I, weasel

There are things I do not like in myself. Perhaps the most despicable thing about me is my utter unreliability towards those I love. I had grown up thinking that I would always stay with my mum and take care of her. A few years ago, I felt shuttered in and eventually ran away, metaphorically and literally speaking.

My sis and my niece are two people I utterly love, who I want to spend more time with, but don’t. This time, I was in Pune for one precious evening during which my niece smothered me with kisses and painted my nails ‘because you have a meeting’. I was almost in tears as she painstakingly, inexpertly applied sparkly pink to my fingernails. But early the next morning, while she slept, I went away.

And now the little child I teach. We might not have made much progress in English, but we have become great friends. As I plan for the winter, I feel regret at leaving her, but that is overshadowed by excitement. And yesterday, because my travels for the last few weeks have not let us meet, she sent me this through her dad.

In a month, while she sleeps, I will go away.

of a Naula

Naulas are the little depression springs that communities in Uttarakhand use to collect drinking water.
As Naulas go, the one on the left is a pretty typical one. Its located in Bageshwar district. As you see, the spring has been enclosed using attractive stone masonry. Two little lampholders guide passing travelers. The water is cool and clear. The cleanliness is not by accident. There are various signs painted on that request the users not to use soap within the spring or otherwise pollute it in any way.

Sadly, this desire to not pollute it is used to further oppression. There is a hamlet nearby where people of the scheduled caste live. They are not allowed to use this spring, though it is close to their hamlet. Instead, they must use one a kilometre away. In the summer, their spring dries up. Then they are 'generously' given water from this spring. Provided of course, that they do not defile it by entering the premises. And so, they are not allowed to help themselves to the water. Instead a brahman must pour out the water into their pots from a height. What if there is no brahman present, you ask? well then, they are expected to wait till one such person comes along.

And that is the image that has been haunting me since I returned. People patiently waiting beside a full pool of clean water, but unable to use it. 

Conversations on the road

If you haven't guessed already, I've been away. 5 districts in two states, and I haven't processed it all. The landscapes, of rural UP and the Himalayas were stunning enough to make me gasp for pleasure. This was a work tour, and my colleague and I were hosted by extremely passionate and committed people. We saw wonderful work being done, and magnificent restored forests. At the same time, there was much to distress me- xenophobia, untouchability, smugness. Great joy, great sadness, and I still need to sort through my photos, notes and memories. Till then a conversation:

Me (hunting for um, feminine products at a junction town): Hello Bhaisaab. Do you have Kotex?
He: (Blank stare)
Me (getting a little desperate because my colleagues might turn up) : Um. Kotex? Stayfree? Whisper?
He: What are those?
Me: Sanitary napkins. Do you have any?
He: What are those? Something to do with a camera?

There were many responses possible to that statement. A short sex-ed class might have been called for. I could have said,'It could be, but that's way too kinky for me'. I chose the coward's way out.

 'No. Thank you anyway.'

Impossible fantasy

I've spoken before of the 10-year old Chicu and her fascination with the landscape Corbett walked in, of how it seemed so remarkably far away to her that she did not even yearn to see it. When she grew up a bit more, she believed that a sign of maturity is to erect a fence around one's fantasies. And so the pine forests were replaced by a farm in the western Ghats .This she did yearn for, and visualised it in great detail- the kitchen garden, the view, the chanderi sarees on the windows. Eventually, that too got filed away as an impossible thing, something to be joked about.

And now, she's doing it. All growned up, and she's learned that its not necessary to limit dreams, just to reach out for them.

Come September, I pack up our life here and move to the hills. Mian and I will find a little house in the hills, and make it home for the next few years. We'll be in the district of Nainital, where Corbett lived. The area where we are moving to has pine trees and rhododendrons, and Himalayan magpies are as common as crows. More important, it has the two of us together. For that, I'd gladly exchange any number of rhododendrons.

We hope to rent a house built in the traditional manner, with slate and mud. A little garden we'll have, where we'll grow corn and roses, cabbages and jasmine. I'll sit in the garden and write. Mian will have me to come home to every night. It'll be a good life.

There are worries. The nearest coffee-vendor is 4 hours and an overnight stay away. I've always been a salaried person, and have quite liked the calm knowledge that come the first week, i'll have cash in my account. The one thing I am bad at is project-peddling. Mian will be away for six months in a year.

But the other six months will be together. I am excited and nervous at the same time. If I had a tail, it would be going around in circles.

13 july

The blasts in Mumbai.
Feel compelled to record it somehow in here.
Though this is an over-recorded world. The images that allow no one their dignity, these times that make a pain-dazed person a 'good shot'.
My friends are okay..I still have 'what-if's going through my head

coffee, books, art

It happens sometimes that you like a place despite the odds; you keep returning there while unable to explain why. 124 Bluestone Road at Dehradun, is that place for me.

When I describe it to my friends, I find myself mumbling, unable to use logic to entice them there. Normally, mind you, I'd steer clear of a place that styled itself an 'art cafe'.  I would be dismayed by their 'pay what you like' policy, knowing that I would always overpay instead of running the risk of underpaying. I would be disappointed when I went there on a hot afternoon to discover that they only sold nescafe and a small range of hot teas.

But I go there. The place is always cool and dimly lit with scattered lights. They have books for sale. The teas are nice. Its quiet and unhurried, and no one minds when you settle down to savour your drink. They showcase local artists, including our young friends from Streetsmart. It is a lovely place to go there tired after a day of chores, it is even nicer to go there with friends. One such friend introduced me to the cafe, and perhaps I like it because of the conversation we had there. They showcase local musicians, and have regular concerts (put up on their Facebook page).

The easiest thing, perhaps, is not to overanalyze the whys..I like the place, and I plan on visiting it soon.

The story of Bakasura

Mum wanted a hen, and so got this ruffly-feathered 2-month old teen from a neighbours. The ruffly feathered ones are supposed to be good luck, they reflect all malicious thoughts back onto the thinker and prevent them from ever reaching the house. And mum and I were thinking of chicken tractors, and chicken manure and other such good things for the garden.

So she came, and her desire- and ability- to eat everything all the time prompted Mum to name her Bakasura, after the giant whose only claim to fame was his appetite. So things went well the first couple of days. She was tied by a long string to get her used to the place, and she seemed content enough. The only time she got agitated was when a neighbour's rooster would crow. We decided to get some company for her by and by.

And yesterday Mum called to tell me Bakasura had eloped. Apparently, our girl's appetite extends beyond food. The first day mum let her loose, she behaved in an exemplary manner. She ate grass and worms, responded to her name, and stayed within sight of the kitchen. Till 10 AM when that rooster crowed. Bakasura than picked up her skirts and ran to him, only to return 12 hours later. This went on a couple of days, and Mum decided to tie her again.

What's a bit of an old saree between lovers? Bakasura pecked it off and ran away again. Mum gave up, and gave her off to the owners of the rooster (her in-laws?)

The next market day, she'll get a pair.

Sindhudurg fort

It was built in the middle of the sea in the 17th century and has lots of interesting architectural features. And it is accessible by boats that have been built using the same techniques for centuries. And despite having lived in the vicinity of Sindhudurg Fort for 16 years, I never visited it. It was time, I decided. Buses run daily between Sawantwadi and Malvan, which is where the fort is. For impatient travellers, buses run with 15-minute frequency from Sawantwadi to Kudal, and then from Kudal to Malvan. Malvan is also where Malvani cuisine- the coconut-based seafood meals we associate with the Maharashra coast- gets its name from. So do eat a meal there.
Sadly, I forgot that the monsoon makes the fort inaccessible between June-September. Going there in the 2nd week of June was probably not a very smart idea and I had to be content with looking at it from the beach. The upside was that I got a jolly nice shot of it, if I do say so myself. I like that the photo seems black and white, but it’s an accurate rendition of what the day was like.

And here’s a photo of the bus-stand. I like the raindrops, the coconut trees and the hurrying conductor.

And finally, a note on the boats. I have read an account of the preposterous and barbaric way in which boats are built in the Konkan. I don’t remember the traveller or the period, and need to check. ‘The natives do not use nails or any iron’ the author had fumed. He went on to say that the boats were merely sewn together and therefore not sea-worthy. He decided that the boat-builders needed to learn modern methods.
And a couple of centuries later, here we are.

Market day

I love markets for their excitement and the lovely produce available. Tuesdays are market day in Sawantwadi when vendors and shoppers come from all the neighbouring villages. Mum and I visited this week; here are pictures.

The vendors on the main street were large sellers, who bought produce from several farms and created huge mountains of lusciousness on the road. In the photo from left to right: jackfruits, jackfruit in the foreground with Totapuri mangoes behind them, and pineapples.

Inside the market are the more interesting stalls. On the periphery are the permanent stalls run by farmers. Since the next day was a festival, the stalls were selling banyan twigs (a sad indicator of the decline in these majestic trees) in addition to the usual fruit and vegetables. Inside is where women come by with whatever they have harvested from home. Each has in front of her an array of items that speaks of the wonderful diversity of Konkan farms and of the hard working people. 

In the central image, the woman in the foreground (orange saree, green blouse) has one small sack each of polished and parboiled rice, three jackfruits, one bunch of bananas, one packet of kokam, a bag each of two different types of mangoes, and one of pulses. Others were also selling flowers, seeds, and saplings. And just so you know its not all homegrown, there’s a stall with the ubiquitous plastic. Reassuringly, it’s also selling brooms made of coconut fiber and leaves.

What did we buy? Assorted saplings and seeds, mangoes(Mankur: my favouritest in the world), breadfruit, tender groundnuts, Sonali bananas.  And a 10Rs bottle of nailpolish for me.

tree lore

Gardens are important here in the Konkan. The coast might not be productive in terms of adding to the Nation-state’s stores of food, but it provides its residents with plenty of varied and nutritious food for the body and flowers for the soul. The thrifty Konkani woman also loses no opportunity to earn a few extra rupees. The markets are full of garden produce- a small basket of flowers, a few seeds, a couple of pineapples ; the sales are not enough to justify a trip to the market, but a nice addition if one is going anyway.

And so, gardens are important. The monsoon rains bring with them an orgy of exchange of cuttings and a frenzy of planting. With this has grown a lore of garden plants. Seeing me work at planting a couple of headloads (Yes, I kid you not) of woody cuttings, a neighbour offered to help me dig.

‘Well, maybe the big hibiscus plants’ I told him gladly.

‘Oh, flowers? No, no..women should plant flowers. They desire flowers to adorn their hair with, and that desire makes them bloom faster’ he replied.

‘Grrnf’ I said, wielding the pick-axe again.

And the coconut tree is revered more than any other. Every atom of it is used, and traditional Konkan life would be impossible without it. When the priest delivered the tree, he also gave me a careful lesson in how to plant it. When Rajan came by to plant it (it requires a 1m deep hole, I did not volunteer), he added his advice. As the daughter of the house, I was required to actually do the planting with my hands. I noticed him silently pray to it as I did so, and realized afterwards that I had missed my cue to do the same.

For those who are interested, a coconut plant needs a hole that’s 1m by 1m and atleast the same deep- the deeper the better. On the downhill side of the planting hole, make a small horizontal tunnel sloping downwards; the roots rot quickly and drainage is essential. Place plenty of sea sand at the bottom; if not sure of where the sand is from, add a couple of handfuls of sea salt. Rotting leaves and fish heads are good too, but we didn’t have any of the latter. Cover with another layer of sand, place plant in, ensure it is vertical. Bed gently with soil till the coconut is covered, but no further. As the plant grows, the hole is filled in. This ensures a good length of root-bearing stem and consequently, a stable tree. In the photo, the hole is filled up, but that’s because we were planting out of season. In the monsoon, the hole would be filled with water and the plant would rot. Instead, we will be banking earth around the plant as it grows.

The 20’s Parisian salon

That’s what my sis and I joke that mum has created in her ‘quiet retired home’. In addition to our old friends, she has amassed a long list of people who live in the neighbourhood and care for her. I was overwhelmed on the day she had the formal opening of her house by the sheer number of people who came- especially by the number of gallant men she seems to have milling around.

Take last afternoon for an example. I had run out of dry clothes and was lounging at home in a shirt and not much else while my clothes attempted to dry in near-100% humidity. You’d think a secluded home belonging to someone who ‘does not like company’ would be private, wouldn’t you? Hah!

First came the local priest with a coconut plant he had grown from seed for her. Then came an autorickshaw driver with sweets his wife had cooked. An artist friend came to chat and presumably, to check if the painting he had given her was hung yet. A group of impossibly handsome keralite well-diggers came rushing over to tell her the well they were working on had struck water. A neighbour came to check if the leak she had complained about was still there. Seeing that it was, he repaired it.

Me? I huddled under a sheet and wondered when was the last time I needed to fend ‘em off with a stick.

The Simple Life

That’s what my mum has decided to adopt here in Sawantwadi. And it is pretty much, the life of my dreams. It’s low-impact, calm and friendly. My mum wakes at 5 and sits watching the birds come to her garden and looking for any flowers that might have blossomed overnight.

A big part of this simplicity is her desire to be as self-reliant as possible. So we have a compost pit which will be just fine once the rain stops sloshing down, she’s growing some of her food, and she’s harvesting her water from the skies.

The Konkan in the monsoons is never short of water. So far, we have been managing just fine with a couple of buckets in rotation: one being used in the house, one under the downspout which gets filled every 5 minutes. This necessitates a lot of running in and out of the downpour with buckets, and is not something I want mum to do when she is alone.

And so the home-made rainwater harvesting system. Rajan (a chap who comes around every couple of days to do odd jobs in the garden) and I fixed a pipe to the downspout using willpower- it is too wet to use a solvent glue. This was steadied with a post. I then stole mum’s cleanest dish towel and used it to make a rough filter. We slipped a collapsible pipe over it, tied it on tight, let the other end into her water tank and then the real work began. This was the gentle nudging out of all kinks in the pipe so that it would carry water instead of storing it. An hour or so in the rain and now it seems to be working.

It definitely is not as pretty as a rainwater harvesting system can and should be. In some ways, I feel like I cheated it of its potential- wonderfully aesthetic and functional things can be done by playing with various downtakes. But it was done in a morning, my mum can dismantle it whenever she chooses, it filters and transports her water, and it was done for a total cost of Rs600 /- . Not too bad.

Travelling Light

One of the long running joke-arguments between my mum and me concerned the concept of traveling light. I prefer to travel with a small backpack- the same one I usually carry to work. In it are a couple of changes of clothes, a book, a pen and journal, and just enough toiletries to prevent me from being a bio-hazard. If I do carry any gifts, they are always small and foldable, and I take no souvenirs.

My mum, on the other hand, travels with the kitchen sink. I get distressed at the amount of stuff she considers it necessary to tote around, and explain to her- loudly and shrilly- that life is much easier with less stuff. 'you can buy everything everywhere. You don’t need to carry things from one end to the country, there are professionals who do it for you!' has been my constant refrain. What my sis and I find endearing and exasperating is mum's tendency to carry plants everywhere. When we go to pick her up, its always easy to see what seat Amma is in- it's the one with branches jutting out of the window. We have told her that it is an unnecessary cause of stress and discomfort. 'Look at me, I travel so well' was my unspoken message.

Until now.

I am visiting my mum this month, and I traveled here with far too much. All my gifts were bulky and perishable. And to top it all off, I was carrying a tree. I was also carrying lilies, but they were discreetly tucked away in my suitcase. The tree, on the other hand, needed to be planted in my berth, from where it benevolently spread its branches over the rest of the passengers.

I discovered three things during this trip. First, I am turning into my mum. Second, traveling light IS better. Most important, I discovered that a tree possibly trumps a dog as a conversation magnet. Just so you know.

The lush life

There's a reason I've been away from the net for so long. It's not you, it's me. I am currently in Sawantwadi, spending a month here with my mum as she moves into the new house she's built. A whole month at home- wow, and bless my boss.

It's gloriously lovely, of course. I had almost forgotten how lush and fertile the Konkan is in the monsoons. Life springs up everywhere. We have two resident frogs, with two very different personalities. One is staid and well mannered and prefers to spend all his time meditating in a corner. The other is a tree frog with clearly poor navigational skills who spends all his time leaping from bedpost to wall and agitating my mum by threatening to crash into the table fan each time.

I spent a night sitting on the stoop of the house my mum has rented watching fireflies flit about in the forest next to it. It has been so long since I've done something so simple and so magical. I have seen fireflies a time or two since my adulthood, but not in their hundreds. Here, they filled my world.

It has been exactly seventeen years since I last did 'real' gardening –in the earth and not on concrete. I am enjoying scrabbling about in the soil like the pig I would quite like to be. We have planted jasmine, mogra, roses, hibiscus, cashew, jambhul, breadfruit, pepper, turmeric, and a dozen other unidentified pretties. I've been putting my soil conservation skills to some use, and exercising muscles that had totally forgotten they have a purpose. My nails are dirty, cuticles torn, arms bitten, back sunburnt. I am clearly, enjoying myself.

This comes with a price. As I type this into a document file, I have no way of knowing I'll be able to post it. I got me a internet connection, the 15-minute connection took me 5 days. On the sixth day, I learnt that our house and the rented one are both blind spots when it comes to this network. And despite my image of myself as a low-tech person, I am dependent on the internet. My blog, my work and most of all, my communication with friends and the Mian are all at a standstill..i am clearly not enjoying this bit.

Stinkin' rich and poverty stricken at the same time.

The Important Things in Life

Susha Mama, my mother's eldest brother never sat me down for a 'lessons of life' talk. The things he did teach me are the practical tips I use nearly every day.

He taught me that one tilts a glass to pour a beer without getting a fountain of bubbles. That it is important to salt an omelette after it is set. That it helps to pour the egg into a vessel with vertical sides before going at it with a fork.

The closest he came to giving me marriage advice was when I was still young. 'Someday you will be grown up and have a house of your own, beti," he began. " you will be cooking for  your husband, and sometimes you might even have friends over." He patted my head before continuing." It is possible that you will be late with cooking, or it will not be good, and your husband will be hungry. You should then remember to quickly put an entire onion on the gas. The house will smell so good, noone will notice the lack of food." He beamed at me and waited for me to file that tip away. And you know what? It works!

He let me take a puff of his cigarette when my age was still in single-digits. The resultant coughing fit kept me away from them for the next three decades.

He was visiting us in Pune once, and asked me to mix him a feni and water drink. I mistook the bottle of vodka for his bottle of water. After my mum and I helped him off the floor, I expected a scolding. He wagged a finger at me, "now you know beti, what happens when you drink too much."

He introduced me to his collection of P.G.Wodehouses, and taught me to keep them back on their shelves when I was done reading. By telling me he bought them while waiting for connections, he got me addicted to browsing at train stations.

I am the woman who sits and reads a book on a railway platform, laughing aloud and not caring who sees her. I usually know where my things are. I am an okay cook, but can create fun supper parties with willpower and caramelized onions.  I mix decent drinks and am generally aware of when's enough. I only have had soda bottles explode on me a dozen or so times. Not doing too badly, eh?

Susha mam passed away last week in Mumbai. I was in Dun.

I miss him.

Home-maker

My mother is 65 years old and she's building a house. Mian and I visited in Jan and the house is gloriously beautiful. Red laterite, warm brown wood, terracotta tiles, red coba floors- it is a little jewel.

When I was 25, my first job was building a house. Only, I did not do it alone. I was assisting a site engineer, who was assisting his boss. We had back-up in the office to work out finances and ensure that the right cheque reached the right person in time. The office staff would help us do the inevitable follow-up with suppliers and the whole army of craftsmen. As we were regular customers, these agencies had great motivation to cooperate with us above their other jobs. I never knew of the mechanism for various permissions required, someone else did that for us. Despite that, I was stressed and over-worked.

My mother is doing it all alone. No admin-backup, no big, influential boss to scold errant sub-contractors, no promise of future work to lure them in, no strange person who would come in the dark of the night  and then get the required permits for us. (btw..he was legit, he only came in after office hours because this was his moonlighting job).

Two years ago, she decided that she wants to live in our childhood town. She went there, and started work. This meant getting the land in her name, getting a promise of a water line, getting building permission, the whole works. And it meant living as a tenant in a little place after 4 decades of being a house-owner. It meant dealing with often-untrustworthy, sometimes aggressive workmen. It meant staying there, managing a thousand different things. She is still doing it, though now she is in the finishing stages (always the difficult part).


For her, it has also meant a new lease of life. The woman who could not walk around the house now routinely walks everywhere. She is having a whale of a time being the boss again- 10 years after she sold her hospital and embraced the retired life. She wakes in the morning, laces up her shoes, wears her hat, takes her packed lunch and takes the bus to 'the site'.

But I know that I would not be able to do what she is doing. I would not be able to navigate the decision-making, the management, the planning, the execution all by myself.  With no experience and very little support, she has created a lovely home for herself and for us.

She is sometimes in tears when workmen don't show up despite promises. She gets frustrated when one of them damages the work of the other. She experiences self-doubt when confronted by a bewildering array of tiles. She calls me up to describe a butterfly she saw. She feeds birds at our new house. The pineapples and roses and medicinal herbs she has planted are all thriving under her care. She sits on the verandah and watches the sunset. I am so amazingly proud of her.

It's everyone's world, after all.

Leading the crowd of worse things that cluster accusingly around my bed at 5am is a photo I took a few years ago. When I was working in the little village of Sulibhanjan, a woman invited me into her house for chai. While she was making it, my eye was caught by a sudden movement. The door to the outhouse was weathered near the floor, and a child was peering at me through one of the holes. To do it, he must have crouched so that his chin touched the floor. I laughed at the surprise of it. "See, your son is playing hide-and-seek" I said gaily, as I took a photo of him.

"He lives there", his mother told me. "He is mad."

Stunned, I looked again, and noticed the padlock on the door. As soon as I came to my room, I deleted the photo. It has been 6 years now, and that image still haunts me. It does not matter that I did not know. This was a boy who lived locked in a loo, and I had laughed at him.

I do not blame the mother; she did not have any options. But that child was in front of me all evening today as I listened to a lecture on inclusion and the right to education act organised by the Latika Roy Foundation.  As he tried to sort out the question of 'Whose School Is It Anyway?' (the title of the talk), Chief Justice Ajit Prakash Shah was passionate and informed as he always is. More than that, he was compassionate. "When you are my age, these things will no longer shock you" he replied to a student who was outraged that a woman would 'choose' to have her daughter beg in the streets rather than go to school; his voice hinted that these things would always sadden him. That was reassuring. The Right to Education Act is a step in the right direction. That is also reassuring.

My afternoon was not just reassuring, it was positively uplifting. I spent it playing and eating chole-bhature with the young students and almost-as-young teacher of Street Smart, a school conducted for street children near Astley Hall. Not inclusive in the ideal of a classroom where they would rub shoulders with 'elite' children, maybe. But it works. The genuine friendship between the students and their teacher was unmistakable; they studied, and more important, they had someone who cared for them.

My friends and I sneaked out of the lecture hall a few minutes early. On our way to the car, we justified our decision 'not really our field..we don't really have an opinion..what can we say..mumblemumble'. Five minutes later, we were arguing at the tops of our voices, gesticulating wildly, and slapping each others hands out of the way. At one point, my hands were tightly pinned down so that I would stop trying to interrupt. All this for a topic that we had decided we don't have any strong opinions about. The LRF lectures do that to one..


 The photo? while I deleted the one I talked about, I do have one of most of the family- sans the men who were selling their products, and one little boy. 

The Forest Research Institute museums.

I have lived across the road from the FRI for the last two years, and have never taken the tour. I am so ashamed. Thankfully, I had decided today to clear out my scary 'miscellaneous' drawer, and so it is that I found myself camera in hand walking towards the campus with my Rs2/ fee in my hand.

Once past the gate, the road to the main building is beautiful, shadowed as it is with trees and bordered by utterly charming bungalows. These houses are bright red, have double-height pillars, massive chimneys, large gardens( in every one of which wheat is grown for some reason), and climbable trees. The stuff of dreams..

There are six museums, all located in the main building. To view them, you need to purchase a Rs 15/-ticket, and can choose to be accompanied by a guide for Rs. 50/- more. The ticket counter is located at the rear left corner of the main building.

I assume that most people walk in from Trevor road which leads directly to the left side of the building. Wanting to take a photo of the building, I had crossed over to the old main road that leads to the front, and trudged up that endless and hot road. That route is not bad; it's hot true, but one gets to look at the building. And it is worth looking at.  Clean, clean lines, enough curves to add grace, enough brick to add warmth, it is a truly lovely place to wander.

While not crowded, there were a large number of people. The place had its fair share of children who were largely well-behaved though a cry I heard of 'hato, rakshas log! out of the way, demons!' suggested that there were exceptions.

The museums are actually a great thing to do with little ones. Only, if you are going with them, I would suggest skipping the first two (pathology and social forestry), zooming through the third (silviculture) and lingering in the rest. The timber museum is panelled with 126 different varieties of wood, has a 2.8m dia cross-section, and lovely little examples of carved wood that I lusted after. Entomology is satisfying gruesome with its displays of insects and grubs. The butterfly displays will enthrall little ones; while adults can make up stories over names like 'vicarius' and 'hypocrita'. I was astonished by the beauty of some of the wood-boring 'pests'- look for scolytidae whose colony looks like an intricate kolam. The last, non-timber forest products has essential oils and herbs for the adults, and a pair of elephant tusks for the kiddies.

There is quite a bit of walking involved; I would suggest gearing up as for an expedition. Carry a water bottle, you can refill it at the cooler near the timber museum. They are mercifully, open on weekends and public holidays, from 9:30 to 17:30 with a lunch break from 13:00 to 14:00. Carry a picnic lunch and eat it under the trees with squirrels for company.

yesterday

She woke up at 5:45 am in her berth. The first thing she did was check if her husband was awake too. 'Sweetie?' she said, to be met with a strangers stare. He was not there; he was on a plane. She had forgotten when asleep.

The guards at the Metro terminal of the Delhi airport were bored, and did not pay much attention as the couple raced down the stairs towards them one minute to go before the last train pulled out. They were used to goodbyes, and this one was brisker than most, almost brusque. A quick almost-hug, and the woman grabbed her bag from the scanner and rushed into the lower levels of the terminal. The man waited till she was no longer visible, turned, and walked away with his bags in tow.

The taxi ride to the airport was quiet. A half hour of watching the lamp posts whizz by far too quickly. Dark skies, unearthly yellow surroundings. Vividh Bharati on the radio with its nostalgic, romantic music and chaste hindustani-speaking announcers.The couple sitting close together, his arm around hers, her head on his shoulder.

The weekend was much of the same. Two people stuck together Velcro-fast. Playing enough scrabble, eating enough mangoes, listening to enough music, making enough plans to tide them over for the next few months and then realizing that it would never be enough.

But it need not be enough. We will have more. We will play scrabble online,and chat, and read, and watch movies. And before we know it, Mian and I will be together again.

People at the Rajpur Mela

Perhaps the most important symbol of a fair is the giant wheel. And so I was happy to see this one at the Shahenshahi Ashram mela. The best part about this one is that it did away with the parts I do NOT like about giant wheels. Stomach turning heights? Not this one.. The photo above makes it look like it was looming over the horizon, but in reality it was quite modest. As it should be, because it also did not have one of the features I dislike about fairground entertainment, which is the use of diesel generators with the accompanying pollution, noise, and use of fossil fuels. Instead, it used some shockingly clean energy.

Clean, yes. But also a little disturbing. The two young men in the photo sit on the axle and turn it with their legs.  I was a little queasy when I saw them clamber around a moving giant wheel. I was a little tense when I saw them perch on the axle. And when I realised that they are probably around the same age as my niece, I was sadder still.

I do hope that they are part owners of this outfit. I hope that they get pleasure out of their lives. And  I do hope that they stay safe.

This wheel was one of the most popular attractions. The others are shown below.

A chaat seller who knows how to dress to impress. A balloon seller with rainbow zebras that I wanted to buy. And a gola wallah with his stunning array of gleaming bottles and his carefully insulated block of ice waiting to be shaved, drizzled with syrup and sold by the cupful.A good time was had by all..

The mela at Rajpur

 When I was told that a colleague and I would be setting up a stall at the Ram Navami mela, my reaction was 'ohnoNonono. Oh no.' Yes, you know how far that goes at work. In the end, it wasn't all that bad. Despite storms, mind-numbing boredom, and eating too many cookies to deflect that boredom we managed to have a fairly good time. Caught up with some old friends, took some photos, ate some food.

The fair is held on the occasion of Lord Ram's birthday, which is a pretty big event in North India. According to the people I spoke with at the fair, the Shahenshahi Ashram has been hosting it for the last century and a half. This year, a awareness raising component had been added and that is what I was doing there. One hundred and fifty years without a break is pretty impressive, and therefore it is sad that the first time I visited it, it was a slow affair.

It was not it's fault. It was stormy all day to the extent that the tent we were in threatened to blow down. The stall keepers had a forlorn time of it. It was sad to see them unpack their wares only to pack them again in a few minutes.

 

We all did soldier on, however. The ice-cream sellers and the chaat-wallahs managed to earn money. On the second day, the skies did clear and a good time was had by all. On the first day though, it was all we could do to stay dry and in reasonably good spirits. We tried, but not all of us managed to look as good being bored as this young woman. 

To follow soon? photos of the various participants

The little one

After all, there is only so much observing of temple complexes one can do from across a boundary wall. I oohed appropriately, clicked some photos, and walked on.
Not for very long, though. A few metres on, close to the bus stop, a small gate intrigued me. On the other side was lush, exuberant green. The gate seemed to be locked, but when I went closer, I realised that it was just fastened with a cycle chain. there was a man tending to the plants.
'Is it okay if I come in?'
'Oh yes! of course you may.'

And so it is that I found myself being shown around the Kali temple by the caretaker. It is now an ASI site, but he still keeps a lamp lit inside. He took me around- after admonishing me when i began walking around the temple in the wrong direction. He pointed out the various carvings and waited expectantly for me to take photos of his favourites. Unusual for a temple caretaker, he did not ask for 'dakshina' and seemed amazed when I pressed some money into his hand.

An unbeliever in a temple town

It turns out that if the visitor to Bhubaneshwar is unable to go off for a day trip, her only option is to visit one of the many temples that dot the city. And they are beautiful. Constructed nearly a thousand years ago, they have pure lines and are covered with intricate carvings.

They are also the stronghold of some of the most aggressive and grasping priests I've ever heard of. My sister and my colleague D both had experiences that left them scarred . Their first reaction when I told them of my planned trip was 'Beware of the Pandas!'. Not the sneezing bears, the priests.

I wanted to see the temples though, and off I went to the Lingaraj Temple with camera in hand. Only to be told that I was not allowed to take my camera or cellphone into the temple. 'Oh, then I don't need to enter', I said gaily and turned around looking for a vantage point.

The good news is, that there IS a specially constructed vantage point for untouchables, unbelievers, and Prime ministers- the temple is famous for not letting Indira Gandhi in. So if you turn left from the main gate (with your back to it) and follow the boundary wall, and pass the big Pipal tree, you come across a flight of steep stairs that allow you to peek over the compound wall. These photos were taken from there. And the sky was not that colour..I coloured it in so that you could see the spire properly.

The better news is that the surroundings are atleast as interesting as the temple itself. Hairy AC you've probably booked appointments with. There is also interesting work going on. I stubbed my toe against this scary thing:

Which turned out to be part of a wheel being constructed for a chariot for the gods.

 Huge chunks of sweet-smelling wood, a solitary chariot-builder, and children playing with woodchips. Not a bad place to stand for a while.

Speeding through Bhubaneshwar

I was in Bhubaneshwar for a couple of days last week.  This was one of those residential workshops where the participants are confined in a campus in the middle of nowhere. And that left me profoundly dissatisfied, because I had never been to Orissa before and I wanted to experience more than the inside of a sterile conference room.

Orissa is in my admittedly stereotyping mind, a land of stories. This is where Ashoka fought, killed and had his epiphany. He tended to use the land as a sort of personal journal, and this is where we can read his diary entries. Flying into Orissa, there is a long stretch of utter blackness. This, I realised, is where the last vestiges of the Dandakaranya, the great forest mentioned in many epics, still hold on.This land is which straddles several incomprehensible worlds. There are laidback tribal communities that launch highly visible and successful international campaigns when mining companies threaten them. There are bustling markets selling cane, plastic, and everything in between. There is sambalpuri fabric, architecture, and exquisite art.

And so I sneaked out. Once during the lunch hour, and once during the window after the main session but before the working group meeting.

Now these narrow time  frames meant that I could not follow the 'soak in atmosphere' strategy. I needed to be ruthless and 'sightsee'. Very humdrum, but better than nothing.

Actually, not quite 'humdrum' as you can see from the photo .
I came across it near the temple complex. How could I resist? Actually, if Mian was with me, I would have gotten him a haircut. After all, it is the only gent's parlour we can trust!

Staying home

There are only two stories in the world, I have heard. One is of the stranger who rides into town (and eventually leaves), and one is of the person who has a stranger visit his or her town.

I have always been the one who gets up and goes. It seems to me now that a large part of my time at home was spent packing for trips while my mum sat on the bed and watched me. I know how it feels to be torn..to be sad to be leaving, but to also be excited about the upcoming trip. I have had times when my mind was already at my destination even as my hands were packing my bag. I would talk excitedly about wherever it is that I was going to. I remember feeling defensive when my mum expressed regret that I am leaving. Be happy for me, I would say. Why aren't you happy for me? And all the time, she would sit there and try to summon up excitement about my plans. In an effort to cheer her up, I would emphasize how happy I was wherever I was going to. It would make her feel better,I would think, to know I was happy. And I would suppress my regret and tell her over and over how wonderful my destination was.

I feel sad now.

I feel sad that I rubbed in my excitement to be leaving. Did Mum feel that I was happy to leave her? Back then I didn't really have the empathy to understand the desolation of the one who is left behind. I couldn't see that while the one left behind IS happy for the traveller, she is also faced with the reality of an empty home. I didn't realise how difficult it is to bite back tears and join in the packing. I was also too dense and self-absorbed to understand insecurity, to understand the doubts that rise despite one's logical mind.

Back then, I say. Because now I know. As the fates would have it, my situation is now reversed. The one I love is more of a traveller than I am. And I am the one who thinks despite herself, "he just got here, and he is planning to leave." I know its not like that. I know exactly what it feels like to leave home. I try to always remember that.

I thought I do a good job of it. But today I realised that Mian senses my unhappiness. And worse, thinks it is directed at him. It's not. As I said, I do know both sides of the story. I can, and do, feel excitement about his travels. I am damn proud of his work and the life he has crafted for himself. But this is the man who selects the most intact chips in a crushed bag of Lays and keeps them aside for me. He left an hour ago, and I am already lonesome. How can I not be filled with dread at the thought of his being away for a week?

Art at the Metro: INA station, Delhi

You thought I had forgotten my quest for urban art in Dehradun, had you? No, I haven't. I adore unexpectedly coming across art in cities and am still looking out for some examples in Dun. But right now, I have run out of options. And that is why I was thrilled when I visited the INA market metro station (yellow line).

The station has a crafts gallery with exquisite works from various states. These are truly high-quality and obviously done with some attention to detail. I can't really describe art very well, but here is a good description of the station.  I always love some prettiness in urban transport and would perhaps have liked this more if it was spread out across the metro system rather than in a gallery-style exhibit. But hey, first steps..

Nothing is perfect and a look at the list of exhibits indicates that not all the states are represented. First steps, and hopefully this is just the beginning. For now though, this is pretty good. I loved all of them and would gladly go down there just to wander from one exhibit to the other. In fact, that is what I plan to do the next time I go down to Delhi.

Incidentally, apologies for the shoddy picture. Taking photographs is not allowed in the Metro system, and this was done by stealth. The things I do for this blog..

Mian and Chicu explore Vanxim

It looks mysterious and exciting on the map. It is an island only accessible from another island (Divar), Therefore it followed that it must be twice as remote and logically, twice as romantic as your run-of-the-mill, humdrum pacific atoll. On the map, more than half of it was a deep green and labelled 'mangrove forest'. The other bit was mostly blank with three symbols on it: a church, a temple, and the alluring little martini that Google uses to indicate local bars. A map of Heaven, no doubt, would look very like the image on the left.

We would go there, we decided. We would wander among the mangroves and have a beer in an impossibly quaint little restaurant.

The first indicator that maps might be misleading came when we tried to board the ferry to Vanxim. For starters, we were among less than half-a-dozen people on board. And the others looked like they'd rather be going in the other direction.

'Why are you going there?' the ferry crew asked us.
'To look around!'
'There is nothing there for you.'
'Oh, we'll be happy just looking around the village'
'There. Is. Nothing. There.'

Despite this, we carry on. The ferry makes a trip every hour. On the remote chance that there is no lovely little restaurant, we can always leave in an hour, we decide, knowing all the time that there is no way we can be done with this island in an hour.We might even have smiled smugly at each other- after all, we knew of a bar that even the locals hadn't heard of.

The trip across is short and pleasant, as is the landing. A small group of men watches the ferry come in. We roll off the boat and decide to turn right- towards the martini glass. It is hot, and the mangroves are too short and too far away from the road to offer some shade. We stop at a culvert and look for mudskippers, but it is too hot for them too. We drive for a minute more and then the road becomes a dirt track. Another 30 seconds and we find ourselves in someone's front yard. Uh-oh. A hasty U-turn, and 1.5 minutes later we pass the same grinning group. The ferry is still there. We pay it no attention. Ahead of us will be the dense and wonderful mangroves just waiting for Tarzan and Jane.

Or maybe not. The road ends.

We turn back. Now it is a matter of honour to spend an hour there. We pass the ferry crew and the ferry watchers for the third time in as many minutes. This time, I wave. We re-enter the village, but quickly accept that unless we break into a house, our only option is sitting on the culvert.

We go back to the ferry. They have been waiting for us. We get on. It starts off. The ferry crew manage not to say, 'we told you so.'

We maintain a dignified silence on the trip back.

Island hopping

On all two islands, that is.
With a desire to reclaim some of my childhood happiness,  Mian and I set off to visit the islands inland of Panjim.
Divar is a fairly large place, with its own ferry and bus service (each of which obligingly waits for the other). And it is beautiful. There are signs that this bustling, vibrant community is growing, and within a few years the old colonial bungalows with the breadfruit trees will give way to apartment blocks. But for now, it is a green and forested area with well-set out houses and family-run businesses. The gardens are full of busy chickens, lazy dogs, and food set out to dry in the sun.
The area close to the ferry is where this leafy little village is. Go further inland, and the scenery changes. The trees rapidly disappear and till the mangroves reappear, there is a vast stretch of grassland. I am not sure why this is so. Evidence of past farming? pasture land? This grass had been set fire to and while it did nothing to reduce the heat, it attracted birds from miles around. We stopped and watched them as they indulged in a feeding orgy. Drongos, swifts and bee-eaters, kites and eagles. Mian of course, managed to click several snaps.

That's the black shouldered kite on the left and the right is one of those brown anonymous birds that I can never identify.
We zoomed up and down looking for a place to eat before asking the local bus driver.

Me: hello, do you know of a place where we might get lunch?
He (looking first at me, and then at Mian): nothing for the likes of you..
Me: huh?
He: you'll probably want vegetarian.
Me: actually, we were looking for fish.
He: those places also have beer
 (Mian and I visibly brighten.)
He: hehe..ok..follows with extremely detailed description of where to find Mayur's.

And its a good thing that the description was so detailed, because otherwise we would never have found it. The restaurant was run by a mother and son in their living room and had the most excellent food. When we indicated that we wanted to pay for our meal, the son disappeared. We waited. and waited. and waited. When I finally went off to investigate, I discovered that he had broken out his bill book and was trying to figure out how to write in it. 'We don't need a bill', I said, 'just tell us what it is.' When he did come and tell us, the amount had us asking him hesitantly, 'did you account for both of us?' 
And it was after lunch that we decided to explore Vanxim..

Fiddling, skipping life

Maybe a couple of decades ago, my sis, my mum and I had gone to Goa for the day. Not an unusual holiday for us- a day of lounging on a beach, a little shopping at the Mapusa Market, and some excellent seafood. At that time, as it still is in several areas, the only way to cross the various creeks that section Goa was by ferry.

It was when our car was waiting for a ferry that I wandered off to investigate some trees growing by the shore. Remember that this was when I fancied myself a naturalist and went on ALL trips wearing khaki shorts and brown tee-shirts- because all naturalists are always dressed in camouflage, aren't they?

The tide was just going out and the trees stood ankle-deep in water, with their green saris hitched up out of the way as it were. There were pointy sticks looming out of the soil, and as I looked on, the whole place came alive.

There were darting bits of shiny brown that I could not quite make out. 'lizards' I called them.

When I saw the first crab that scurried out, I felt sorry for him- he seemed to have been in a terrible accident that left him with only one claw. When the others came out though, I saw that it seemed to be a universal trait in that little community.

They were funny, as they busily fed themselves with that onee bright orange hand- very much the way I ate too. The crabs, the glistening little 'lizards' and my search for other animals kept me so happily engaged that I was sorry when the ferry came in.

It was later that month when I received my copy of Target (which I still consider the most excellent children/tween magazine to ever have been published) that I could put a name to those creatures- fiddler crabs and mudskippers they were, residents of mangrove forests breathe through those 'pointy sticks' and which are possibly the most biodiverse ecosystem type in the world. That full-page spread with cheeky illustrations by the inimitable Ajit Ninan enthralled me, and made me a mangrove fan. That experience, of watching these fantastic creatures on a sunlit shore with the people I love, of hearing the "splot! snap! Chitter-chitter" that is the background score of a mangrove forest, of wonder, is one of my most cherished memories.

And one that I wanted to relive with Mian by my side.

And so it is that in January, Mian and I hired a scooter and putt-putt-puttered off to Divar Island.

(All photos in this and the next post? Mian, who has the eye to see wonderful photos and the presence of mind to take them)

The Padaria

When we first went there, at maybe 11am, the bakery was shut and the only occupant was a man fast asleep in a chair placed in the alle. Our walking in, pushing open the door and looking inside, taking pictures of the alley did not waken him. 'He's tired, he has just finished the morning bake' whispered my mian with the empathy of one who also wakes up at 4am because his dough won't wait.


We returned the same day in time for the afternoon bake and were rewarded by a bustling place. The bakery was a thriving little business run by the same family for the last one hundred and fifty years. Like Theseus's ship, the oven had had little patch up jobs every now and then, but for all intents and purposes it had been at work throughout that period. Despite that family's shaky hinglish and this family's utter lack of konkani we managed to exchange necessary bits of information. The present owner was a woman who told us of the bakery's history while the son told us of the baking itself. Once he learnt that Mian had baked on a commercial scale too, the two of them rapidly bonded over the merits of dough mixers and the satisfaction of a perfect batch of bread.

In the meantime, the younger son and the daughter (in-law?) had corralled me in a corner and were getting the details of our love story. Never bashful, I was happy enough to tell them about how we met, how the stars conspired to make us meet over and over again, and how he wooed me with his baking. As we stood giggling in that corner, the object of my affections was happily observing a working bakery and getting information about how it worked.

Very conscious of our learnings from various surveys we had undertaken, we were careful not to ask for personal details- names, ages, money earned and so on. There is a difference though, between a suspicious and defensive 'project-beneficiary', and a craftsman who is brimming over with pride and pleasure in his work. As we said our goodbyes and thanks, we were stopped by a confidently outstretched hand. 'Hello' the little boy said in English,' my name is Vishal. What is your name?'

An Ineffectual move

I am tired of the conversations around me, and the righteous satisfaction that people exude about the Godhra verdict.
For those who are unfamilar with what I am talking of, The Times of India reported the verdict in this article which generated 912 comments, most of which make me want to either cry or throw up.

Its totally pointless of me to post this, because Tehelka has 18,412 followers, I have 20.
But I want more people to read the Tehelka article.

Sometimes, we just do what we can

In search of the perfect Pao

While our honeymoon in Goa last year was idyllic, it was not perfect. We spent the last year with the nagging thought that we had Unfinished Business in Panjim.

I need to backtrack, however. Mian and I are lovers of food; Mian is a consummate baker. These two things meant that we fell in love with the bread sold by the paowallahs in Panjim. Possibly due to its Portuguese history, Goa has a rich assortment of leavened breads. We sampled all these and revelled in the fact that unlike Dun or Delhi where truly good bread is only available if one has the good fortune to be or to have married a baker or bread, it is ubiquitous in Goa. Every morning and late afternoon, we would hear the distinctive two-tone beep of the horns attached to the bread sellers' cycles. We timed our walks to synchronise with the bread schedules. Every day then, we would flag down  a cycle and excitedly uncover the blue tarp covering the cane basket on the carrier seat. Inside would be still-warm heaps of lusciousness.

The pao- a basic roll of white bread with a glossy top.
The brun- a roll, with a chewier crust and an indented top
The roti- a fluffy flattish pocket bread, like a pita but more substantial, and with bran on the top.

We bought them all, smuggled them into our room with wine and butter, and had midnight picnics on the bed. And I was supremely content.

Mian, however, wanted to see where and how it was made. We chatted up a pao-wallah and got the address of his bakery from him. In a fashion, atleast. We looked for 'The Gomez bakery, on the road up the hill' for an entire day, but had to concede defeat. And this rankled for an entire year. My wonderful Mian surprised me by recreating the bread from memory in Dun, but we still wanted to see the actual bakery.

No wonder then, that high on our list of priorities this year was the finding of a maker of bread. It wasn’t easy this time either, and required much chatting up of people, drinking of chai, and wandering up little alleyways. We didn’t need to do all that, because in the end we found it by following our twitchy little noses.

The Padaria Santimano, Fontainhas.

And what did we find there? ah, later..

And by the by, the photos in this post and the ones to follow are all taken by Mian. He managed to stay collected enough to take snaps (with permission, of course) while my thoughts ran along the lines of 'are we intruding? will they mind? oh bread! can we buy some from here? will they know if i grab a bite?'