag, or hangul. Qasim was full of memories and stories of the Maharaja’s time. Abdul Rehman, in his mid-twenties, was from our generation and moved more in the present. But he knew the forest, and his affection for it and the animals drew us together. I was thrilled the first time I actually managed to tickle a trout. He taught me the art of rubbing the underbelly of the fish in a way that put it into enough of a trance to be able to catch it. Of course, we never actually took it out of the water; I think the thrill was more the excitement of developing such an affinity for a creature so different.
Abdul Rehman had respectful empathy for many creatures. I remember one summer visiting his home in Harwan – in those days a beautiful mud and wood structure with no glass windows, only wooden shutters. As the weather was warm, these would be open through the day, and a swallow pair had made their way inside and found the upper story room a most congenial and safe haven in which to build their nest and raise chicks. Far from minding, he ensured that the rest of the extended family kept the window open to facilitate their passage until the chicks had fledged.
Abdul Rehman and his wife Habla. A devoted husband, father and grandfather, Rehman’s incredible diligence, personal integrity and courage set an example for all who knew him. Photo courtesy: Joanna Van Gruisen.
I returned to work in Dachigam again in 1999, this time not with a camera but as a consultant/adviser on a New Zealand wildlife documentary production about the Himalaya. Abdul Rehman was there to help again. It was not a long visit, but it was memorable. In the strangely hot spring, the bears we had come to film were not to be found in their expected locations. Indeed it turned out they were not behaving as expected either when we did find one!
Abdul Rehman and I were walking the forests looking for a suitable spot to place a hide for the cameraman when we heard the vocalisation of a bear. He knew there was a female with two large cubs in that area, whom he had seen several times at quite close quarters. This time though, in spite of us being quite far from her and with no cubs in sight, she charged. I was the one in the direct line of fire; it was all split-second instinct. He returned to protect me as I moved to hide behind what I thought was a protective tree (in fact a mere sapling). When I turned back, in front of me was the bear on top of Rehman on the ground. Fortunately, as I stepped towards them, the bear ran off. Blood poured from Rehman’s head and for a dreadful moment I thought the attack had been fatal. Amazingly though, the claws had just missed his eye, his nose and his jugular, and though the teeth wounds in his arm and leg were a little deep, they had not done permanent damage. Even in the face of such trauma he was calm and collected and led us out through the forest until we reached a road and could get to the hospital for treatment. Could one imagine a more invaluable character to accompany one to the jungle! My claw-raked sweater was a tiny reminder of what might have been with any lesser hero.
Unusually on that occasion we were not carrying our ‘bear sticks’. These were wonderfully sturdy but light poles cut by Rehman from hatab or pohu, Parrotiopsis jacquemontiana that when heated over a fire took on a lovely reddish hue. Wildlife filmmaker Ashish Chandola tells me he still has a stick Rehman cut for him all those decades ago. He himself had a close bear encounter at that time. We never walked in the forest without the bear sticks – except on that one fateful morning. Rehman’s cousin, Abdul Qadir, recalls a similar episode but one when the stick was put to good use. He was walking with Rehman in the forest late one night when “a giant bear came down from the tree. Abdul Rehman beat the stick loudly on the ground and saved our life. He was such a courageous person and he was never afraid of anything in his life.”
Abdul Rehman was companion to many visitors to Dachigam, generously sharing his knowledge and love of the forest with everyone. Sanctuary’s own Bittu Sahgal regarded him as a ‘soulmate’ and spent much time trekking with him and “sharing quiet moments watching hangul, monkeys, bears, and just once a leopard drinking the glacial waters of the Dagwan stream”. Rehman’s grandson, Kashif Farooq remembers a fairly recent occasion when Bittu and the Sanctuary team came to Dachigam. Although his grandfather was not well that day, as soon as he heard they had come, he happily went to meet them and explained the behaviour of the Himalayan black bear aand the hangul’s feeding habits and behaviour during the different seasons of the year. Kashif, then a student of agriculture, was not the only one impressed at how well he explained the natural history, “more like a wildlife researcher”.
Wildlife filmmakers Joanna Van Gruisen and Ashish Chandola with Abdul Rehman, a naturalist and guide extraordinaire, in the Dachigam National Park in Kashmir, in 1982. Photo courtesy: Joanna Van Gruisen.
Abdul Rehman knew many secret spots. I can never forget the wonder of being shown a narrow crack in the rocks of a cliff up one of Dachigam’s several side nullahs in which bees had been nesting, perhaps for millennia. Their honey was safe as the opening was so narrow that even the bees mostly walked rather than flew inside; the marvel was that over time the walking bees had actually worn a visible little entry path on the rock.
His colleagues from the Wildlife Department corroborate his knowledge and his bravery: “Wherever there was any emergency, we would see him at the front,” they say. Indeed on more than one occasion he was injured in the course of duty. He cared for Dachigam as his home, and they assert that no one served as sincerely nor knew the area as well as he did. He shared his understanding generously and guided others on the trails and wildlife of the park. Ghulam Ahmad, a wildlife guard, was one of those who learnt the mountains’ ways from him. “It amazed me how much he knew,” says Ghulam.
His incredible knowledge, honesty, diligence, personal integrity and extraordinary courage was noted in the citation for the Sanctuary Nature Foundation’s Wildlife Service Award, which he received in 2003.
His prowess in the forest and at work was remarkable, but he was no less exceptional in other areas. He was a man of deep piety and constancy both in his personal relationships and in his faith. For fifteen years he gave the call to prayer in his village as muezzin, never missing his congressional prayers even when unwell or travelling and indeed often performed tahajjud prayers too. This devoutness was not worn visibly, but perhaps lay as the basis for him standing taller than most, as a family man and a friend. As his daughter Zareena says, “He always had loving interactions with people around him.” His loving nature and interest in others shone through all his social interactions, and his children all remark on how well he interacted with people. They also remember how much he taught them; his daughter Tasleema remembers walks to Dachigam with him and discussions at every step: “He treated me like a son.” But it was not only forest matters that he was good at teaching; Zareena also remembers, “He would teach me every step of life and when I reached a marriageable age, I knew every single thing about making a home.”
In the true words of his grandson, Kashif: “We unfortunately lost him too early. People like Dady can’t be found everywhere.” His wife, four children and nine grandchildren grieve the most. Abdul Rehman’s wife Habla said, “I was the most fortunate wife and I’ve lost everything, and it will never come back.” His son, Mehraj Ahmad, feels the void acutely too: “I feel as if I have lost everything; he was a rock and hope for us all, but now it feels like the support is gone. The loss is too great.” Indeed it is, but Abdul Rehman will endure in many of our hearts and live on in the work of all those who continue the legacy of love and protection for Dachigam that he helped inspire.
Joanna Van Gruisen is an early pioneer of wildlife photography in India. She has been part of the conservation scene for several decades, filming, photographing, writing, researching and editing. Based in Madhya Pradesh where she co-runs an eco-lodge, she is active in sustainable tourism and local nature projects.
