the environmentally conscious dudes of Dun

I have mentioned the astonishingly stylish and gallant bus crews before. But they are also quite environmentally conscious- as are all their passengers.

I was travelling in a bus, and one of the crew drank a bottle of water and tossed it out. Before it touched the road, all the passengers wailed in protest. And no, I was not among the protesters- I was watching events with my mouth open. The driver scolded the chap and stopped the bus. The litterer jumped out and picked it up. I love this incident. The fact that everyone protested, and a bus driver gave an impromptu lecture on littering is wonderful in itself. What makes it more interesting is that the litterer was embarrassed about that thoughtless act and apologised for it..next time he won't litter. Wow.

And yesterday. I was returning from the station, it was raining and the roads were flooded. In the manner of all good taxi-drivers, my auto-wallah started explaining to me just what the problems of the world are and how to solve them. The gist? Ban plastic carrybags. For 10 minutes, I received a quite informative and thoughtful commentary on the evils of plastic, and the policy measures necessary to reinforce a ban.

I warmed towards my auto-wallah and by the end of that lecture, was looking at the back of his head with adoring eyes. But The One need not worry. Just before I could slip him a note with my phone number and a dinner invitation, he concluded his lecture by linking pollution to um..um..India's rich cultural diversity. Ah well.

Aesthetic Sense

There is this..the Charbagh Railway station, Lucknow. Not exceptional, the helmet-like domes boggle the mind, and the paint is a trifle too new..but it does have a certain beauty, a patient, enduring grace if you will.


And then there is this. Why, why would a respected hotel choose to carpet it's meeting rooms with illustrations of stool samples during a roundworm epidemic? Welcome to the Taj Residency, Lucknow.

Finally..

I got a house. The experience was such that I felt the multiverse wanted to assure me that the world isn't all bad.

 

After days of wandering around with a salwar kameez and bindi, I rebelled a couple of days ago. I didn't have any appointments with prospective landowners anyway, so I dressed 'normally'- cotton kurti that was just short of sheer, and wrap-around skirt. Not quite a bikini, but not quite dehradun. I am the only non-tween I have seen wearing a skirt.

 

Then my colleague tells me of a possible house. I go there, and that's empty, but I see a leprechaun peeking over the wall. I ask him, he turns out to be the gardener who moonlights as an agent, and he shows me a place.

 

By this time it is raining, and my kurti is firmly in the sheer category. I meet the landlady despite misgivings, and I get the house! No questions asked! Not too many anyways. I pay an advance on the deposit and it's mine!

 

So this week, I gradually move in my things..on Saturday I apply to BSNL to change my address and move my furniture. Monday onwards, I look forward to happy times without feeling the need to attach qualifiers to every wish..

 

round peg, square hole

Today it has been exactly 10 days since I started house-hunting. I'm trying to focus on that fact, and not the other one, equally true, that I have 'used up' two weeks worth of Sunday classifeds with only one more to go. Since then, I have spoken to maybe two dozen people and seen around 10 houses. It is tough going..both when a house is obviously unsuitable, and when a house is suitable, but the owners don’t like you.

Last Sunday was especially tough. I walked all morning, was refused two houses I really liked, and would have been unable to stay in two others. By the end of that session, I had shoebite, a migraine, and no one had had the courtesy to offer me water. I was close to crying while tramping around, and when I came home, that's just what I did.

I had been refused one of those two houses because they wanted a couple with a stay-at-home wife (as a companion to the landlady) and the other, because they wanted a couple with a non-traveling husband ( as a watchman). Before that, I had been refused one house on the phone because of my provenance. I was upset and resentful at the end of the day. I wished that I was more conventional, more 'proper'.

This mood only lasted a day or two. The fact that even an ostensibly married couple is not proper enough put things into perspective for me. Apparently, we would have to be the traditional 'single income, two kids' family to fit in. And even that would not have been enough. In the course of this house-hunt, I have been asked my place of origin (pref: same as the house-owners), my caste ('higher' the better), my place of work (govt/bank preferred), food habits (vegetarian&teetotaler preferred), leisure habits (non-travelling required). Why even bother to fit in? and why? And fit into whose mould?

I like me. The One likes me. My family and friends like me, and like the combination of the One and I. The rest of the world can go take a hike.

After it lets me rent a one bedroom-hall-kit-bath with separate access and verandah, please. Pretty please?

what I saw: Delhi-Dehradun

When we were children, we had a book called 'What I Saw'. The text on each page began with 'I saw, I saw' and described a little scene in a phrase or two. The main thing about the book were the lovely two-page illustrations by Mario Miranda. Lovely.

I am telling you this because the day before,I went to Delhi and back by car. I dont have stories, but a lot of images. Here we go ,then

I saw, I saw
• People. People who to my coastal-bred and reared eyes seemed as if they had stepped out of the pages of my geography text or of Geographical magazine. Crowded in markets, on the top of tankers, on carts drawn by assorted animals, home-made vehicles, cycles and on foot.
• The DIY vehicles. These are locally known as jugad (a term that means ‘sleight of hand’). All it takes to construct them is three wheels, some wood, and a diesel generator set. All else is optional. They are used as public transport and their easy acceptance on the roads of UP and Haryana is an ode to both ingenuity and tolerance.
• A black Ibis! I saw this the first time ever. And it is a beautiful bird, with it’s little black outfit, glossy red head and flash of white beneath its wings. I like the snap too..I would have wished for better clarity, but I like the way the Ibis and the Egret balance each other- the yin and yang of paddy fields.
• A mechanic holding a greasy axle in one hand and an ice-cream cone in the other. He was eating the ice cream with child-like glee and sensuality. I could have watched him all day.
• The kanwad mela in its various forms. This is an annual pilgrimage where people come to haridwar from all across the ganga basin and take some water home to bathe the village gods with. More about this later, but here is a fotu.

The shoemaker's back.

I had written here about my worries about his sudden disappearance. Well, I saw him at his usual spot today. And it seems as if G was right, and he had been to visit his grandchildren. His workplace is now brightened up by three girls of assorted ages who spend their time chilling out by his side.
This was the one major good thing that happened to me all week. Do you think it is a harbringer of better days ahead?

chai and gupshup

When I moved to Dehradun, I didn’t know a soul. And then, I met enough people in the office so that I was actually saying hello and having weather-discussions with humans. But a 'social life' as is commonly understood by the term? Zilch.

Which is when I decided to create my own happenin' party scene. Taking inspiration from K&G who have a weekly pizza night, I started a monthly chai and sandwich evening. The invitees? Anyone from my office who cared to come.

Things didn’t go off smoothly all the time, of course. The first couple of times, people were not too confident of this whole 'open house, drop in if you feel like it' thing. They also did not expect that I would really just dish up chai and sandwiches and call it a party! Not that there was really a party atmosphere either. People would sidle in, sit quietly in a row with their backs to the wall, and then trickle out.

And sometimes, I was unsure too. In the beginning, and during a low period, I could not believe that people thought it worth their while to spend a couple of hours sitting on my floor. I obsessed over not having enough glasses to go around. I thought then that they come only because they feel sorry for this woman desperate to make friends. Or, as someone told me, in the hope that maybe this time, she will have some real food on the table.

One month, I didn’t host the chai-evening due to my anxiety. People came up to me and shyly asked when the next chai and gupshup session was. From this, and several little things my colleagues told me, I realised that my spartan chai evenings were actually a big part of people's social calendars- just as they were of mine. Most memorably, a colleague made me feel a little less like I was the only lonely one around by confessing that this and office-hours were the only occasions he spent time in the company of other humans.

And the life in these parties? It soon increased. People sing these days. They chat. They take it in turns to make and serve chai.

The reason I am writing all this? If you are lonesome, there are a whole lot of other lonesome souls around. Maybe you won’t make 'best friends', but one evening a month, your house will be filled with people and laughter and music, and that is never a bad thing. And it is a good thing for the others- the ones who are too shy to host it themselves. It doesn’t take much. If people want gourmet food, they will go to a restaurant. They come here for space and companionship. I have had the chai sessions on poverty-stricken days when I have not even bought butter. White bread, and tomatoes marinated in oil-and-vinegar. Bread, fried eggplant and onions. Bread and bananas, for heaven's sake. A little time, a little creativity, and a lot of attitude (They must love me) and you are good to go.

Why am I writing this today? I received the greatest possible affirmation that people look forward to these evenings. I am moving out of this house and the new one will probably not have so much space. Today the discussion - not initiated by me- is how to go on with the chai evenings. Two of my colleagues are even thinking of renting this place so that chai and gupshup can continue.

quick update

for those who have been wondering.

My landlady and I are parting ways at the end of this month. I am now hunting for a place for the One and me.

Three things keep me going:

1. The lying and grovelling I am doing does not define me. This is just something i need to do at the moment.
2. It's all for a good cause.
3. Edison once confidently reported that he had eliminated 2000 things that do not work..I have only eliminated 9 so far.

Authority, rights and the single woman

Today the High Court annulled Section 377 which criminalized 'carnal intercourse against the order of nature'. This was mainly used to persecute homosexuals, but technically also could be read to prohibit oral sex. Understandably, this is a big day for India- and not just the LGBT community. This is not just the end of a 8 year struggle for gay rights activists in India but hopefully, the beginning of the end of far too many years of judging people by one facet of their lives. It is a good thing, and I am happy.

Interestingly, today I had my own little struggle for my rights, but I have not won yet. Today was the day I told my landlady of the Wonderful One and that he would be coming here. For those who do not know yet, a single-woman tenant needs to ask her landlady for permission before she can have guests over, and permission for guests of the male persuasion is generally not forthcoming. However, I did this in as proper a manner as I could. I got my sister to speak with her to add legitimacy to the whole thing; went to her with mithai in my hands. The response? My landlady, who's 60 if she is a day, needs to ask her mother for permission! and so, I will be on tenterhooks till Monday.

I am saddened by all this. This issue is not just of having the One over, though that is definitely a part of it. I am angered that we need to grovel for wanting something so simple- sharing coffee in the mornings, walking home together from work. Doesn't seem like much to ask for, does it? But I can, and will, move heaven and earth for that. The thing that saddens me is that a single woman, whether 33 or 60 is not allowed respect, not allowed authority.

Take me, for instance. I needed to get my sis, and probably will need to get my mum to speak with the landlady to 'legitimize' my love. In the course of the conversation, my landlady told my sis, " If you take responsibility for her, it's ok". What? Why? I am a sane, functional adult. Why should the person with whom I shared my childhood 'take responsibility' for me? My plan B involves requesting my boss to speak on my behalf. I know this will work. A bearded masculine pillar of local society can convince my landlady the way a female voice from 2000 kms away cannot. But knowing this, I resent it. I resent being forced to ask for help. Asking my sis is bad enough, but only from a feminism point of view. Having to ask my boss for a personal favour is a whole different kettle of fish altogether.

But I feel sorry for my landlady too. Generally, for all 'unpleasant' conversations- i.e. those that involve exercising authority- she brings in her brother as a sort of shadowy bogeyman. " my brother was asking why the rent is late", "my brother wont like it if you have guests over" etc. And today, she brought in her mother. Is it that a woman is refused authority even when a senior citizen?

Why is it that single women are considered children no matter what their actual age might be? People assume that I live off instant noodles cooked off a hotplate when they learn I live alone. No, I don’t. I stopped doing that at 17. Now, I have a functional kitchen and cook pasta from scratch on weekends. I am also aware that children aren't brought by storks or found under cabbages. Would you believe that even now relatives and colleagues change the topic and hush things up saying, " you won't understand" when I walk into a sex-related conversation?

And despite all this, I am lucky. Lucky my mum and sis love the One- if for no reason other than that they once saw him look at me with open love in his eyes. Lucky that the One understands this and is patient when far too many precious online dates are spent agonizing about my landlady troubles. Lucky that I have options.

And above all, as I write this, I think of the Sarpanch of a village I had visited to resolve a water conflict. It was a drought year, and the only water available was in a farm pond constructed by the NGO I worked for then. The main village and the harijan vasti were fighting over rights to use that water. I was upset by this. Seeing my distress, the Sarpanch told me to be glad they have something to fight over. If the pond were not there, there would be no fight, but that would not be preferred, would it?

No, it wouldn't. I am lucky.

The solo trekker

Whenever I tell people that I am off on a walk, the reactions I meet with range from dismay ("what? Alone! Wont you get bored? Wont you get scared?") to pity (poor thing..has noone to go with). Which surprises me a lot, because I would think that the natural reaction would be envy. Though I suppose that's just because I think tramping over the foothills is such an utterly fabulous thing to do.

It is definitely true that I go alone because I don’t have a standing (walking?) arrangement with a fellow trekker. But I suppose that if I did have such a thing, I would waste a lot of energy trying to wiggle out of the arrangement. Because I love, love walking alone.

And this is why.

Firstly, planning and logistics is incredibly simple. The negotiations involved are only between I, me, and myself- which is hard enough to make adding another bunch of opinions undesirable. I can change my mind enroute and no one will object.

There is no loss of izzat. I, me, and myself have seen each other sans any dignity whatsoever, which makes us pretty relaxed with ourselves. I can sit down and slide over a difficult slope, no worries. And I can be goofy. Remember the deer at Pari Tibba? I did not see it because I was gaily ricocheting off trees with the 'George' theme song in my head. Can't do that with a partner, uh uh. And the question of being embarrassed when i puff my way uphill does not arise. Just as trees that fall do not make a noise if there is no one to hear them, women saunter easily up the steepest cliffs when alone.

And on weekends, I pack away my sartorial common sense along with my spreadsheets. I am not going into details, but paint splattered kurtas are involved, and socks with orcas on them, and pink umbrellas. Be very glad I choose to walk alone.

And finally, there is responsibility. I am enough of a controlling Lady Macbeth that I prefer to be in sole charge of route planning, and enough of a Bottom that I goof up the reading of maps, instructions and signboards. When things go a wee bit awry-and they do- it is a lot easier to think that I am the only one 'paying for my mistakes'. Also sometimes, I am in enough trouble already without having to worry about the seven kinds of hell my poor friends might be tempted to pack me off to.

The downside? well, photos. This explains why most of my photos are of the scenery. But sometimes loved ones insist on seeing one in the snap. And this leads to efforts like this:

Pari Tibba

The hill of fairies. Witches' Hill. The place where all settlement attempts have been answered by lightning. Where ghostly lights are seen, and no one dares to spend a night. How could I resist? I went there this Saturday.

For help, I took along Bill Aitken's description of the walk which is available online here, and my trusty falling-apart-at-the-seams H44G03. To eat: bananas, sweets and water. A cap, an umbrella. The description of what one should do is there in Aitken's article. This is what I did.

I left home a little after six am, and was in Mussoorie (by bus, standing all the way)by 7:30 by which time it was already hot. I needed to go to Landour, but instead of getting down at the Landour bus stop, elected to go to Mussoorie and walk to Landour from there. This is a much flatter route, and also shorter if one wants to go to the parts above Tehri road.

Anyway, I walked to Landour Bazaar, past the clock tower, and took the road to Dhanaulti till I came to the little concrete road that goes downhill to Dhobi Ghat. This is an easy, beautiful path with oak trees, ferns, birds and ladybirds. At one point, just past the electricity sub-station, the path meets the main road again. Here I turned left, walked a few paces, and again turned right into another concrete path. This turning is the one in the photo. This moves steeply downhill past a sports field till it reaches Dhobi Ghat. I loved that I was greeted by several lines of washing when I approached the village. This is to be expected of course, but I was quite prepared for the name to be a vestigial remnant of a washers' village.

I continued along the same path, which turns right and then left to Pari Tibba. This path then flanks the hill and continues down to Chamasari. Some day, I plan to follow this path, go to Jharipani and then Rajpur.This time, I turned off the path and took the one that leads up to the hill top. This is not a broad road, but a little forest path with a comfortable (though slippery) covering of leaf litter.

This part of the walk was my favourite. The path is definitely there, but obscured enough by leaves to be non-obtrusive. The forest is made entirely of oak and rhododendron trees, some of which still had a few dried flowers. There are also some deodar and pine trees- just to keep things interesting. I remember reading Peter Matthiessen's 'Snow Leopard' and drooling hopelessly over his description of Himalayan forests. And here I was! I still cannot believe it, and stood looking at the forest with a more than usually vacuous grin.

I didn’t see too many birds, though I heard rustlings. I did see the maroon oriole earlier, on the way to Dhobi Ghat. But as Salim Ali said, forests are disappointing places for the bird-watcher. But I am not disappointed. This is why. To go downhill, one needs to leave the path and walk along the ridge. I was doing that a little unsteadily and concentrating on suppressing the soundtrack playing in my head (George, george, george of the jungle; Watch out for that TREE! I watched the movie Friday night. These things happen). Suddenly something went Bump! Crash! Just a few feet from me. That had to be a deer. So close. I stopped dead and peered into the trees to try and see it, but no luck. And it is good to know that the deer was smart enough to stay out of sight- there are poachers here.

After this, things became a little difficult. There are many tracks running along the face of the hill, and I was tempted into following them rather than sticking to the ridge. Not surprisingly, I got lost. After spending an hour or so wandering aimlessly around the forest, I made my way to a house I had seen on another ridge. The people here were kindness itself. They offered me water and tea (both of which I gently refused- there is a water shortage in the area, and the nearest source was a long walk away), and pointed me to a path which would take me across two ridges and to a pine tree.

It was funny when he was explaining it, because he pointed at a forest of mixed pine and oak and told me, "go to that pine tree. whatever you do, go there and you'll be ok. There is a water tank and a road that will take you to chamasari"

I of course was looking at Pari Tibba, and said, "oh, ok. The big one in the deodar grove,no?"

"No. The round one on the top of the third ridge"

"splat!" That was my heart plummeting to my toes.

Anyway, the path was good because it followed the contours of the hills and was nearly level. It was also extremely beautiful, with a thick bed of oak litter and bronze ferns just uncurling themselves. All went well till I reached the pine tree. I went up to it, touched it, and circled it. I also cast around in concentric circles like they taught us in the Scouts and Guides. No water tank, no path.

After briefly panicking, I thought of going down to the main drain line that should be at the bottom of the slope and following it downhill. If the Song watershed, I would come to Chamasari, and if the Ripasana watershed, I would come to Rajpur. Either was acceptable. I did that, and it turned out to be a smart move, because I came to a forest path with reasonably fresh cowdung and happily followed it till I came to a village. Make no mistake, people. I was a wee bit scared- running low on water, storm clouds gathering overhead, and I was tired. I was happy to see that village.

It seemed empty at first, but soon half-a-dozen little children wandered up. I shared out my sweets and waited till the mother came. She, bless her, gave me water, told me the name of the village (khetwala! At the bottom of Pari Tibba! I wasn't lost after all, I'd merely taken the long way around!), and send the eldest child to put me firmly on the path to Company Bagh. After I said bye to the child and made it a gift of my bananas, I toiled up the long and impressively boring path to Company Bagh, then downhill to Barlowganj, and even more downhill to Bhatta. And home by bus.

So to sum up: The route I followed was Mussoorie-Landour-Dhobi Ghat- Pari Tibba peak- Khetwala-Company Bagh- Barlowganj-Bhatta. This is pretty much a cheat's walk, as barring isolated stretches, one walks downhill all the way. It is also exceedingly beautiful and gives the walker a taste of walking in the forest. If one is sensible enough to stick to the ridge, then it is very easy as well.

Would I do it again? I am definitely planning to. This time, I will take more water (1.5 ltrs is NOT enough) and stick to the ridge. I need to go there in winter to see the peaks, and in April to see the flowers, and a few other times just because.

Waiting for the monsoon

I am craving rain. And not just me, the entire subcontinent is craving it. The monsoons are already a fortnight late and it will still be another 2-3 days before the rains come to Dehradun.

It is difficult to explain this hunger for the rains to those who do not experience the monsoon. In India, it is very difficult to ignore it. But let me try to describe the symptoms.

To begin with, the newspapers deal with the rain on the front page- everyday. The rest of page one might change- a war today, pestilence tomorrow- but the careful plotting of how far the monsoon has advanced stays in place. The conversations at work and play revolve around the rain too. "When will the monsoon come?"  "When the rains come, I will go to Mussoorie." "I bought seeds. I will plant them once it rains." "when it rains, let's go home and make pakoras."

The land looks woebegone.It is asif the earth had a fever. Everything is hot to the touch.The earth is hot even deep inside the soil. The dogs who would normally burrow a foot or two to create a cool spot have given up and now lie panting in the grudging shade cast by a tree. Everything seems sulky and irritable. My skin is irritated, the dogs who would normally run up and greet me are petulant. The birds, poor things, skulk with their beaks agape. It is not only my imagination that the dressed-for-a-ball white-cheeked bulbul is looking disheveled; his Elvis pouf is now sadly bedraggled.

I can tell you all this. How can I tell you of the yearning for the rains? Of how I want the rains so bad I fantasize of the overcast skies of my childhood, the intense expectation of rain that pulls people out of offices and homes to stare at the sky, the first few drops, and then the downpour. The sudden coolness, the moisture, the smell. That feeling of coming home that leads to Indian women speak of 'olava' (moisture) when they crave some TLC. The feeling that at last, one can put down ones arms, that makes Olava such a suitable name for Maharashtra's lesbian rights organization.

The rains will come to Dehradun early next week. It is humid today. Is it a good sign? Will it rain this weekend? How I hope it will.

the sub-tenants

Meet Liz. Not too creative a choice of name, is it? Well, just to make matters worse, I have named them all Liz. Largely because I have better things to do than try and figure out the sex of each lizard I come across, I cant really distinguish between them, and they haven't been objecting too strenuously. (The quality of the snap is atrocious, and I apologise. The clutter in my drawer is also atrocious, and I do not apologise..)

But I like all the lizards. Partly for utilitarian reasons, of course. They do a great job of keeping the insect population down. But also, I have a little affinity towards them. They continually get into scrapes, and escape only because the universe seems to have a soft spot for them. Sounds familar? I thought so. And much as I hate to admit it, I also like them because they are pretty.

And after living in an apartment for so long, I love living in a place where the boundary between 'inside' and 'outside' is more of a suggestion than a law. And it helps that I am currently reading the splendid, observant, politically-incorrect-for-these-times EHA and his 'Zoo in the garden'.

The priest's house

How I covet it. And how can I not? It is perfect in every way. Let us be extremely business-like and look at the place, shall we?

Location: In verdant, arty Rajpur.Perched on the edge of a cliff and cunningly placed so as to catch every breeze that wanders into that valley. It is shaded by a huge, venerable peepal tree that is a poem in itself. And the views!The photo of the Rispana valley in my Rajpur post was clicked when dreaming at a window.

Plan: It is a double-storeyed structure with a deep covered verandah. This verandah has a window overlooking the valley. The ground floor has two rooms. It originally had three, but now part of the floor above the bedroom has fallen. This suits me fine, because that means the bedroom (on the G-1 floor) now has double-height walls, with windows on two levels. This will be lovely and cool in the summer. Things might be chilly in December, but there is a fireplace, and well, cold is a good reason to snuggle down, no? Also on the lower floor,There is a wee kitchen and a storeroom, and wait for this- a covered well!

what sold me to the place? the niches for lamps all over the house- at the entrance, on the stairs, at various points in the walls.

Look at the bedroom with my eyes, please. Think of this little shoebox stood on end as it will be when swept and clean. There will be a vase of dry grasses in the fireplace, and the floor will have a mattress and heaps of cushions.The bedspread and cushions will be in purple, pink, fuchsia- maybe a little zari here and there. The walls hung with sarees, again in the same incredibly luxurious colours. And diyas will be lit in all the little niches, filling the little shoebox with their living golden light. And there we will sit and listen to the spring gurgle in our well..

Nadi,

asked around, searched for, found, and listened to Khat likh de..

saamne ho to koi unse roothe.

yes.

Bharatiya Daak

I have sung the praises of the phone service quite often. But not so much of my postman- we dont meet too often, and when we do he is a little snobbish.

But now I am talking of the Indian Post as a whole- and they sure do deserve praise. Yes, there are inefficiencies, and with e-mail and courier, the post is fighting a losing battle against changing times- or so it seems in the urban areas.

But I was in the hills on that geology trip of mine, and we stopped for chai in a village called Rauton ki Veli. It is the largest village for miles around, but it is not much, really. It is just that this village is on the main road. There are tens of other villages scattered about on the hill slopes. Visiting one means a trek of several very steep miles.

And the postman visits each and every one of these. This is important everywhere, but much more so in a remittance economy such as one finds in the Himalayas.

Then there is what the post means to the villagers. For many, it is the only means of communication. I dont know about here, but among the villagers I have spoken to, going to the village post office to save a bit of money or to send a letter to a husband in the town is a simple but important assertion of self.

I love the picture of the woman here. I love that she has come alone from her village and that she is not relying on a thumb impression, but signing her name.

puppy love

As I write this, a small ball of fuzz and drool has smooshed itself up between me and the trunk I keep the computer on, and has pressed a wet nose up against my leg.
It has been 13 years since I have had a pup at home, and you know, it does not seem like it. As I hold this pup, try and guess what it wants, make the choice between tough love and falling for a pair of trusting eyes, it does not seem so long ago since Benjy was a pup.
But yes, this has again reminded me what an intense experience it is to have a pup in the house. And it is not just the hourly feeding and cleaning up, the incessant minor crises that I am talking of. The whole feeling of being totally trusted by something vulnerable, and the intense sensory experience of watching-hearing-smelling-touching it, sometimes feels too much to bear. A lot like being in love, isn't it?
Incidentally, the pup and I are not embarking on a relationship. M has taken it to meet her parents, and they were visiting me. I do, do hope things work out. That pup needs a home.

What i did last weekend

I walked about in Rajpur. The route I took was along the river Ripasana, and then along the river bed. Once, there was a route connecting the Himalayas to the plains. It is said that one could walk to Ladakh from here. This, people, is the route. It is known as the old cart road and one also follows it for a while on the way to Jharipani. It lies on a glacier bed (probably), skirts the Old Rajpur Canal, several water-harvesting structures, the temple I had posted about before, a lovely old lychee grove, and many interesting little nooks and crannies.

There is absolutely no way I can write a more informative, engaging, and comprehensive account of the walk than this report written by Will. If you are planning on a day in Rajpur, I strongly suggest that you take it along.

Since I need to perforce follow the vikram schedules, I could not leave home before 7.30. This meant that I was out walking in the hottest part of the day. This further meant that I came back sunburnt and be-migrained. But it was worth it.

What did I do? I walked. I spent some time sitting in the old priest's house (details in the report) and marvelling. That house deserves a separate post all to itself, and it shall have it. I sat under a peepal tree and watched birds, and listened to the leaves rustle. Clambering over the river bed was most fun. It was interesting to look out for animal spoor (deer and a small predator), look at mineral deposits, watch fish and frogs, and try and see the landscape through a geologist's eyes. There are times when the riverbed looks like a slag heap ,and this was the most unpleasant part of the walk. But it is nicer to think of how that lot of chipped rock got deposited there, to think of glaciers and upstart mountains.

I deviated a little from W's route and also walked up the left-hand tributary of the Ripasana. This part of the area is more secluded and quiet. It also has some interesting limestone formations and cliffs to wander by. When I decided I had enough, I crawled under a bush and sat there for a while looking out across the valley.

After that, I walked about a little in Rajpur. Sadly, both my preferred lunch options were shut ( because it was a Sunday, and for renovation). But no matter, I came home instead. All in all, a very good day.

of leeks

Last night, I was reminded all over again just how far I am from home. You see, for me leeks are an exotic vegetable. I have read about them but the first time I saw them was last year in Seattle. And so they are linked to that year and to Vio's magic filo pie.

Imagine my surprise when I saw a vegetable handcart heaped with the things. I expected that they were one of the forced exotic veggies that are lately coming into Indian markets to accommodate urban curiosity. The price (20 rs a kg) convinced me otherwise. Here they are called 'vilayti pyaz' (foreign onions) which I suppose is as good a name as any. One of the cookbooks I have suggests that this might have been brought in to the northern cantonment areas by homesick Britishers. Well, good for me.

So I took them home and cooked up a quick and satisfying supper. I cut up a potato into little cubes, diced a capsicum, sliced two leeks and 100gm of mushrooms. I browned the potatoes in a little oil and then added the leeks. When the leeks had softened and just begun to caramelize in places I added the capsicum and then the mushrooms, seasoned it, and allowed all this to soften while I beat an egg and a good bit of mustard. Added that, let it set and slid it on to a plate.

Ate it in bed while watching 'Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron'.

Dressed to thrill

The cattle egret in breeding plumage..

diversity

The one thing I like about these Haridwar visits is the chance to gawk. The bathing ghats at Har-ki-Pauri are the Gazette of India come alive. People flock there from all corners of India, though mainly from the Ganga River Basin. And either because this is a family occasion, or because most of these people are rural, they wear traditional dress. I was fascinated last time by the sadhu family, and I wrote about them.

But I also saw a group of villagers from the mountains. M identified them as Nepalese, and it was interesting to see that even in the afternoon heat, they were wearing multiple woolen layers. I commented on this, as I expected these to feel extremely hot in the plains. It was then explained to me that multiple woolens are the usual dress, and they would no more think of dispensing with their sweaters than I would go topless because of the heat.

This time around, I was captivated by a family group from Kutch. more than the family, it was the women's clothes that fascinated me. Most desirable were the lovely hand-embroidered dupattas. Red, yellow, rani-pink, maroon. And embroidered with silk and zari in fine chain-stitch. The designs were interesting with all manner of flora and fauna and more besides. I lusted after the dupattas so much that I did not notice the rest of their clothes. It is only when they packed up and began to walk away, that I noticed the skirts. Each skirt ended in a precisely pleated 6-9" band. These pleats swung as the women walked so that this swinging, combined with the fecundity on their dupattas had a rather sexy effect. By the way, the photo is taken by M.

There were a lot of groups that I did not recognize. And this, more than anything else, made me hunger to travel a lot more in India.

It was not just the people that were interesting. The groups were interesting too. I enjoyed trying to decipher the type of group- family, village, SHG, paid tour. I was struck that many people seemed to have little identity tags pinned to their shirts. This made me realise what a huge trip a visit to the Ganga must be for some. If any of you are bristling at my looking at people as objects of curiosity, you will be glad to know that we were at the receiving end too. The funniest episode came about when M and I saw a strange group of men.

They were strangely dressed- even by Har-ki-Pauri standards. But good-looking, too. They were tall and lean, with dark chiseled faces and hair that just touched their shoulders. To set off the hard cragginess of their features, they were enveloped in yards of white. Each man was dressed in a voluminous long gown, cinched at the waist with an equally large cummerbund. Sadly, this rather splendid effect was spoiled by their headgear. The elaborate white turban looked well enough, but this was further capped by a little brass dome with peacock feathers sticking out of it. They were not wearing the entire feather, but a bunch of the little tendrils found at the base of each tail feather. I am not sure if they were wearing salwars, because we were trying not to look at them too openly in fear of being thought rude. They however, did not have such inhibitions, and stopped to stare at us. What made me burst out laughing was M's plaintive protest," why are they staring at us? They are the ones wearing fountains on their heads!"

In all fairness, we were wearing pens in our hair..so that counts as odd headgear.

a mob is not necessary to intimidate one

sometimes, a custom-made ledger is sufficient.

While travelling in Uttarakhand, I have stayed in hotels that have not got the reasoning behind why their business is called the hospitality industry. The strangest prejudices are seen, and given full play with the convenient right of a hotelier to refuse admission.

I first came across these prejudices in Champawat when I noticed that the ledgers are not quite standard. In addition to the usual name-address etc, there is a column with the heading 'relationship'. And no, 'blissful' is not an acceptable answer. That is apparently to disallow friends or gasp! unmarried couples from polluting their rooms. This irritated me, but not too much. I would just mentally shrug and think, ' ah well, it's not like I would want to come to this dump with The Wonderful One anyways."

But yesterday, I returned from Haridwar where I had gone to conduct a survey (again). I had gone there with the Amazing M (who, as you remember, is a woman too) and with A, a male colleague. A had friends in town, so we just needed a room for M and me. We entered a hotel-disguised-as-dharamshala and the receptionist was rudeness personified.

Me: Do you have a double room available?
He: for whom?
Me (indicating M): my colleague and I
He: just the two of you?
Me: yes.
He: Two ladies only?
Me: yes.
He: is there anyone else with you?
Me: no
He: any gents?
Me: no

This was followed by several questions about where we are from- over and over again and much checking of photo IDs. After that,

He: why have you come here?
Me (thinking fast): It's Ganga Dussehra. We have come to bathe in the Ganga.
He: Fine, give me your cell number.
Me: Sorry, I don't give it out to commercial establishments.
He: We need a number.
Me (trys out intimidating glare):---
He: well, your office number will do.
(labouriously copies it out)
Me: hey! you haven't noted down anyone else's numbers!
He (beligerent and defensive): look. here and here. I take down the numbers of all the suspicous visitors.
Me: !!

I was extremely angry at the end of that little exchange. It angers me that women traveling alone are assumed to be um..how do i put this across politely? um..to be members of a profession that requires the renting of rooms. If I was alone, I would have been interrogated a lot more, and possibly been refused accommodation. A, when we related the episode to him, made matters worse by attempting to rationalize this attitude. He justified this by saying that there are cases where men come with their lovers and murder them. But in that case, interrogate the men! And that was not all. In addition to the usual entries, this ledger had a column for 'caste'. I left it blank, and he did not argue. From his point of view, I suppose that once his establishment became tainted with the presence of two painted Jezebels, caste became irrelevant. But isn't that illegal? or shouldn't it be?

Now, however, I am beginning to find the episode funny. It is still wrong, of course. But this is the first time I have been asked for my phone number and then placated by being told it is because I am a suspicious character. Nothing personal, just business.

what the brain does not know..

The eye does not see. This was brought home to me this weekend.

I was lucky enough to be gadding about the Himalayan foothills with a group of geologists. Well, not gadding about exactly. I was participating in a training session on spring conservation, and it was lovely. I learnt a lot, and met up with old friends from Pune. And there was the field trip.

Look at the photo of the hill side. I would not even notice this if I was walking in the hills by myself. If I did notice it at all, I might just shake my head at the loose soil and think wistfully of the hard base rock of the Western Ghats. Geologists see a lot more. When he saw this, H painted for us a picture of a young, enterprising world. He spoke of the pushy sub-continental plate and how it challenged the much larger Asian plate. He spoke of a sea and its inhabitants, and of how they died, but are still present in the rocks. The rocks were folded up, and squeezed, and each fold, each crack speaks of that struggle that is still going on. But that is not all.

As we were standing there in the sun and looking over a fertile valley, he spoke of a world that was much colder and lonelier. It was not silent, though. glaciers were there, challenging the mountains, and in turn being challenged by ever-hotter summers. The glaciers are gone now, but they have left behind the story of their struggles. The loose deposits are layered, and each layer speaks of a time when the glaciers receded, amassed their forces and moved onwards again.

When I was standing there and listening to this story, I felt like a little illiterate child who holds a lovely book in her hands and cannot do more than look at the pictures till someone reads her the stories, points out things in the picture that she might have missed otherwise.

the gods of signboards have a sense of humour..

considering what I wrote about Malsi Deer Park when I visited, this name change seems rather appropriate, does it not?

When in Pune, I commuted by scooter. In the course of riding a two-wheeler for a decade, I have had my share of accidents. The worst of those had me skidding down a hill when entangled with my scooter. Today I still have minor scars on my left arm and a left knee that is so badly scarred that doctors think those marks are acid burns. It also aches like crazy for the silliest reasons- when it feels a draft, when I am tense about work/life, or just because. And you know what? I am lucky. I was wearing a helmet at the time, and I still have what is left of it. The left jaw of that helmet has been shaved away till the inner foamy lining. That could have been my face.

Why am I telling you these gory details? Because I went to see my mum off at the Delhi airport and a man died in front of me.

He was riding his bike on the highway, with his helmet on his head but unstrapped. A car knocked him down, and his helmet rolled away. I called 100 to report the accident, and the response did not reassure me in the least. He was young, and I don't think his family and friends deserved this.

A few kilometers later, I saw another young man getting on his bike. He leaped onto it, slammed his helmet onto his head, and zoomed off- buckle straps flapping. The utter idiot. I was so angry, I wanted to go up to him and HIT him.

So please, people. Don't wear the helmets just because the traffic chaps will pull you over..The safe-sex campaign has hopefully taught us that it's cool to be responsible. Extend this to other areas too (no, that was not a pun!). Wear a helmet, buckle a seat belt. Please.

sunlight

my bedroom windows in the morning sun. dust, rust and all..
art is where you find it.

Ram Rai Darbar

Information about the Darbar and its history can easily be obtained online. However, in keeping with the Dehradun Urban Art Project, I will talk about the murals here, will do?

Firstly then, go there with plenty of time on your hands. To do the paintings justice, we need to give them plenty of unhurried time. Also, most of the paintings are way above eye level, so it will also help to have enough time to rest ones neck every now and then. The Darbar is in the form of an exterior wall with an imposing gate that encloses a large courtyard with a number of buildings inside. The gate, façade and the building that provides accommodation for all visitors are covered in a wealth of exquisite murals. The paintings cover a number of decades, styles, and subjects. At first glance, my paranoid mind was disturbed by the many Hindu gods in a Sikh place of worship. However, I then noticed that the paintings cover Sikh and Hindu parables, as well as a great many secular scenes. Donors, prominent citizens, scenes from daily life, and stylized mughal style floral decorations all co-exist happily here.

Here are some snaps, of the paintings that most struck my fancy- but I do need to go there again and drink it all in.

This photo gives one an impression of what the paintings look like. Please notice the happy juxtaposition of Sikh gurus, scenes from the Ramayana, a Rajput (?) woman poet, the mutton-chop whiskered person negotiating/chatting with a person who from his turban looks like a king from Peninsular India, and most intriguing of them all, the figures who look like twenties BYTs in their flapper dresses, multi-strand pearl necklaces and cloche hats..





Another general shot, with more secular scenes than the earlier one had. Here one sees, I think, Mughal courtiers, some people from Maharashtra and is the man in the centre left hand panel a Parsi? Apologies for the tilt, by the way. I should load me a program with a tilt-corrector, but it is a lot less trouble to just incline my head to the left. Try it, it works!




I like this panel a lot. The wealth of detail is attractive, the trompe l'eoil effect with the two men (krishna and mysterious handsome guy) peering coyly out is even more so. The Darbar is reputed to have the only mural showing Noor Jehan and I wonder if the top centre panel is the one showing her. The head gear looks like it- any guesses?


On the right is just a close up of the floral detail..





And this surprised me quite a lot. The Dwarapaals at the front gate are British soldiers! Never have I seen that before. I am used to demons, well-endowed women, and deities with comfortably androgynous features. A britisher in full uniform with a sola topee is new to me. His uniform has three red chevrons. Can anyone tell me what rank that signifies? And what is meant by the NA on his topee? His is standing to the right of the door. The one on the left has NN on his cap.


The last picture. A most beautiful image of a woman playing the Veena. This is most Raja Ravi Verma-ish isn't it? I am not talking of the style, I do not know of that. I am talking of the woman. Her beauty, self-possession, and the feeling that she is not playing for anyone, but just playing music seems very typical of Verma's women..

For G...

who apparently is eating enough mangoes to warrant worrying if there is such a thing as mango overdose. Here are a couple of fun, messy things to do with mangoes. Quit grinning people, I am talking curry recipes here. These are from my childhood, and speak to me of cool red cement floors, 'home' mangoes, and lovely summer holidays.

Huli Mensu: Take one mango for each person. The mangoes chosen should be slightly tart. Wash them really well, and peel them, but keep them whole. Don't throw away the peels. Rub over the peeled mangoes salt, chili powder and jaggery/brown sugar. The amount of these varies with the sort of mango you have- the more flavourful the mango ,the less the dressing required. While they are soaking that all in, and the sugar is mixing with the mango juice and the chilli powder and becoming this luscious sticky sauce, get to work. Mash the peels with some tamarind pulp (again, depends on how tart the mango is- start with a ½" diameter sphere and work from there) and water(1/2 cup for each mango). Strain and keep aside. Take a karahi and heat maybe a tsp of oil. Throw in 3-4 crushed, unpeeled garlic cloves, half a tsp of mustard seeds, and 6-10 curry leaves- in that order. When they get all sputter and aromatic, add the mango-tamarind water. When that boils, slide in the mangoes and simmer for a minute or two. Season to taste. Wear something skimpy and old. Eat messily with lots of rice.

Sasam: And here you need slightly sweet mangoes, again one for each person (at least). Peel the mangoes, rub with salt, sugar and chilli powder as before, and keep aside. Discard the peels after extracting every last bit of juice out of them. If liked, add the pulp of an extra mango to this. Bear together curds and coconut milk (about ½ cup each per person). Add the mango juice, mix well. Add the whole mangoes. Just before serving, add a paste of crushed mustard seed and garlic (around ½ tsp per person). Eat with rice. Lots of it.

Either one of these can be made presentable for company simply chopping up the mangoes into neat cubes instead of using the whole fruit. The taste is unchanged, the fun and summerishness is vastly reduced.

disconnected.

How did we become so disconnected with our world, I wonder. When did it begin? For the past week, I have been coming across several examples of the way we expect the earth to continue providing. Actually, that statement is not absolutely true. We don't really think of how are needs are being met.

Sadly, this attitude does not even change when there is a crisis. 'somebody' is supposed to 'do something'. My sister was telling me of the garbage crisis in Pune. Pune's garbage landfill is now full, and the villagers are protesting against a health hazard in the vicinity of their homes. And who can blame them? Matters have reached crisis-stage now with some of the dumps of uncleared garbage self-combusting. This constitutes a major fire hazard, as most of the public trash collection points are near the slum areas. Summer showers are due too, and that might lead to an epidemic.

The solution is not to look for another dumping ground, but to lessen the amount of garbage in the first place. But how many people are willing to consider that? despite the considerable awareness about the harmful effects of plastic bags, people ask for them, fight for an extra bag with the vegetable vendors. Pune has in place a household segregation drive. It did not even work in the area where I live- an area where the affluent, educated, presumably-aware people live. Segregation is still done by the rag-pickers, mostly women and children, who climb into trash buckets with no protective gear whatsoever and pick through our waste for a few rupees. The rationale for not segregating one's waste at home seems to be, 'they will do it.'
This does not make sense. The knowledge that a human being will soon be touching your garbage should be incentive to segregate, to infuse some dignity into the process, rather than the other way around. As it is, people like my family who do segregate the garbage are considered to be wacky and naive at best.

I see this in unexpected areas too. from my wacky and naive point of view, a professional gardener should be intensively in tune with the earth. I expect that he or she has a keen awareness of what the earth needs, and a desire to nurture all that forms part of the garden. however, that seems not to be the case. My landlady has employed a gardener whose main concern is to keep it looking 'tidy'. This, for him, takes the form of obsessively removing the plants as soon as their flowers are past the peak, leaving the soil between the plants bare, and pruning in straight lines. This goes against the grain of all that I believe. You see, the garden is not a flower vase to display the best roses and dispose of them once they wilt. A patch of land is an organism, and everything has a function. Plants produce flowers by borrowing nutrients from the soil. Once they die, they give back those nutrients- with interest. Even as they decompose, the leaves and stalks shade the soil, prevent water loss, and provide shelter to small animals. If plants are pulled up after the flowering season, the soil is cheated of its nutrients, the animals are killed, and the garden becomes sterile. As every organic farmer knows, the essence of gardening is making sure to give back more than one takes..

This is a very hippie post, isn't it? but no, I have not been smoking pot. I did have a cannabis plant in my backyard, but last week the gardener pulled it up.

Urban Art: Clement Town

It is a mercy that I did not insist on secular art for the Urban Art Project. Most of what I find in Dehradun is linked to some place of worship or the other- like the Stupa at Clement Town.

Said to be the largest stupa in the world, it is linked to the Mindroling Monastery. Its size means that it does not have the exquisite jewel-box feel of the monasteries I visited in Sikkim. However it suits our purpose well, as now the rooms have the feel of an art gallery with the space and people walking by the murals on the walls. The paintings are beautiful and I wish I had photos to show, but photography is not allowed within the stupa, and quite right too. I did wish that there was some information about the murals and the stories they told. As it is, I looked at them with a kind of morbid fascination- some of the scenes are pretty gruesome.

I lost my objectivity when I came across the Yab-Yum images. These show the deities copulating with their spouses. When I first saw the paintings, I thought there was a sad disconnect between the individuals in each couple. In most images, the women are straddling the men, who are sitting in a padmasana or standing. Passion and yearning is visible is every line of the female deities. Each woman embraces her man, back arched, eyes closed, lips pursed, straining towards him till my own back tensed in sympathy. The men, on the other hand, are calm. Seated erect, they stare straight at the observer. They are serene, detached, seeming not to notice the love that is being offered to them.

I saw this and felt a rush of pure rage against this mindless seeking of perfection for the self. What use is enlightenment, I thought, if it does not enable us to recognise the joy that could be ours. But then I noticed that each of the male deities had a hand curled around his spouse’s waist. I blinked, and the picture changed.

What I had earlier read as aloofness now seemed to me a quiet strength. This strength seemed be what made it possible for the women to be consumed with passion the way they were. The erect, yet reposeful, posture of each male deity seemed now to support his lover through her orgasm. I was comforted by this, and moved on, only to stop at the next mural.

This was also a yab-yum image, but of the wrathful deities. I stared for a long time at Mahakala and his consort. The wrathful deities- both male and female- are demonic in form. Mahakala’s lover was depicted warts and all, but still exhibited uninhibited passion in every twisted line of her deformed body. She is angry, bristling (literally!), pot bellied, fang toothed, and clawed; even so, Mahakala’s arm is wrapped protectively around her. This image made me feel a surge of real love and admiration for Tantric Buddhism.

Mary, Victor, and all the rest of you, look at this and learn. It is a beautiful world when even the ugly are permitted to love and be loved.

Rajpur

I mentioned my quest for urban art. A couple of days ago, I went to Rajpur with my colleagues, and we came across a temple near a lychee grove. The grove itself was beautiful, and made me immediately switch into planning mode for when The One gets here..the temple erased all thoughts of anything other than the structure from my mind . It is very small and brightly painted. So when inside, I felt as if I was inside a jewel box. and standing there, one looks out over the tops of lychee trees to the Himalayan foothills. Beautiful.

here are the pics






Does this qualify? well, the temple is in a village, so not quite urban. But Rajpur is pretty much like an arty suburb of Dehradun. And this is true public art. So yes, it stays.

The Urban Art Project

I am now pretty well settled in Dehradun. I have a library membership, phone-with-internet, and a shopkeeper who starts measuring out a quarter-kilo of coffee beans the instant I walk into his shop. I know where to find momos, bread, cheese. I know cafe-cum-bookstores, and some of them recognize me. I have arrived.
If there is something I still miss here, it is art. Who needs Art when they are surrounded by Nature, you ask? erm, I do. I need to know that while I may be nasty, brutish and short, the Human Life is not..

Museums, plays, music shows, I want. currently, I listen to music on the net, and read a lot. I miss the other stuff.I want paintings and sculpture. in a museum is nice, but better still is when it is unexpected. I like it when paintings and sculpture are a part of the city. And that I have just not found in Dehradun.
So I am now on a mission. I plan to actively go out seeking public art in Dehradun and Rajpur. And I will be needing help..if you know of anything in d'dun, drop me a line. Now here, the definition will necessarily be flexible, but not much. So basically, anything that was created for its own sake counts, utility does not.

murals / art galleries / sculpture gardens/ museums : yes
architecture / pretty streets / landscapes: no ('tis not that they do not count, I am looking for something specific)

let's see kya milta hain..