The paidal marg to Mukteshwar

It is where I go for the ATM, for the post office, for chicken and veg.
And it is an extremely pretty road. From where we live now, there and back is an easy six km walk. From Chatola, we need to add a steep climb of another km or so.

This is where the path starts - a right turn from the handpump.

And this  is what it  looks like, more or less. Part of it is paved like the photo below, part if  it is a series of steps formed by tree roots.

The views are lovely- this is the sun shining through maple

And this is a massive rhododendron tree

 

Coming out of the forest is a bit of a shock , but  still pretty

On to the tarred road, a left turn, and another 3/4th of a km to the church..and I can stop here, or go on to buy veggies.

I am lucky to have such a pretty walk- I need to do it more often

Preserving Padam, or the wild Himalayan Cherry

I am miserly enough that I cannot let fruit spoil on the trees. And the sour cherries (Padam, as they are known locally) were definitely spoiling. They are bitter-sour enough that even the birds are not too fond of them, let alone the humans. And so Shona and I have taken it upon ourselves to harvest and use as many of the cherries as possible.

I don't have very good luck with preserving things though; my pickles invariably mould. Freezing is an option, and I know Mian is clamouring for frozen sour cherries. But we had tried that last time with mulberries. The day we found two mulberry trees in Chatola, Shona and I gorged ourselves. The next day though, my wifely instincts took over. While I still let Shona-Bhaloo eat all the mulberries that fell on the ground, I carefully picked over, cleaned, and froze the 'good' ones. After a week of patience and self-restraint, I collected two cups full. And then the electricity went out for 3 straight days. The mulberries turned to slime and my enthusiasm for freezing died.


This time, I am relying on old, appropriate-technology methods. I came across 'Bachelor's Jam' which seems to be a very laid-back process which relies on the principle that everything is better with sugar and alcohol added. Clearly,  it was tailored for me. It's been 3 days of collecting and pitting. There's no rum or brandy in the house, so I am using whisky. But fruit, sugar, alcohol- just how wrong can it be?  And now I have a jam-jar full.

The paper clip in front of the jar? That's my cherry-pitting tool.

Home after far too long

Ox-eye daisies

I haven't  been home since the end of winter. Actually, since mid-feb to the day before yesterday, I have only been home for a week.

And it has been hard.

True, I was with mum and sis for a bit, with Mian for a bit, with colleagues and friends for another bit. But I realised this  time just how much I love and miss our physical home.

Sour cherries

It was a joy to be back. I called a cab for the last leg of my journey back, and in that one hour received enough gossip to put me up-to-date with the village. I drank in the landscape. I made bread. I swept, dusted, mopped, laundered. I went and collected a pup who was ecstatic to see me. I met one of her daughters, who incredibly remembered me.

All the folks I met on the way were glad to see me and were not too shy to see it. I messaged a friend that I was back, and within 30 seconds received a call telling me to come over. More relaxed conversation, more coffee, more joy. 

dry, but fragrant roses

But while walking around, I realised I had missed most of the markers of spring that I look forward to. The fruit blossoms were over and the fruit had already set. The daffodils and the 'aprilia' were long withered. The dandelion greens were now too tough to eat. The roses had withered. All this in the one-and-half months that I was away. 

Irises (irii?)

And this made me think of Mian. Of how much he misses when he leaves to come back after months. Of the gaps that are always present in his  life. Of how difficult it must be to always feel that things are unfinished. Not earth-shattering, this revelation. And there's nothing I can do about it.

But hopefully, I will learn to be a little more gentle, a little more tender the next time he leaves. I do hope so.

The non-immortal superheroes of this country

Last month, I was in a little village in the heart of UP, the state that is the butt of nearly half of the jokes related to corruption and feudalism (Bihar is the butt of the rest of those jokes). And I met a group of people who inspired in me a profound respect.

One of them in particular fired my imagination. You see, he is a person who explains his profession as 'works in a bank'. You know the type- those faceless men and women who sit at cluttered desks in windowless rooms. The rooms are lit by flickering tubelights. The stuffing is poking out of the chairs, the formica is peeling off the desks. We tend to be rather impersonal with these people. There are banks I have had accounts with for years. I have not spoken, really spoken, to any of the people who update my books, give me my cheques, take  my cash. I do not know their names. For all I care, they are automatons that switch on at 9am and off at 5pm.

I have missed out on so much.

This particular man leads a life worthy of a fantasy super-hero. 9 to 5, he 'works in a bank'. 5pm to 9am, he fights against injustice. In the evenings and during holidays, Sanjay is a leader in a battle against a modern-day Goliath. He does not belong by birth to the village he is fighting for, he and the village have now adopted each other. He takes what he knows best- numbers- and and teaches the villagers how they can be weapons. And mighty effective weapons they are. If it were not for him, the protest at Mehdiganj would have not have had the impact that it does today.

The last time I went to UP, I met a rickshaw-puller who built a temple so that he could rid his family of the discrimination they were subject to for generations. This time, I met a superhero. What will happen next, I wonder.

Why the Immortals of Meluha is evil

Strong words? Perhaps, but the only ones that would suit.

The nightmare that many Indians of my generation wake trembling from is dominated by a single image. This is that of a hundred, a thousand, 'kar sevaks' tearing down the Babri Masjid. A teeming mass of men, clad in saffron and waving trishuls, screaming 'Har har Mahadev' and 'Jai Shri Ram'. The cries which were one merely praise for God, now forever twisted into slogans of hate. The reek of self-righteousness that oozed from them as they sought to 'rescue' a supposed birthplace. The exultation in them, the fear in the rest of the country. An archaeological monument was destroyed. A town once known for its peace remains a conflict zone decades after the event. People died. People are dying still because of the hate that this event created. The Ram Janmabhoomi issue is directly responsible for the Godhra massacre.

Babri Masjid, 2002

And now let us consider the climatic event in The Immortals of Meluha.

An army of men, all devotees of Ram, are fighting to reclaim their 'Ram JanmaBhoomi' (yes, Amish Tripathi uses the same politically-charged term) from the enemy kingdom. The heroes of the novel are guided by Shiva, who designs and mass-manufactures tridents. He also gives them a war-cry- Har Har Mahadev! This phrase occurs repeatedly throughout the chapter. 'Jai Shri Ram!' is insistently repeated throughout the entire novel till it resonates in your head.

Criminal exulting in a massacre/Melhuan: Gujarat 2002

The heroes are saffron-clad. The emblem of this enemy kingdom is a white crescent.
I wish I was making this up. I am not.

The book is nothing more, and nothing less than rabid hate-filled propaganda.
It is  layered in a veneer of gender-equality (the prime minister is a woman! Sati is a warrior!), and of the exploration of myths (Shiva as a cool-dude-tibetan!). But  those layers are too flimsy to cover the hate.

And so it disturbs me profoundly that the book is a best-seller. Over one million copies sold! screams the cover. So one million people read it, and thought it was good?

I bought it because of the hype and because of a review  I read in either Frontline or Tehelka- I don't remember which. Both are magazines I trust, with journalists I respect.The article lamented the quality of writing, as well it should. But what about the most important part? Did the reviewer not see the hate? Is it not dishonest for a journalist not to point it out? And what about the other reviewers? did not one person see anything at all? Or are we at that point in our history where hate is normal?

How in the world did we allow this to happen?

Early mornings and love

A lonely bus stand in a little town. It is about 4am, when the dawn is just planning to arrive. It was a request stop for the bus that just passed; except for the woman who got off, the stand seems empty. It is cold and dark everywhere except for one solitary point of brightness. This glow comes from a chai stall run by another woman, maybe in her late fifties. There is a rickshaw next to that stall, the passenger rushes to it only to discover that like the stand, it too is empty.

'Do you want the rickshaw?' calls the chai-walli. 'Wait, I will wake him.' She bustles over to a figure sleeping in the shadows, bends over, lays a hand on his shoulder and wakes the driver. He is instantly semi-awake and takes the passenger to her destination.

A simple incident that would have ended there, had I not heard their story.

They were in love once. Then something happened-maybe parental pressure, maybe a fight that looks minor in retrospect but was a dealbreaker then- but she married someone else. He did not. After many years, she found herself a widow, and began the chai stall to make ends meet. They both chose the night shift- he watching over her safety and livelihood, and she over his.

It is not a poor substitute. Think of the utter pleasure there is in sharing a space with the one you love. Those long nights with the two of them together must be full of a companionable peace. And it is pleasurable to work knowing that the one you love is next to you, that he has chosen to be there so that he can watch out for you. And how wonderful it is to know that you can help him too, that you can keep an eye out for passengers.

And of course, there is the actual waking up. It is not for nothing that I prize my mornings with Mian. It is splendid, true, to slowly wake up next to your love..but there is also something to be said for waking him or her up. She too must enjoy it- to bustle up to the sleeping one, to lean over him, inhale the warm and sleepy child-like smell, lay a caring hand on his shoulder and know that rather than an alarm clock, he is waking up to her voice. And for the one being woken up too- what better thing to wake up to than the voice and face of your sweetheart. And then to set off on work knowing that you will return to a cup of chai, to the exchange of a few quiet words.

No, not a poor substitute at all

A landmark in the village

There isn't one. Of the conventional type atleast. And that led to this story.
I finally went up and opened me a local savings account- step 1 towards establishing one's residence and all.
But the thing is that the banks now insist on delivering their documents to your home. And that had me worried. My address is just short of the Mark Twain style- instead of 'god knows where', mine says 'Chatola'.
'The post man won't know who I am' I fretted to Mian 'And no one will be able to help him, because while people know my face, they don't know my name.'
'Don't worry', he soothed me 'Everyone knows everyone here. The mail will reach just fine. Trust me.'
And of course I trust him. Utterly, and absolutely.
But you see, that is such an important letter..

And so when Shona and I had gone up to Mukteshwar to get the passbook, I stopped to introduce myself to the postman.
'Hello, I am Chicu. I just opened an account, and I was not sure if you know where I live or who I am, so I thought I'd come up and say hello'
He looked up at me and down at Shona  and beamed sunnily.
' I know you!' he said. 'You live with Shona-Bhaloo! Mian lives with her too!'

' Ah. Yes' I said. 'That's us. The ones who live with Shona-Bhaloo'

There are landmarks in the village- they just happen to be furry and charming.