I, Grouch

It is 2 am, and I am lying in my berth on the train. The train is supposed to reach Dun at 8am, but generally gets there at 0830. This means that I only have one hour to get home, breakfast, bathe, and cook lunch before getting into the office. I know I need to sleep, but am unable to do so because a group of young men are partying in the berths below me. I am generally quiet despite the calls for rum, the frequent use of naughty words in a desperate attempt to sound cool, the loud and inane conversation. I try and think back to my college days when something like an overnight train trip with friends was An Adventure or at the least, a Bonding Opportunity. But I seriously wonder if we were ever as oblivious to the needs of others around us. Or am I only wise in hindsight?

At first glance, it seems that I have a right to complain. A train carriage is a public space after all, and everyone expects lights out after 11 or so. Twice, when they start playing dance music, I ask them to lower the volume. They are nice boys, they respond immediately, and I thank them.

I only voice my objections twice; but for the major part of the night- from 11 pm to 4am, I think purely evil thoughts about them. Once, I drift off to sleep but wake up whimpering from a nightmare. Its all because of the partying, I think. I am feeling angry and vulnerable. But then it strikes me that I am the only one who has a problem with the noise. No one else complains. There is an old lady -they call her aunty- who needs to get off the train in the wee hours. Instead of sleeping, she has decided to join them and is roguishly pulling their collective leg. Was I being a grouch?

And today at the office. I was speaking to a colleague, P, about our ill friend's health..
C (to P): Vis still feeling dizzy? how is his bloo..
(Third person, He, stands between C and P)
He (interjecting) : namaste
C (to He) : ah! namaste
C (turning to P) : V's blood..
He: how are you?
C (to P..errr..He): press..I am fine! how are you? just  a minute..
C (to P): pressure?
P (replies with details)
C (turning to He): Sorry, we were talking about his health
He: (walks away pissed off)
C: hey, wait! I was in the middle of a sentence..we were worried about his health..why are you angry?
He: It's ok..apparently I am not important enough.

Was I a grouch?  Am I one?

I can't do this interacting with humans thing. I need a farm with a couple of dogs and lots of plants. grrrrrrrr..

It wasn't all toil and trouble..

For starts, I stayed here.

 

That's the valley of the Kosi river (not the flood prone one, that's in Bihar. This one is in Ukd and just learning its flood capabilities). The little patch of sand in the centre of the snap is the river bed.

I visited houses that had been built by people with poetry in their souls. Accessibility be damned, most houses were built for the view. Essentials are a stone courtyard with plenty of sun where the entire family lives all day

in the winter.

And a little backyard which both gets the sun AND is close to the warm kitchen.

This house defines warmth and cosiness..the stone, the little babies, the smoke curling out, the pumpkins soaking up the sun..

What is not visible in these pictures is an aspect of the traditional houses that I love. In stark contrast to urban houses which are built to deter other creatures from entering, these are built to welcome them in. There are little triangular niches under the eaves to welcome nesting birds, some of the older houses have a beehive in the wall adjoining the kitchen..It makes economic sense of course, to have honey and pest-eaters close to you. But it also illustrates an awareness that humans are but a part of a larger ecosystem.

Toil and trouble..

Am back a sadder woman. The last week's travel was a little harrowing for me.

Yes, the scenery was great and while walking in the mountains of Nainital, I could feel the approbration of the 10-year old chicu who had a crush on Corbett. At one point, we reached the top of a mountain-where I would stay for the next two days- late at night. I stood in the courtyard at midnight and was surrounded by sparkles- both above and below me. The sky was clear, moonless and  liberally sprinkled with stars. Below me spread a valley with a hundred little villages, each house a tiny and intense point of light. Only the band of darkness where the high Himalaya were, enabled me to distinguish between earth and sky. Despite the cold, I stood there for a long, long time.

In the midst of all that beauty was great injustice. The family I stayed with had three young children, all girls. They were intelligent, beautiful and hungry for love. For the crime of having given birth to them, their mother was continually berated. Within half an hour of my arrival, the matriarch of the family began complaining- in front of her grand daughters- how expensive it was to feed them. The mother was anaemic, and malnourished with shoulders like a coat hanger. Despite this, she will be forced to go on giving birth to children till she finally produces a boy, who will be spoilt far more than is good for any human and who because of his upbringing will carry on the misogyny.

My colleague refused to drink water at any of the houses that belonged to scheduled caste villagers. These families did not offer water to me either- they had probably learnt the hard way that it is a crime to offer their 'tainted' water to visitors. I made it a point to ask for and drink water at each such house and was rewarded first with astonishment and then a smile of welcome. But of course, this only serves to make me feel good and will have no impact on their lives whatsoever.

On my way back, I exploded at my good and patient Mian leaving him sad and bewildered. I travelled back wishing my life came with an undo button. When  I got here, I learnt that a colleague is seriously ill.

Plan for the next week? get bucket of sand, bury head

In hot water

That, quite literally, is where I will be over the next week.
I am working on a livelihoods project and the chap on the phone has asked me to meet him 'at rabu-da's shop at garampani on monday'. And now you have all the information I do, with the exception of one precious phone number..I set off tonight expecting adventure.

I will be travelling in the hills for the next week and a half or two. See you when I get back.

Mata Hari might have had a point.

A few years ago I listened aghast as a friend confessed to me that he had spent the last few weeks sleeping on a mat and a cardboard sheet. Why? Because he did not know where to buy a mattress from in Pune.

'Why didn't you ask me?'
'I wanted to see if I could manage on my own resources' he sheepishly confessed
'I am one of your resources!' I snapped.

It was entertaining to watch his face as the validity of what I had said dawned upon him. But I too am guilty of that. My wanting to do things 'by myself' often results in my not making full use of the tools at my command. Especially when those involve makeup..

Living mostly alone means that I am fairly adept in doing basic odd jobs around the house. I don’t need to call in A Man to change a lightbulb for me; unblocking a drain is child's play. Driving nails into a concrete wall is entirely another matter however. I do need to buy me a electric drill sometime soon (preferably pink, why not?), but in the meantime I do the best I can with a hammer.

The best is not always too satisfactory.

Which is why I needed to pull out the heavy artillery- super lengthening mascara to the rescue! Some flourishes of the wand, followed by one slow bat of the eyelashes and I now have this.

Just using all the tools at my disposal.

Sunshine and cookies

When you next visit Rajpur, toil up the steep path past Lhasa and keep on doing it. The exertion does not matter- you are earning your dessert.

Because near the middle of the slope, on your right is Chhaya. This is a café perched on the lip of the Rispana valley. The place makes the most of its view and is designed like a sunroom with huge windows and cane furniture. They sell pastries, cookies, coffee and a decent assortment of lunch items. Their chicken potpie is highly recommended; my usual fix is a coffee and cake. This makes an eminently satisfactory meal- especially for around Rs 50 after a morning walking around in the hills. My only quarrel with them is over their fondness for lemon essence. I am speculating here, but it seems that at one point Santa gave them a giant barrel of the flavouring, and they now feel compelled to use it everywhere. Yellow cake, zucchini bread, nimbu soda- it does not matter. Artificial lemon has an overwhelming role to play-which is sad considering the easy availability of fresh, fragrant lemons. On Friday nights, they fire up a brick oven and make pizza, which is rather good and entirely free of lemon essence, or so I've heard. Despite the essence-in-a-bottle, the cafe is a pleasant place to sit for a while.

Chhaya also has a little shop alongside where they sell hand-made quilts and clothing. The things are rather good- take a look around.

Mum'll love the place, but accessibility is a problem. Public transport vehicles stop at the base of the hill and autos dislike the climb. Talk one into taking you up. As long as you don’t let her know what the auto-wallah charged, things will be ok. And remember they stay closed on Sunday.

Incidentally, if you walk further up the slope to the very top, you come across a lovely old house with wooden blinds. This is Studio Alaya- Mecca of the sustainability aware, socially responsible, aesthetically picky treasure hunter and home of the most adorable rocking horse I've ever seen.

Why I don't say 'no' to a project

One of the more juvenile -and reprehensible- habits that M and I had fallen into when working together was writing notes to each other during meetings. I came across this exchange in my notebook the other day:
C: I am not sure they have understood the larger goal of the project. Should we initiate a short session discussing that?
M: I dont think they like us..
M's reply wasnt really the sad non-sequitur it sounds like. This was a new education-based project being initiated, and the partners seemed absolutely unimpressed with the two women hosting the meeting.

Imagine my reaction then, when I was again called to intereact with the same partners, but in my role as civil engineer. Initially, I needed to establish my credentials- something I thought I had stopped needing to do 8 years ago. I am glad I persisted, because I was given wonderful gifts at the end of it.

After nearly a year of scheming to go to Pithoragarh, I was sent there with a day's notice. I stayed in village homes hosted by truly generous families. The photo of the golden glacier was snapped from the porch of one of the houses I stayed at. And the people..
Most were quietly friendly, like this stunningly beautiful grandmother

But there were also the imps. I met these siblings during work, and enjoyed talking to them and taking photos.

They would come running up to see the pictures on my camera and jostle each other out of the way.
Far more dignified was their ring-leader. Not once did she come up to me or chat, preferring to oversee her gang from a distance. That child is pure drama..note the pretend-cigarette.

Toy town cakes

Nearly all the time, Mian and I eat as close to natural as possible. Whole, unrefined, unprocessed, local. Often, the only convenience food in our kitchen is the dried pasta that's made in a factory from refined flour and shipped in from I-don’t-want-to-know-where.

And sometimes I swing in the opposite direction and decide I don’t want any more multi-layer flavours, back-to-the-earth goodness, or carbohydrates more complex than integral calculus. Give me simple, I say. Sugar that zings straight to my synapses, transfats that make a bee-line for my arteries and chemical additives that flirt with my immune system.

It is then that I turn to Sugar Box. As the photo illustrates, there is nothing natural about the things they sell there. And in a way, I respect them for it..they are extremely honest in that they do not pretend to be anything they are not. The pastry in the photo might be called Strawberry, but nothing in the colour, filling, or flavour hints at a nodding acquaintance with anything that might be grown on this earth. And it does not matter. The 'cream' is tasteless but plenty, the sugar cannot be ignored, the mouthfeel is eminently satisfactory in its fluffiness. Sometimes that is all we need. And at 35Rs for a pastry, one has cash left over to embark on the detox diet of one's choice.

Not gourmet, not like mum makes, but an acceptable junk food fix. I know of two outlets, near the clock tower and in Indira Nagar, there might be more. What about mum, you ask? Well, its clean and respectable. Whether she loves it or hates it depends on whether she spent her youth celebrating the arrival of super-snazzy instant coffee powder or lovingly tending to her pot garden (pun utterly intended)..you decide.

Sweetness in the air

Travelling by Vikram on Kanwali road in the evening is a miserable experience. There are traffic jams, it is noisy, and even being crowded with the rest of the passengers does not lessen the impact of the cold winds that blow in from everywhere. The people sitting inside are tense and in an uncharitable mood; they try to make themselves as rigid as possible to ensure that no one crowds them even further. And then on a certain stretch of the road, they close their eyes and inhale deeply. Bodies relax, tension dissipates, eye contact is made and smiles exchanged.

All because of the warm and sensuous aroma of jaggery. Unlike sugar, jaggery has a complex taste- sweet, salt, caramelly, malty, and unexpectedly spicy. When it is melted, the aroma makes one swoon with a happy sigh, especially on a cold night. This is not the warmth of a duvet, it is the generous smiling warmth of an embrace. It is sweet but not cloying, warm but not oppressive; it is unrestrainedly sexy. And it alone is the reason I make it a point to often go down Kanwali road in winter.

For most of the year, Saharanpur Chowk is my least favourite place in town. It is crowded, noisy, littered and sends me home with a headache. From November to February, it is still crowded, noisy and littered, but also fragrant.

Candy shops line the street for maybe a hundred meters past Saharanpur Chowk as one travels up Kanwali road from the station. They are unnoticeable most of the time- as I write this, I find myself unable to recall what they sell in the warmer months. In winter though, each shop sets up a candy making unit at the back. The sweets they sell- 'gajak' - are designed to beat the chill. They are made entirely of warming foods- jaggery, sesame seeds, ground nuts- that provide a bit of warmth, sugar and protein for 60-100 Rs a kilo. Buy Mum the sweets, but subjecting her to the traffic is not necessary.

Unless she is interested in the candy making process which is fascinating and reminiscent of the proceedings in a witches' kitchen.. In each shop a huge (1.5m dia or so) iron kadhai rests on a rough stove. In it, a thick brown liquid simmers with an occasional 'glop' as a bubble rises to the surface. This is the jaggery that brings customers here. On the floor is a mound of bright tinkling sesame seeds waiting to be mixed with the jaggery. And suspended from a hook on the wall is Rapunzel's braid. Actually, no..it's a glistening golden rope of sugar that is being stretched and twisted till it is perfectly ductile and made of hundreds of fine threads. Sadly, I don’t have a photo of that..though I do have one of the candy-makers I bought some gajak from a couple of days ago.

Fauxlooda

Yes, just after I promise to accept Dun food at its own value, here I go again.

But see, for me falooda is a very specific food. A tall glass of super-cold, sweet, frothy milk- preferably bright pink and flavoured with rose water- and always, always, a good heaping tablespoon of crunchy-slippery basil seeds. Originally Persian, it is now firmly a part of the wonderful mixed goodness that was the Bombay of my childhood. My Parsi cookbook lists it, tightly wrapped plastic packets of violently coloured 'falooda mix' are sold in Pune throughout Ramazan and my mum would make it for me during the summer holidays.

A falooda is defined by the seeds- these are called sabja, and are of the 'kama-kasturi' plant which is a stunningly fragrant member of the basil family. The seeds are supposed to be cooling, and so dispel heat rashes, crankiness, and other such summer-holiday mishaps. It is traditionally flavoured with rose water or syrup, which is also reputed to be soothing. Restaurants nowadays carry saffron or mango flavours, which is quite sacrilegious since these are warming flavours, and falooda is more of a cooling medicine than a high-calorie indulgent icecream. Anyway, that's my story and I'll stick to it.

All this is just to explain why I refuse to call the wonderful concoction sold by Kumar's Sweet Shop a falooda. It is a helping of silky smooth kulfi, topped with rice noodles in a sweet syrup, further crowned with condensed milk. It is definitely tasty, and I do eat it often, and I do think that it is difficult to get this amount of sheer indulgence for 40 Rs. But it is not a falooda.

Kumar's Sweet Shop is at the Clock Tower Chowk, and all their sweetmeats are worth fighting your way to the shop through the crowd of hungry shoppers. Take mum there, she's probably better at elbowing others out of the way than you are. Be prepared to drag her away though..



Thanks to uppercrustindia for the image.

Travelling in Kumaun

I got back a few short hours ago, and I still have not collected my thoughts. What I have done, however, is downloaded my pictures. Here then, are some images of the fortnight I spent in the mountains.

I spent Diwali with my Mian, and to go to work the following week, I needed to walk down a mountain to catch the bus to take me to the place from where I could walk to the place I'd meet my colleagues from where we would all drive down to the village. The walk was beautiful though, with the entire valley still covered in mist.

 

I travelled alone in the lower Gori Ganga Valley, near Munsyari. My work required me to visit three villages there, all situated several kilometers away from the nearest road head. A steep walk of a couple of hours brought me to the first chai stall of the little village of Golpha. Looming over the chai stall is the Bainti Glacier, that as far as I can make out from the map, flows down the side of Nagling peak.

 

No less dramatic is the road to Bona, though sadly my photograph does not do justice to the wonderful striations on the rocks. They were marvellously coloured in all manner of blues and greens. As for the stream itself, I drank from it and a more refreshing drink I've never had.

And finally, home. The train I take back to Dun lands me there at 04:30, which is a most unreasonable hour to wake my landlady. And so I generally spend a couple of hours in the waiting room. many months of doing this has led to my thinking, 'Ah, my travels are over.' when I step into it. I stretch out there, recharge my phone, read a book. Today I found a paper someone had left the day before. I had a pen, and I bought chai. What better way to unwind?

Being The Other Woman There

My father died when I was two. In most families, this would have meant an instant crushing of hopes, a reining in of the pursuit of happiness. It did not mean that for me and my sister. All because early on, my mother gritted her teeth and swore not to 'let her children feel the absence of a father'. In most things, big as well as little, we were allowed to explore and experience all that we wanted to- including some things that probably would have had Baba hrrumphing. There was one limitation though, that my sis and I felt the injustice of and protested. The deciding criterion for everything- choosing restaurants, activities, professions- was always the same.

'are there Other Women There?' my mum would ask.

'So what?' We would say, our feminism bubbling over, ' let us be the first! Other women will see us and come!' The irony of protesting for our rights with the woman who had instilled in us the confidence to do so was lost on us then.

I recognize irony now, and smile when it presents itself. Three decades after my mother needed to create a new set of rules for a suddenly altered life, I have adopted some of those rules into my own. All other things being equal, the deciding factor that entices me into one restaurant instead of another is the old question of 'are there Other Women There'.

That question caused me to enter Aapka Dhaba instead of all the other places on the Inamullah building street. Not only is this the cleanest and neatest by far, but it is also the only place where I've ever seen Other Women. This is the first eatery as you walk from Tehsil Chowk to Prince Chowk, and is on your left- maybe a 100 metres past Tehsil chowk. While the sign is faded, the restaurant itself is quite noticeable, being an open-front restaurant paneled entirely in beige formica.

And whatever the reasons for choosing it, it is a smart choice- the food is beyond sublime. I do eat there throughout the year, but the food comes into its own in winters. A rich and spicy broth with succulent pieces of meat and a couple of spongy rotis to mop everything is the perfect dinner on those cold and dark evenings. I walk up and say hello to the baby-faced and bespectacled owner. By now, I have 'my table' and if it is unoccupied, that is where I go. I hear a cry- 'Madam is here! See to Madam!' and someone comes up with a glass of water. As I eat, every now and then someone will come up to press a little extra gravy on me, or ask if I want a roti. By the end of the meal, I am invariably smiling.

A meal there- of a half-plate of curry or kheema and a couple of rotis- costs around 30 - 40 Rs. You won't want to drink the water, so factor in another 15Rs for a cold drink- and a mango drink goes wonderfully well with the rich curries. These prices are for 'meat' which is buffalo meat; chicken or mutton will cost a bit more.

Don't take mum there. The buffalo meat will distress her, the gun shop a few metres away will make her uncomfortable. And most important, while I have occasionally seen Other Women There, they aren't there all the time

That said, should you wander in on a weekend afternoon you might see a woman sitting by herself at a corner table. She will have a bag of groceries on the seat next to her and a book propped up on the table. She might see you peek in and smile at the thought that now she is the Other Woman There reassuring travelers that its okay to enter. Do walk up and say hello, I'd love to meet you.

*The photo of the little Tandoor-wallah? Taken by Maliha, who is proof that vegetarians also can have a good meal there..

Momos

The perfect momo is utter bliss. A thin, transluscent wrapper artfully pleated around a scant teaspoon of minced beef*, onion and broth. Nip a little hole into one, suck out the broth, eat the momo, smile appreciatively at the cook. Sadly, this perfect momo is a little hard to come by. Most of the streetside stalls sell indianized versions without the broth and with garam masala. horrors.

But no worries. The line of restaurants near parade ground sell exquisite momos and thukpa. They also do chowmein, but I never liked that. These restaurants are in the Tibetan Bazaar, and across parade ground from the Gandhi park. 25 Rs for a plate, and I would encourage you to go ahead and have a second plate just to have the proprietor beam at you. there are four or five of these little eateries, and I have always gone to the pink one. Largely because it is pink (is that not enough of a reason?) and now also because I know and like the people who work there. And it is good to go there in the morning, around 10:30-11:00. Firstly, you can watch them make the momos, and secondly, the broth is exceptionally flavourful then- I think they just keep topping it up with water as the day goes by. And I wouldn't take my mum there- because of the meat and the non-pristine nature of the buildings.

And then there's Lhasa. Should you ever get tired of plain momos, Lhasa has a variety of them..cheese, veg, chicken. And little itty bitty momos in soup. And thukpa. And a whole other world of amazing food cooked like your little old Tibetan grandmother would if you had one. It's in Rajpur, on the main road, just a few paces from the Vikram stop, and on your left as you walk uphill. The only problem is that they tend to stay closed for festivals, renovation, cleaning, or just because. Do call before you start off  and go ahead, take mum along.

* When I say beef, I mean buffalo (or Buff, as it is called here , which always creates interesting images in my mind) . This IS the Devbhoomi, after all.

Twenty-five months..

That's how long I've been here. I know my way around this place now- I have my favourite little nooks, my escapes. I know where to go for cheap coffee beans (Satyapal, Paltan Bazaar), for good coffee beans (Kumar's, Rajpur road), for a bit of flirting (my sabziwallah), for being treated with gallant courtesy (Inamullah building, Tehsil Chowk).

It took me a while to do all this. When I came here, I tried to look for replacements to the things I loved in Pune..my beloved Dorabjee's, the bounteous Shivaji market, the little Parsi eateries tucked away behind Moledina road, vadapav for Rs.4, Westside, Manney's book store, bananas and coffee from Kerala, the British Council Library, Mocha. That search ended in disappointment, of course. Dehradun did not offer me any of these things. They are still irreplaceable, longed for, and add zest to my annual trips to Pune.

But there are other things in Dehradun. Parsi cuisine is unheard of, but Tibetan foods are at every corner. Dorabjees isn't here, but Kumar's is. Street food leaves a lot to be desired, but the mountains are full of berries.

And it only struck me today that I need to share this. For visitors, for me, and for other people who will move to Dehradun dragging a trunk with them. Being me, I will start off with the restaurants I love here. In some cases, 'restaurant' might be stretching it a wee bit, but I am not awarding stars here. In all cases, the food will be good, the place will be safe. My classification system will not enable the ranking of places to eat, but will maintain harmony in the home. How, you ask? For the purpose of this blog, all places are classified as 'can take one's mother there' and 'hide from mother'.

Off I go now, to eat my way through Dehradun and post about it over the next few weeks. Tough job.

The photo? Dehradun railway station.

It's that time of the year again..

when I can be upto my elbows in booze at 7am of a weekday and feel good about it.

We're having this cake instead of a pudding this year..using the pudding bowl is mandatory though. Have you started Christmas baking?

Meeting an old friend

When I first came to Dun, I was excited by the idea of living close to the mountains. And so early on-when I didnt even know how the city buses function- I armed myself with a sketch given to me by the Amazing M, and walked up to Mussoorie. And then I did it again. And again. And then I stopped. The summers were too hot, the monsoons were too wet, the winters were too cold.

When I finally decided to go there last weekend, I surprised myself by developing butterflies in my stomach. And the silliest worries too..what if I don't get the bus? what if I miss the stop? Should I take a Vikram instead? I couldn't understand it then. Sunday morning, only my stubbornness made me get out of bed and lace up my boots.

I am so glad I did.

I was cosseted by my guardian angel all the way. Yes, when I asked for a ticket to Rajpur, I was curtly told to catch the city bus. And my shrinking-violet mood didnt let me explain that I actually wanted to get off at the Moravian school and so needed the inter-city bus. But no matter. The city bus I caught miraculously turned out to be one of the few that do take the circuitous route past the school. And working on the hypothesis that taking care of someone else helps take one's mind off one' own worries, I was sent Red to accompany me- all the way to Jharipani and back.

She looks like an interpid explorer here, but she was actually a pretty urban dog. On the trail, she walked ahead for a few metres, but once we left the paved path, she made sure I went on ahead to flush out any dangerous bulbuls that might lurk there. It was good to have her around, and comfort her when she was terrified by falling leaves and other such perils.

I was thinking of my earlier trepidation and realized that it is the same feeling that has caused me to lose touch with so many friends. The 'it has been so long, can we pick it up again' feeling. But as would have happened with the trail, I end up the poorer for listening to it. The trail is amazingly beautiful and stunningly welcoming. I should not deny myself that, no?

a day's work

If I've learnt anything by now, its that the multiverse does not allow me to stay despondent for long.

The day I wrote about the mahseer and how I felt incompetent at work, I experienced little victories in two other challenges I am working at.
Firstly, my little girl and I had a breakthrough. After realising that she still did not know the meaning of 'up' and 'down', I had written down a set of basic words she ought to know and asked her to both translate them and make up sentences using those words. That was an absolute hit with both of us. After that, she wrote a small note on her playtime that day. She enjoyed the opportunity to write whatever she liked, and I understood finally how to explain concepts. With trying to craft sentences by herself, she understood the idea of splitting verbs, and transposing the subject, and other such things. The sentence structures are still pretty random, but now we have the key. She was so happy that evening, she danced around me all the way home,'You are happy with today's work, na?I made you happy na?'

At the risk of sounding condescending, I told her 'you always make me happy.' And I did mean it..she is a wonderful child who teaches me a lot more than I do her- and gives me gifts besides. Like Ssarp in the photograph above. She made him at Latika Vihar and gifted him to me.He is actually a Very Ferocious Guardian. The pie-eyed look is just a disguise.

And that wasn't the end of the day either. I had started off a bread that morning- a recipe I have been trying repeatedly but never quite 'getting'. And that night, I did. The bread sang to me throughout its making, and finally all the things I had read about made sense- how the the tension in the loaf is evident while scoring, how it peaks during the final rise, how the crust audibly crackles as it cools. And so that night after I sent my crust-and-crumb photos to Mian, it was my turn to clap my hands and dance around the computer. 'You are happy with today's work, na?I made you happy, na teacher?'

Am depressed

Back home, my sister thinks I am fighting the good fight and saving rivers. In reality, am utterly ineffectual.

I am at work right now, and my colleague has asked me for help designing a dam. It is small, but on the main drain of a catchment area. Worse, the amount of water stored does not justify the damming of a river. Even worser, the dam is most likely on a Mahseer run where hundreds of fish swim upstream to lay their eggs. Next year, they will find their way blocked by concrete. Unable to comprehend the futility of their desires, they will continue to batter against an unyielding obstacle until finally, they die.

I ask my colleague, 'do you know that there is a very strong probability that the stream is a fish run? Where Mahseer come to lay eggs? That you are blocking their access? That they will DIE?'
He stares at me uncomprehendingly.
I try another tack, 'It is doubtful that the dam will justify its cost'
'The villagers asked for it', he says, irritated at the turn the conversation has taken.
'so what?' I persist 'did they hold a gun to your head that you cannot refuse?'
He laughs at the crazy woman.

When in Himachal, I did that..I negotiated my way out of just such a dam. But now I am powerless and sad. There's more. At one level, there is my 1.5m high Mahseer-killer. At another level altogether, there's this. Jairam's professional ethics are being labelled his 'whims'.

I want a blanky to hide under.

Hospitality..

I had posted earlier about how my mum is good at making friends wherever she is. And she had given me a tip - to offer food, which also means offering time, space, security, and companionship.
And so every morning, I keep food out for the birdies that visit our terrace. Watching them is pleasurable and their antics a great source of merriment. Mian and I had begun to identify some regulars- the babbler that sat in the bowl and refused to share, the aggressive bulbul that even the mynahs were scared of. The time a squirrel came to the birdfeed was the highlight of the week for us.
And then one day, he came to me bursting with suppressed excitement. 'You've got to see this'. I went obediently, expecting to see another squirrel.

Not quite.









I don't really have the heart to shoo monkeys away. Poor things, they get chased away from everywhere, denied access to everything, and then labeled as criminals. But at the same time, I am a wee bit scared of them. So I stopped putting cooked food out.

And now they've started bringing their own packed lunches.

of gods, people, and a crowded planet.

सुना हैं, कुछ सज्जनोंने ढून्ढ निकला भगवान का जन्मस्थान
एक तोड़े हुए कुब्बे के ठीक नीचे
मुझे किस फैसले तले दफ्नाओगे?
कहाँ तै की हैं इंसान के मौत की जगह

I have heard that some good people
have determined the birthplace of God.
Right below a destroyed dome.

What decision will you bury me underneath?
Where have you determined
a place for a human to die

Nadi.

I had decided not to write about the Babri Masjid verdict, finding my words inadequate.
Thank you, Nadi.