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..