A meeting in Delhi

from which I came away confused and a little sad. It wasn't so much the results of the meeting that made me react this way. It was the composition of the attendees. You see, back in 1999- when I attended my first work meeting, I was the only woman present. And my primary role there was to take minutes and hand my boss the appropriate files. But that was the construction industry, and that was the last century.

When I joined the NGO sector, I reasoned that things could only become better. And on the face of it, they were. There were more women present, but the great majority (myself included) were there to assist their bosses. They- and I- were the ones who did the implementation, but when it came to strategy, our male bosses handled it. Still, atleast 30% of the attendees were women, and I looked forward to all of us growing up and taking a greater part in strategy and planning.

Last week, I was the only woman at the meeting. Or so I thought till I looked behind me and saw a cluster of women sitting behind- away from the table despite there being plenty of vacant seats. They were research students, and had done the work that was being presented- by someone else. And it is ok, they were students, they were learning.

But why was I the only woman at the table? Where are my colleagues? I heartily support women's decision to work from home, to opt out of the rat race altogether. Mian and I too, have made a similar decision. And that is good..I strongly believe in shaping our lives to yield the highest amount of happiness possible- atleast till someone gives me concrete proof of reincarnation.

But I wonder about the role models these women- future scientists- have. The male students were at the table..why were the women not? Is this decision- the one most women of my generation made- responsible? But is it worthwhile to sacrifice my quality of life for some nebulous role-setting?

 I don't know. I wish I did.

On a different, but maybe related note, here is a picture I clicked of a toilet in Mussoorie. Stereotyping at its finest.

The house at Chatola

This is a long story that begins with a couple of other stories.

 One of my favourite school memories is that of my mum going into the garden at dawn to pick roses so I could take them to a teacher I had a crush on. These were no ordinary roses either; the Prince Edward is my favourite rose. Its short flowering season and leggy appearance mean that it is largely used these days as a stock rose, if it is planted at all. However, for sheer rose-ish-ness, it is difficult to beat. A voluptuous shape, deep pink colour, and a concentrated ittar aroma mean it has all that defines ‘rose’. I love this, and my mum and I have tried with varying success to grow this wherever we have lived.

And persimmons. The first time I ate one was in Seattle. After I learned the hard way that they are supposed to be eaten when squishy, I fell in love with the silky honeyed flesh. A year after I moved to Dun, I found and ate them again. Then I missed the next season. So yes, I have eaten them twice. I was excited to move to the hills because we have friends here who have a persimmon tree, and I might maybe, perhaps, hopefully, be able to beg a couple off them.

And now the main story.


A couple of days back, Mian and I arranged to meet at a house that we could possibly rent. We were sold on the fact that it is a traditional-style house(!) in an apple orchard (!), but there were a lot of things to be considered before we could allow our hopes to rise. I went there then, and not knowing where the entrance was, left the path and climbed up the hill once I saw the house. 30 seconds of scrambling, and as I came on to flat land, I found myself eye to eye with a stunning Edward Rose. ‘Home’ I thought, but did not dare to voice it.

Mian came along, and with increasing excitement we checked out the internet connectivity (it works!), the bathroom (the most modern thing in the valley), and the kitchen( adequate with a wee bit of work). Then we noted the more important things: a patio which gets the sun (soon to have raised herb beds , pots of lavender, a solar cooker, and comfy seating), a fireplace in every room (calling out for a rug and scrabble and glasses of amber liquid), wooden flooring, a singing stream, a wee view of the high Himalaya, a room for the goats and mushrooms we hope to have.

And then we discovered the four heavily-laden persimmon trees.

Home.

Almost there

I hate to start a post with an apology, but sometimes that's how it is.

I haven't posted for a while, and that's because I haven't been settled enough to do it. We have been travelling, and  my internet connection has been set up anew each day( usually by my patient Mian) and held in place with thread and willpower.

But today I am sitting at my own computer, with a working (touch wood) modem. Today, I am living what I had dreamt about when I first mentioned moving- sitting in a garden, writing, looking at the mountains, and waiting for my Mian to walk home to me. Life is good.

We are not home yet..we are still looking for a place to make our own. But for the next 10 weeks, we are living in paradise with friends. And it is good.

In which Mian and Chicu move house

We are off..
Finally, it seems like.
Too soon, I think the next moment.
But most of the packing is done. We are planning meals on what needs to be eaten up. We finished the open bottle of vodka last night. The phone is 'put in safe custody' as the BSNL chaps call it.
Stories are there, and will come soon. But not when I see unpacked stuff patiently waiting for me.
Soon, soon.

Jageshwar

I am short of words today, so this will be a picture-heavy post. But it doesn't really matter. Because Jageshwar tends to rob one of words. When my colleagues and I visited, we quietly walked among the trees and the temples. So in a way, you are getting the authentic experience.

I, ?

When I was in the 11th standard, my sis had just moved to Pune as a new bride and mother. She would send me clothes from the Big City, and once mentioned feeling out of place in a store. At that age, I could not picture the child on her hip, her being tired after a full day, and with the day's stains on her clothes any more than I could imagine the effect of these on her. I knew she was still my spunky & chic sister, how could she be out of place in a department store?

And then, like other things, I learnt this too. These days, I guess that I look like..well, like what I am. A conservatively and unimaginatively dressed , sometimes frumpy, sometimes frazzled woman. I generally wear a salwar-kameez, always crumpled and generally faded. My hair is gathered in a ponytail, and the escaped bits stick straight out. I wear glasses, flat sandals and no makeup. This means that if I ever enter anything other than a grocery store, I am looked down upon. Trendy salespersons correcting my pronunciation and assuming I can't afford what I am looking at happens pretty often, and I don't mind it. I was a salesperson once, and had made the same mistake. 'Paying for my sins,' I think and move on.

The other day, I entered an 'adventure goods' store in Dun to look at camping stoves. The other (male and six feet tall) customers had clearly just come off a cliff, clad as they were in mountain gear-from the shoes to the hat. When an overweight salwar-kameez clad woman with vegetables sticking out of her bag entered and asked to look at 'um..camping stoves..something that runs on butane, perhaps?', he came to a very understandable conclusion. 'Gas stoves are down the road' he said, pointing to the household goods section of the market.

Ouch. Considering that this is my favourite photo of myself:

Not a nice place to be

Pantnagar, Uttarakhand.

It was once a dense forest. Loved by the animals that had adapted themselves to their home, dreaded by the invaders who sought to conquer it.

Pant nagar is today dominated by an industrial estate- sterile at first glance, its toxicity is apparent when you look deeper. The people we spoke with told us of moving here during the Bangladesh war when they were given permission to move into deserted army barracks. Outside the small cleared circle that was theirs, was terror in the form of a dark forest with wild animals. Now not a tree remains. The economy runs on doing 'labour work' for the industries. The rivers are polluted beyond imagination; the water from the wells tastes of antibiotics.

Despite this, rural life still attempts to hang on by its teeth.

Take the river below. Even from the bridge we could smell it- like a belch after taking a B-complex capsule. The water was grey and sluggish. Despite that, life goes on. Tame ducks swim in those water. There is a fisherman patiently throwing his net over and over again into the opaque waters. Not in the snap for reasons of respect are a family performing a puja for their ancestors.

Further on, I came across a buffalo-shoeing. Never having seen this before, I stopped to see and take pictures. My colleague was embarrassed; the shoers were delighted. And it is not as brutal as it looks. The man holding the buffalo's head was the owner, and the animal trusted him and lay there calmly as he stroked its head. The only time I saw the buffalo jerk its foot was when the man tapped the nails into place. Here is a photo.

the Kausani-Garur trek

I think (and please correct me if I am wrong) that it was Eric Newby who said of his wife Wanda, that she firmly believed that a hill should run downhill both ways. And I agree with her.

While trekking, every step is bittersweet. If plodding uphill, its ok- your reward lies a bit further ahead. Sadly, if you are gaily waltzing downhill ,you know you will pay for it soon.

Unless you are walking from Kausani to Garur. This is that magical thing- a mountain walk that's downhill all the way. It's 9 km, or so we were told by the chap who came with my colleague and me. We were walking through the valley to inspect the springs,but there are also lots of things for the holiday-maker to enjoy.

The walk starts at the Kausani market, or if you choose, you can motor down to the tea gardens like we did. Right opposite the gate, there is a earth path that goes downhill into the valley. Follow it as it meanders through a Tolkienish Shire.

There are no grand vistas here, no awe-inspiring panoramas. Here instead is the charm of well kept fields, of neat woods, and bubbling little streams that refresh these. The walk leads through satisfying varying terrain. Initially you walk through pine forests, which lower down are replaced by a mixed broad-leaf forest. This is lush and crossed by numerous rivulets that either have a bridge, or need to be crossed over. There are farms to walk through, and rivers to walk along.  The path goes by a school and some houses, each one of which has sunflowers growing in the yard. The best part? It's all downhill!

For us spring-surveyors, the valley and the walk was the destination. However, Garur is an interesting marketplace. We had a very satisfying meal of rajma-chawal (though everything tastes good after a 9km walk). And it is also the home of the Baijnath temple, which also has a tank full of fish which you can feed.

I tried to look for a map to share with you, but couldn't get one. Its best then, if you can get someone to show you the way. And since I have a reader who is making the trip with his 8-yr old daughter, this is also a good trip for young ones, provided you have a plan B. Either be prepared to carry the child yourself, or negotiate with someone at the market to show you the road, and also pick her up once in a  while. Its a safe path, with no cliffs or scrambles involved and will give her the thrill of completing a 'real' hike. And for added incentive, there are plenty of these fruit trees.
Nashpatis. And apparently so common that even the schoolboys were ignoring them. A couple plopped down in front of us, and we did not ignore them. And I am glad we didn't.  They were the sweetest, juiciest, crispest, freshest pears I have ever eaten.

Bonding

When I first moved to Dun and found myself friendless, I had begun looking among the office-wallahs for someone to hang out with. One of these had caught my eye, but to initiate friendship would have meant negotiating office hierarchy and gender politics. Consequently, I never invited S over for coffee. Three years later, I realised that I might have missed something.

I was regaling my colleagues at lunch with tales of my last trip in the mountains. When I was describing the drive, I said, ‘The worst thing about a pine forest is..’

‘A lack of undergrowth!’ interjected a gruff voice behind me, completing my sentence perfectly.

I turned around in disbelief to see S, the twinkle in his eye mirroring the one in mine. As the office looked on, we simultaneously burst into the uproarious, thigh-slapping laughter that is born of a shared embarrassing secret.

For those who don’t know why it is a bad thing, think about the long drives, the tiny hamlets, the utter lack of toilets. Think about the poor researcher forced to go on a long-ish trek till she is over the ridge just so she can be out of her colleagues’ view. Think about her discomfiture as she squats in relief and then notices a cowherd on the slope facing her.

Undergrowth is a good thing. Shared laughter is even better.

the rasgulla that wasn't

We were driving down from Danya all the way to Dehradun. A two-day journey, and all throughout our driver only spoke of one thing. ‘We should stop for rasgullas at Nagina’, he said ‘I know a place where they are incredible. All officers beg to stop there.'

During the drive, my colleague and I swapped tales of the rasgullas we had eaten in Calcutta and vied with each other for the most mouth-watering descriptions of those luscious paneer balls. The first thing that something might be amiss came when I looked at the menu on the wall and asked, ‘What is the difference between a rasgulla (Rs. 5) and a chenna rasgulla( Rs. 6)? Aren’t all rasgullas made of chenna?’ We shrugged and ordered what our driver recommended- two samosas and two rasgullas each.

The samosas were everything they are supposed to be. Crisp, flaky, rich pastry enclosed warm, spicy-sweet soft potatoes and made us close our eyes in bliss. The rasgullas were not anything rasgullas are supposed to be. Simply because they were gulab jamuns. I have no idea why the names are mixed up. Other than the shape, rasgullas and gulabjamuns are as different as two things can be. A rasgulla is a ball of paneer dipped in sugar syrup and served cold. A gulab jamun is a ball of flour deep fried, dipped in sugar syrup and served hot.
That said, gulab jamuns are among my favourite sweets, and these were the best I’ve ever eaten. Not too sweet and without that annoying hard centre badly made ones have. These were served piping hot and were so soft they seemed to gently quiver on my plate. I polished mine off, and seriously contemplated walking around for a half hour just so I could have two more.

The place is well worth a stop if you ever find yourself driving down to Hardiwar from the east. The name of the shop is Tularam’s, and it is just opposite the railway station.

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.