Terrible Beauty

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

The beauty and futility of life was in Yeats' mind when he wrote 'Easter 1916". On a smaller level, the same thought occurred to me when I saw this moth in the bathroom. I looked and looked and could not get enough of the intricacy of the wing pattern. The markings simulate a proud, angry, cruel face. The unveiling of the terrible beauty to the would-be predator is only a last resort, though. The shy moth prefers to hide and its colouring is marvelously suited for camouflage. As if to emphasize this gentleness, the wing edges are frilled.

Multiple levels of protection, multiple strategies to survive. All for a life spent in a desperate attempt to procreate and lasts a few days- if it is so lucky.

A waste? Who are we to say so?

But Yeats answered his own question, I think..

..enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;

And what if excess of love

Bewildered them till they died?

Another day at the office..

There are offices and offices. I tagged along with The One to his place of work last weekend and found myself in a world of sheer unadulterated beauty.

From the awe-inspiringly enduring..

to the heart-breakingly ephemeral.

One wild and precious life

I came across this poem posted by Baraka , and I know that it will stay with me for a long, long time.

Her latest post also talks about turning a decadal year, and the overwhelming feelings this event can evoke. And it is true that the passing of years, of decades, are generally looked upon with dread.

I don’t see why. My thirties have been a time when I have understood myself most. I now know me, and while I might not like all that Chicu is, I certainly am fond of her and accept her. In some ways, I am calmer and more accepting of the things that cannot be. But this does not mean lassitude..because I am also quick to recognize the things that can be, and quick to reach for them.

And that has been good. In the last three years, I have had more change and more adventures than in the previous nine. Childhood dreams (travel, work, domesticity- and I love this one- driving a road roller) have come true. If I continue at this rate, my big childhood fantasy of walking the old silk route will come true at 40.

Can you guess I’m looking forward to that? To finding out what else I can do with my one wild and precious life?

these days

I am like a pup chasing its own tail.
Far too much is happening at work. I need 36 working hours each day. Things would be easier then. things would also be easier if I was less confused. Oh me, oh my.
and yet, and yet, these days
When I go home, the One is there. It has rained in the afternoon, and the evening is cool and clean. The sky is a vivid gold-pink with slaty clouds. Bats wheel overhead in a mad rush to sate themselves in the post-rain rush of insects. Later, the lights of Mussoorie come on. We sit, by ourselves or with friends, and drink in chai and conversation. There is pleasure in everything- in deciding dinner, in sipping coffee, in the moos of the cow next door..
Wouldn't exchange these days for the world.

the announcement system at the Dehradun Railway Station

has a lisp..
Last night, i was waiting on the platform in an expressive mood.
And every few minutes, the paging system would announce that the Janashatabdi Expressed..
yes, I could sympathise with it

I refuse to believe in portents..

The Bombay Store in Pune is one of my favourite shops. I don't really buy anything much there, maybe the occasional bottle of essential oil, and some gifties- but I do covet their merchandise.

A long-ish time ago, at the end of the last century, I fell in love with one of the things on display. It was a mirror, and I had never seen something so beautiful, useful, and practical before. It was a double-sided mirror on a brushed-steel stand with one side magnifying, and the other normal. There was something satisfying sturdy and elegant in it’s construction, and I wanted it. At 600 Rs, it was also something I could not afford then, and actually, even today I would not pay that amount for vanity fodder.

My niece was little, and she would come over to our house after school. One day, shortly before Christmas, my mum had gone to pick her up and when they returned, I could tell that the two of them were tremendously excited. I put it down to the fun of an outing together. But then my niece turned to her grandma with the air of someone about to burst with all the excitement and stage-whispered, "Amma, what about the M-I-R-O-R ?"

At this point both the adults laughed, my mum with the embarrassment of having a surprise blown apart, me with the joy of the lovely surprise, and both of us with pride that the child had some idea (only mildly inaccurate) of how to spell mirror. It has been with me for around a decade now. It saw me in various cities and through various phases.

And today, I broke it. Of all the things, I broke my M-I-R-O-R, and of all the times, I broke it the same hour that The One's plane was circling Delhi Airport. Damn,Damn, and Damn. I am not superstitious, but yes, I am not happy with this.

But I suppose, it was after all, just a thing. It was made special by the memory of the surprise, and that I will always have. Someday, I will embarrass my niece by telling her beau the story of the M-I-R-O-R, and in a few hours the One will call me up safe and well and full of joy at being in the country he loves. All will be well..

Update: All is indeed well.

Keoladeo National Park

Not that I am given to posting poems on this blog, but with the drought in the country, and with the conversation we are having in the river conservation group, I wanted to share this..

In winter, the lake is alive
brimming with life giving water,
dancing to the touch of every wingtip,
resounding to the calls of the flock.
She is shelter, joy, rebirth.

But summer comes and the flock leaves.
She is left alone to struggle
against a hundred demands on her existence.
She shrinks, withdraws into herself
diminishing, stagnant, forgotten.

Does she feel like crying out to the flock to stay?
“Do not go. You are life for me.
Without you I am scared.
Stay with me, help me in my struggles.”
But it does not matter what she feels.

It is not in her nature to stop them,
as it is not in the flock’s nature to stay.
The parting a necessary part of the story.
Dying necessary for rebirth. All this she knows.
And still she dreads the summer.

Making Friends

I took this snap at Pune when I went there last week. This little chap is a regular visitor of my mum’s. The snap was clicked without a zoom, and it surprises me how safe birds feel around my mum. Me? Little kids start bawling when i smile at them.
What I love about my mother is how incredibly social she is..In the short time she was in dehradun, she established friend status with those few people she came in contact with. In my old house, those people were the gardener, the sabziwallah and her auto-wallah. And yes, all the birds that came to the garden. And the dog. And a cow who called for her several days after she left.
She will like my new house. It is full of life. A family lives here, with a large domestic staff. And best of all, they have my mum’s favourite animals as pets- a cow and her calf, and a cat! I can already see my mum pottering around the calf and hanging out with the family. I am happy.

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.