Of journeys deep within

Teri Karam Kahani

2006-08-24T01:28:00.000-07:00

Teri karam kahani,
Teri atma bhi jaane,
Paramatma bhi jaane, Paramatma bhi jaane.

Jag jise kehte hain,
Karamon ki kheti hai.
Jaisa beej boye,
Use waisa phal deti hai.
Tune boya tha kya prani...
Teri atma bhi jaane
Paramatma bhi jaane, Paramatma bhi jaane.

Kitne hi jatanon se,
Paap kamaye tu.
Kitne hi jatanon se,
Bhed chhupaye tu.
Kahaan chhupega tu prani...
Teri atma bhi jaane,
Paramatma bhi jaane, Paramatma bhi jaane

Prabhu ke dware tera,
Aana hi bahut hai.
Khol ke na bol,
Pachhtana hi bahut hai.
Teri vipada purani...
Teri aatma bhi jaane,
Paramatma bhi jaane, Paramatma bhi jaane.

Teri karam kahani,
Teri atma bhi jaane,
Paramatma bhi jaane, Paramatma bhi jaane

PS: Picked from my favorite bhajan.

A Sky Full of Kites

2006-08-24T01:01:00.000-07:00

On a hot, humid afternoon, the aroma of roasted lamb rises from a grill and wafts across the street into a small shop. Inside the shop, offended, partly, by the profusion of the smell, Raag squirms in his chair and rises to leave for the third time in less then ten minutes. Then he looks at Imtiaz and hesitates. He sits down on the chair.

Imtiaz is engaged in taking the measurements for a pair of trousers. “Length twenty eight. Waist thirty four,” he dictates to a subordinate.

A smile briefly flickers on Raag’s face as he watches Imtiaz bending to measure his short, rotund customer. In this abrupt moment of amusement, though, it does not escape his attention that Imtiaz has grown up to be a tall and lean man. “Lean, he always was. But this tall?” trails his thought.

It is a busy day in the shop. A rattling ceiling fan adds to the cacophony of three ceaseless sewing machines. Rolls of cloth are spread out on the counter table – different shades of blue and grey, and among them, a shade of green, olive green, that has been chosen for a suit. Neon glow of Modella Tailors outside tries proudly to allure the drifting passers-by. Black mannequins, one on each side of the glass door, stand smartly by.

“Life – in such perfect harmony,” thinks Raag, and unease sets in again. Determined this time, he informs Imtiaz about his need to get a smoke and dashes out of the shop.
Marquis Street, looked at from the sky, appears like a sedate grey line escorted by dirty yellow boxes. It begins as an offshoot of the busier Free School Street, darts in straight for a few hundred meters, and then meanders along the curves before ending sharply at a circular platform that hoists a red flag of the ruling Marxist party. Seated under that briskly flailing flag, as he is now, Raag observes that the neon glow of Modella Tailors competes with the charm of quaint bookstalls selling second-hand books, about half a dozen brothels, a sweet shop and a cinema hall that employs, among others, an army of black marketers and roadside food vendors.

He lights a cigarette and, tracing the pattern of his smoke, he looks up and sees a scatter of small dots in a narrow grey sky tasseled by a surfeit of black wires hanging from one dirty building to another. The month is September, he remembers.

_________________________

That year, the rains were severe. Sun hardly emerged from behind the clouds. But when it did, the sight of roads submerged in streams of water flowing alongside serpentine queues of old Ambassador cars was quickly forgotten; puddles dried in football fields and kites spurted in a rage to conquer the open skies.

It was one such evening. The sun was descending in the horizon and the grey clouds had begun to recoup. Raag knew from the nip in the air that the rains were not far behind. “The kite is still too high,” he worried as he tried to quickly roll the spool along his thigh.

At some distance from Raag, almost at the other end of the park, walked Imtiaz, trailing behind Arjeena; his eager eyes tracking the movement of Raag’s kite.

“Grandma, I could bring it down,” he said. Then, he corrected himself and added, “If the winds don’t pick up too fast.”

“I know you can,” said Arjeena. “Now stop looking at the kites and run along. I have no interest in getting drenched.”

The clouds gathered quickly, but Raag had the time to bring down his kite. Just as the first drops of rain began to fall, Raag picked his kite and spool, and rushed to a building next to the park. Others from the park had already arrived. It was the usual chatter of abandoned cricket matches, and Maradona’s exit from the World Cup. He would have seized upon one of the conversations, but when he arrived, he saw Arjeena sitting on the stairs.

“Caught in the rains, you too?” Raag opened the dialogue.

“What else, Raag babu! I was returning from the school, and it started to rain. Doesn’t seem like the skies will clear up anytime soon.”

“Yes, so it seems. And the rains have been so bad this year,” said Raag. “I hardly got to fly any kites.”

Imtiaz was sitting quietly in a corner behind Arjeena. The mention of kite evoked his interest, and his brown, pimpled face emerged from the side of her sari. Then, as he caught Raag staring at him, he recoiled and shrunk back into his space. Raag looked on.

Arjeena wiped her face with the border of her sari and said, “My grandson. My daughter’s son. Came from the village a week back.”

As the old woman was wont to do, she rambled on, “My daughter, Raag babu, her husband threw her out of her home. You know, don’t you, how things are in the village. He has married again, and thrown my daughter and their son out. Now, they live with me. Even at my age, I must take care of such things.” Then, distracted by a fresh torrent of showers outside the building, she added, “And, now these rains. They will just not stop.”

“What’s his name?” asked Raag.

Arjeena tugged her grandson, “Tell Raag babu your name.” Without pausing to ask Raag, she continued, “If he likes you, he will even let you fly kite with him.”

“Imtiaz.”

Raag probed further, “Ah, Imtiaz. How will you fly a kite? You behave like a girl.”

Imtiaz smiled. Still shy, he said, “Oh no, I can fly kite. I am really good at it.”

“If that is so, come by tomorrow and we shall see,” said Raag. He added, pointing to his house, “There, you see that yellow building, right there? Come over tomorrow afternoon at three.”

Raag went inside and joined the conversations about Maradona’s ban. When he looked out after a while, it was still raining. Night was beginning to fall and the streetlights were lit up. In the rain, he saw Arjeena walking away, a drenched white sari draping her frail slouching figure. Alongside her walked Imtiaz in his lean brown frame; his face pointed to the sky, his arms spread out to welcome the shower.

_________________________

When Raag first asked Imtiaz to fly kite with him, he thought that Imtiaz could be a good help for him – someone to hold the spool while he flew his kite. Only when he became a regular to their house, despite the misgivings of their maid – “No Raag babu, you must not befriend such boys. These boys from the slum, they are no good. You have no idea what this boy might vanish with from our house” – did Raag realize that Imtiaz knew a lot more about kites than he himself did. He would teach him nuances like tying a thread on one side to rotate the kite more during a kite-fight. Not to be outdone, Raag would tell him about the Chinese kites, that, unlike their own fighter kites, came in different shapes and sizes – sometimes the flying dragon, sometimes the whistling train. Astonished, Imtiaz would look at Raag, laugh out loud, and say, “Raag babu, you take me to be a simpleton, but that I am not.”

Their friendship continued to blossom. Every now and then Raag would take Imtiaz to the nearby market and treat him to a soft drink. Sometimes he would give Imtiaz some of his pocket money to buy a kite of his own. Imtiaz, in turn, started confiding in Raag. He told him about his life in the village and about his drunkard father who came home every night only to beat up his mother.

Imtiaz longed for his village, and when Raag asked Imtiaz how he liked the city, he replied, “Raag babu, city is all fine. And, grandmother treats me well too. But I really do miss the village.”

“Can’t you return to the village?”

“I don't think so. Mother has taken up a job as a housemaid, but she does not earn enough. Grandmother is getting old and she doesn’t have a lot of money either. I wish I could find myself a job.”

“What work would you do? Become a rickshaw puller or a helper in a tea stall?”

“No, I want to be a tailor.”

_________________________

Raag absentmindedly fidgets in his pocket, searching for the missing cigarette box. Then he sees the empty box thrown on the pavement and realizes that he has finished all his cigarettes.

“Raag babu,” calls out the voice.

He turns and sees that Imtiaz is walking toward him.

“What, Raag babu, you said you are stepping out for a cigarette and it has been almost an hour now.”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot.”

“No worries, babu. Let us get back to the shop. Hot tea and some snacks await us.”

“But where was the need for all this?”

“Oh, you embarrass me,” says Imtiaz and places a hand on Raag’s shoulder. “For all that you did for me, should I not even offer you tea when you come to my shop? And this shop, would I have had this shop if it weren’t for you?”

_________________________

Calamity often strikes without a warning, but Raag should have seen it coming. He had no reason to be shocked when Mahesh gave him an account, somewhat frostily, of what transpired in the school that day.

Mahesh was calm. Five hours of living with the knowledge of his predicament had subdued him. When the class teacher announced the names of the students who would not be allowed to take the board examinations that year, he was stunned into silence. Then, as his fear grew, the pleading began: "But sir, how can you do this to us... I am really sorry, sir, but please don't do this... You know, sir, how important this is... Sir, if I don't take the board exams, my career is ruined..." Mahesh almost cried. His pleading did not move the teacher. He sympathized with Mahesh, but he had seen this happen before - "Mahesh, I wish I could help you, I really do. But I am bound by the rules. You should have known that you needed a minimum of seventy five percent attendance to take the exams. And yours, Mahesh, doesn't even add up fifty five."

Raag was only marginally better at sixty.

"We should have known!" reflected Mahesh.

Raag was not willing to give in yet. "Why don't we just get that goddamn attendance register itself and burn it off?" he retorted, still animated with anger.

Imtiaz was on the other side of the terrace, unaware of the turmoil just twenty meters from him. He shouted out, "Not a good day to fly the kite, Raag babu. Not enough wind today."

Distracted briefly, Raag looked at the dwindling kite.
"Your kite is not in the wind. You won't be able to keep it flying for long."

"Raag babu, every kite flyer knows that the winds must be on his side for his kite to fly high,” said Imtiaz. Then, with equal measures of boast and innocence, he added, "But you know what, sometimes, and only sometimes really, if the kite is already soaring and if the kite flyer has mastered his art enough, it is possible to cheat even the elements."

“…to cheat the elements,” repeated Raag and shrugged. The thought stuck on.

Raag and Mahesh met again later that night, convincing each other of the plan. Many ifs and buts were discussed, but in the end, Raag summed it up: "This is our best bet. If we pull it through, we pull it through. If we don't, we will see what happens next."

_________________________

The next day they met at the park in front of the school.

Imtiaz was livid when he heard the plan: "Raag babu, we may be poor, but we are no thieves.”

"Of course you are not a thief, Imtiaz. But don't you see, that's the only way?" implored Mahesh.

Imtiaz was not convinced. He looked to Raag for redressal. Raag felt a surge of guilt rise from within, but said instead, “Mahesh is right, Imtiaz. That is the only way for us. You are our only hope,” He grasped Imtiaz on his shoulders, looked him in his eyes, and said, “Imtiaz, I am your friend, like your elder brother. Will you not do this much for me?”

“And, it won’t be difficult at all. Just go in with your grandmother when she goes to clean the school this evening, pick the register and leave. No one will ever know,” added Mahesh.

Imtiaz reluctantly agreed and they decided to meet at the same spot later that evening.

Things went as per plan. Imtiaz handed them the register. Raag sneaked out an old sewing machine that his mother did not use anymore and gave it to Imtiaz. Imtiaz protested, “Raag babu, I don’t need this. I did not do it for a reward,” but Raag was insistent, “No, Imtiaz, this it not a reward. Keep it as a gift from an elder brother.”
When they burned the register later that night, Raag asked Mahesh, “Do you think, then, that this is it?” Mahesh wasn’t sure, but he nodded.

There was some commotion about the lost register in the school, but no one probably suspected that the register was stolen.

They thought they were safe.

_________________________

Back in the shop, Raag notices that the frantic activity has died down. The ceiling fan continues to rattle but the shop is empty of its tailors. Imtiaz explains, as he passes Raag a cup of tea, “They have gone for the prayers.”

They both sit in silence as the strains of Mullah’s Allah-o-Akbar leak into the shop. An old sewing machine, placed next to one of the mannequins, catches Raag’s attention. Imtiaz looks on at Raag as he examines the machine.

“Same machine,” says Imtiaz, “that you gave me.”

Raag looks up and sees Imtiaz’s black eyes. At first he tries to probe further in the eyes, and then he blurts out, “I feel ashamed till this day. I always did.”

“I wish I had more of a heart, but it all happened so fast,” he mumbles on.

… When the maid came and told him that the police had come, Raag did not realize what it could be about… last rites of the attendance register had been performed more than ten days back, and he had almost forgotten about it… that day, seventeenth of September, the last day of flying kites, the day on which the water tank in front of the house was decorated with series of small bulbs that glowed in the fading light of the evening, just as the loudspeakers blared Hindi movie songs from the tent that the rickshaw pullers had erected to worship Lord Vishwakarma… that day, when the maid came to him, all he thought about was bringing down his last kite… and, unknown to him, two black eyes pried at the same kite from a distance… the owner of those eyes caged behind the doors of a police van…

“Raag babu, I was upset. I felt betrayed,” says Imtiaz. “You always said I was like your brother.”

… “Madam, we raided the slums last night to evict some Bangladeshis, and we found this sewing machine with that boy. He says he got it from your house,” said the inspector… Raag was already there, standing next to his mother… his face looked pale, drained of all the blood… and then, when his mother asked him… he could think of only one way to escape, “Oh no, mother, I did not give him the machine”… Imtiaz looked on with horror…

“But, my anger faded away with time. What remained with me was the sewing machine, and you… I remembered you as the person who gave me the machine and helped me start my career.”

… “Oh, of course inspector, I remember… I gave the machine to that boy… I had no use of it anymore, you see” … Raag was surprised, but his mother knew what she was doing… she later confided – “I hardly ever thought that that boy would steal… but I hope he can at least start a life now with that machine. What would have the police done with him, anyway… made him an ever more hardened criminal?”

“Did the register help in the end?” asks Imtiaz.

In the end, it did not. The school authorities had a copy of the attendance records and Raag was not allowed to take the board examinations that year. With that, began a decline that continued throughout his faltering career.

Raag does not reply. He remains glued to his seat and stares out toward the sky.

The sky is filled with kites - some high, some low.

Imtiaz rises and stands next to Raag. He pats him on his shoulder.

“Raag babu, the destiny of kites is unknown. See there, that kite that's entangled in the tree - it was soaring just sometime back. Now, the next rain will simply wash it away. And see those kites that are only beginning to fly, you can hardly tell which one will soar next."

Ab na koi pooche mujhse

2006-07-08T22:46:00.000-07:00

Sagar ki gumsum lehron mein
Ek toofan sa jab aata hai
Kshitij samet apne daman mein
Kala badal chha jaata hai

Ek garaj si tab uthhti hai
Kho jaata hai sab soonapan
Bina ruke barish hoti
Badal ka bhi rota hai man

Badal bhi jab bhar jaata hai
Nir bahut behte hain uske
Mein roya to kyun roya mein
Ab na koi pooche mujhse

Written long time back, perhaps in 1993.

The sky is dull black

2006-02-03T13:49:00.000-08:00

The sky tonight is dull black. A dithering wind did not blow away the clouds. It will be a gloomy Wednesday morning tomorrow - I will wake up, read a book sitting on the toilet seat for ten minutes, then I will look at the watch and rush up to take a shower, enclosed in a glass cabin that gets covered with steam and makes me look more attractive than I am in a luminous yellow light that floods the wide mirror on the front. Ammu will knock at the door and remind me that I will be late to work. I will quickly step out of the shower cabin; carefully place my feet on the blue mat, careful not to spill too much water on the floor. I will spread a palmful of cream, and apply it on all parts of the body accessible to my two hands. The clock will have ticked another five minutes. By then I will know that I will be late to work.

That will be tomorrow.

Tonight, it is a dull black sky. Not that I can see the sky – the blinds are pulled down and they shield the view from me. In the morning, Ammu rolls them up and looks out at the swaying green leaves or the brazenly oversized flowers. But before the night arrives, she pulls down the blinds. Keep the darkness out, she says.

Ammu is in the other room, asleep. Asleep, I know, because I hear her gentle snores. They are not like the loud snores of fat people. Just soft, intermittent snores, once every five, maybe seven, breaths. When I don’t hear her snore, I know Ammu’s eyes are open and looking at the ceiling. She says she sees flowers in the ceiling. When I look up, I see only the white paint.

I was looking at the ceiling with Ammu sometime back. It looked even more impermeable than the blinds, so I kissed her on the forehead. She held my hand for a while. I said, dream of me. She kissed my fingers and I left.

Now, I sit next to the blinds – one horizontal white layer upon another, covering each other at the edges, making sure that what remains in the room, remains in the room. My fingers twinge with the desire to slide into the blinds and split them apart. It feels that if I look out into the dark abyss, perhaps, I will travel inside, somewhere deep inside. I feel the twinge.

Ammu loves light. Always has. In the days gone by, they said she had a dazzling smile. When we gathered for the photo session – I, wearing the grey suit, Ammu, dressed in the pink and orange dress, my friends, her cousins, her friends, my cousins, and many others, all standing by the bride and the groom – they said she had a dazzling smile. But it was in her eyes that I saw the light; even in the darkness of our room that night, much after the photo session, when I whispered to her some tribal chants. She laughed, and her eyes dazzled.

This room is the living room. If Ammu hears this, she will say that the side of the room where I sit right now is the dining room. She sees the imaginary partition that separates the living room from the dining room. To me, it is the same big room, in which we hung seventeen paintings. Seventeen paintings, two years back. Just random colors splashed on paper, and Ammu insisted they were paintings. Modern art, Jaanu, what do you understand?

That wasn’t all we got.

Two bean bags – brownish grey and red. Two floor cushions – blue and green, and yellow and green. One rug in different shades of blue. A black flower vase. One basket full of potpourri with the fragrance of cinnamon. A violet bed sheet.

Colors that fill our life today, I wrote in my diary. Colors that make me want to live.

I lay behind the cane lampshade on the mattress, and Ammu splashed colors on pieces of paper.

Six down, three more to go, she said and dazzled again. Jaanu, just three more months.

I also want a wind chime, she added.

I want to peep out, beyond the blinds, and see if the leaves are swaying. I do not hear the wind chime right now. I removed the chime. It had to be removed. I didn’t ask Ammu. I did not need to. The wind was treacherous, and even on the nights when we wailed, the chime kept making noises. We had got used to the noises, but when the most important one had been taken away, we wanted them all to go.

Ammu wanted the noises to go. but she was scared of losing the light. She started pulling down the window blinds in the night.

I sit in front of the blinds, and my fingers twinge. I slice through the blinds, and travel deep inside, deep inside, into the darkness, far into the darkness.

Bring back the light.

_____________

Note: Wrote this as part of an exercise - the prompt was to write about a person looking at an object, and then how, either the person or the object undergoes a transformation. Partly copied from some of my old postings here.

Thanksgiving, Halloween and more

2005-11-26T03:11:00.000-08:00

Streets in Pleasanton can be hauntingly quiet. No brawls are seen in miles, neither are the dharnas to bring Saurav back in the team. The leaves quietly turn from green to red and yellow, and hustle onto the ground. Clouds drift by, with the same nonchalance, over the tri-valley hills.

But then, life is not that so staid after all.

If you are a compulsive excitement seeker or just a regular cost conscious desi looking to steal a deal, Thanksgiving is just the time for you. Forget the millions of tons of turkey that must be butchered despite the fact that when the tradition initially began with the first ‘pilgrims’ thanking the Red Indians for helping them survive in their first year in the US, turkey was not even on the menu. Also forget that over the four day weekend you could get away to a beach by the Pacific coast or lose yourself in the glitzy dens of Vegas. What matter on Thanksgiving are the deals. Sample this – Laptop worth $820 being sold for $400, or, a 51” flat screen projection TV with a regular price of 1400 bucks being given away for 800. Too good to be true, huh? There has to be a catch, no? Of course, there is. All these items are limited in number, so you have to be among the first ten or fifteen to strike the shop to get the deal.

Thus, the plan was made. Yours truly and Manas and a friend of his (Raghu) would raid the shops, max out the credit cards, get what we can, hoard as we must, and then e-bay zindabad. (Even at the risk of sounding patronizing, I must mention here that e-bay is the online auction site where you can trade almost anything. Last I heard that drunken monkeys and Saddam Hussein puppets were on sale. Go figure!). Anyway, let me not digress. Our plan was simple - the shop opens at 5 am, leave at 11pm the night before, be there by 11:30, and there can't be more than 10 people in front on you on a rainy night in a rich white neighborhood. Who would beat the desi after all? The plan was executed with not much of a change. We were at the shops (split in two teams) by 12:30 am. And what do we find? 50 people, at the minimum, had reached before us. All stocked with umbrellas and garden chairs and sleeping bags. The first guy arrived at 7pm. Huh!

To cut the long story short, our dreams of making a quick buck were quickly squashed. Manas stayed back in hope of getting the TV, which he did, while Raghu and I headed back home to catch the match. With India at 56 for 4, I didn’t have any other option than to get some sleep. Read a grossly Gangulisque Telegraph’s headline the next morning – 188 all out, 156 one out.

Anyway, that is how the Thanksgiving went.

We celebrated another festival too – the Halloween. Again, for the uninitiated, this is a uniquely American pagan festival that celebrates the devil. So, you have these parties where people dress up ever so weirdly. It is sheer madness, and to witness the true extent of it, one must see the Castro Street Party in San Francisco.

Here, allow me to briefly talk about San Francisco. It is a city that I haven’t seen much, but it has a striking freshness akin to the cool breeze from the Pacific, in whose back drop the city is set. You will see in San Francisco piers that anchor clusters of yachts, and you will see high rises that glisten in the night. You will see a dark orange Golden Gate Bridge, and if you care to walk around, you will walk along undulating roads reminiscent of a hilly terrain and see the distinctive cable car. San Francisco, they will tell you, is the gay capital of the world, it is the bio-technology capital of the world; it is the city that exploded with the dot com boom and survived the subsequent bust. They will remind you that the city was burnt down to ashes in the devastating 1906 earthquake and rose like a phoenix and that it remains the fourth largest American city.

So in this San Francisco, we went to see the Castro Street Party. In shivering cold, as we parked our car in one of the many multi-storied parking lots, and walked along the narrow undulating roads to reach the Castro Street, we encountered the bizarre. Among them, some dressed as Greek philosophers (booze does keep you warm, doesn’t it?) walking alongside Playboy bunnies. In that frivolity, the quietness of the suburban America was ever so conveniently abandoned. There was music playing all around, beats from drums rising in unison. We witnessed a riotous sea of humanity (there were an estimated 300,000 people in attendance) drowning itself in revelry.

Halloween is an interesting concept. You wear masks and be what you are not. Or perhaps, for once, you let it show. And, like Holi, perhaps, it's only one human that interacts with another; not the race or religion or caste or creed. Or maybe, I am just being naïve.

Anyway, that was that for Halloween. On our way back, the drums were still echoing in my ears. But somewhere in my heart, I was missing the sound of the dhaks. Somehow, the memories of a quarter of a century’s life in Calcutta don’t want to leave. I tend to miss them, no matter what. And, the irony is that even Calcutta will never replicate those days again.

Now, let me not get sentimental.

We celebrated the Diwali too. Not as grand as it would be back home, but we did things in style. Had the diyas to light up the house. Deepika dressed in Sari. Manas and I wore kurta pajama. Rangoli was laid out at the door. Kheer and puri and sabzi. And, unlike ever before, we played cards late into the night.

The Bath

2005-10-14T01:52:00.000-07:00

I wrote this as part of a writing exercise with a limit of 500 words, and the theme being 'Silk'.

As the orange glow of an errant sun hung lazily over the mist-clad temple on a wintry morning, Shyamala poured another pot full of water.

“This is the last one,” she assured the shivering Kanika.

It was to be a long day, and Shyamala knew it well. Though she had little memory of her own time, she had seen the ritual being performed several times every year. She was only thirteen when she herself became a Devdasi, and at that time she knew little more than what her mother had told her the night before – Tomorrow, you shall be God’s bride. Then on, my daughter, you shall dance only for the God. It didn’t matter much to her, for dancing was all she cared about; for whom, was the least of her concerns. Later, of course, she realized that the God could change form, and sometimes appear in flesh and blood on sultry nights when obscene whispers filled the women’s quarters. But then, as the other Devdasis said – At least we get to choose our men.

Presently, however, Shyamala thought of none of that. Her mind focused on the task at hand – The ritual bathing is done. Apply the sandalwood powder after this, and then the vermillion and the flowers. And, looking at the saree, she smiled – Ah, and the white silk saree – vibrant and lustrous like the bride herself.

Kanika too looked at the saree. It reminded her of its weaver; the same lowly silk weaver to whom she had whispered, in between her sobs, the previous night, “Shanmugham, you can be my patron, my lover. But, I can never belong to you.” She thought he would understand. After all, she thought, would he, who himself sacrificed so many tiny lives at this altar of this vain world, not understand the insignificance of their own little lives, their own little love. Shanmugham did not understand. Only a word escaped his choking throat as he walked into the darkness. The memory of that word brought a fresh swell of tears that perished in a stream of cold water that her mother poured over her.

“Whore,” remembered Kanika. “And that’s all I will ever be.”

She arose as the last trace of water, and along with it the tears, drained itself. Inside the temple, hurried activity spurted with a festive rhythm of cymbals and drums. Shyamala dressed up her daughter, applied the sandalwood powder, the vermillion, the flowers.

Draped in the white saree, emerged the embellished bride – vibrant and lustrous like the silk.

Remember the thread

2005-10-06T23:10:00.000-07:00

His heart leaped as his kite soared. Raag loved to see his kite fly high. And, he wondered what it must feel to dance in the winds.

"Oh, if only I were a kite," he sighed.

"But, kite you are," whispered the voice. "And fly like the kite, you must. Powered by the winds of your passion and desire."

Raag felt a rush of wind caress his cheeks. He closed his eyes and smelled the madness that the winds brought with them.

The voice continued.

"But remember too this thread, that ties you to the earth. For the moment this thread breaks, you shall be free and yet a slave. A slave of the winds you shall float for a while, till perhaps a lonesome tree shall catch the falling you. Stuck on that tree, you shall watch the winds go by. You shall dread the rains, yet want them too. For you shall know that when rains arrive, they purge the world. And, rains, they shall surely arrive."

Fly on Raag, but remember the thread.

The White Sheet - 2

2005-08-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

We discussed this several times during the week before Sanchari arrived. Anuradha had the same last words on our way to the airport – “Not such a big hassle as you make it out to be, Raag. Even I will have some company. Otherwise, in this god forsaken country, I hardly get to even talk to any other soul.”

I knew it was a lost cause and changed the track - “God forsaken country, indeed! Does someone remember saying – Jaanu, this is such a lovely place… just like Kerala – God’s own country?”

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Ok, I said that, but not the way you say it with a drool,” replied Anuradha, staring me from the corner of her eyes. “And three years is a long time to spend in the back waters, don’t you think?”

“Ammu, you will forever remain Ammu Tammu, huh! Do you realize that you live in one of the most beautiful cities on this continent, and not in some obscure jungle of Africa?”

“Mr. Raag Sanyal, will you stop calling me Ammu Tammu, please? How about Anu, or better still, Anuradha, for a change?” said Anuradha. “By the way, I am warning you, at least in front of that girl, you better treat me respectfully.”

“Ok, baba, it will be Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal. Promise. Happy now?”

A smile wanted to flicker on her face, but Anuradha was determined not to give in. She continued to put up a mock appearance of her anger.

Sanchari’s assessment of Ivory Coast wasn’t very different from our own when we had first arrived. It was easy for any visitor to be seduced by this country. More so, if the visitor came in a packed Ethiopian Airlines flight from Bombay, sitting next to a fellow Indian, Keralite to be precise, who narrated to her the horrors of living in Africa – Never venture out in the city after dark. Never keep your car windows open at a crossing. Ask your company not to send you out of city on work without proper security. We use helicopters to travel between towns because carjacking are so common here.

“He did tell me, though, that Ivory Coast is a lot like Kerala – full of back waters,” said Sanchari.

“And beaches too,” added Anuradha.

“I see, Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal, then, that you don’t quite dislike this god forsaken place as must as you tell me you do,” I said with a chuckle.

“Ah, Raag, stop teasing me now. So, Sanchari, you didn’t expect to step out of the airport and find such a beautiful city, did you?”

“Not at all. In fact, I thought it would probably be like going to one of those obscure towns in India. And I step out of the airport, and what’s the first thing I see – big cars, well lit roads, and automated car parking. Come to think of it, I took our good old Ambassador on my way to the Bombay airport.”

“Indeed, what misconceptions people back home have about this place. Take this flyover – I wonder if they have constructed any such in India yet,” I responded.

We were driving down to the other side of the bay, passing by the Novotel Abidjan. We were flowing through in a smooth Saturday evening traffic. If it was the sight of the orange glow of street lights that glimmered in the lagoon in front, or just the summer breeze, I do not know; but we all remained quiet for sometime.

Finally, Anuradha muttered, “Reminds me of the Marine Drive in Bombay.”

I knew she missed India; perhaps even more than I did.

The White Sheet - 1

2005-08-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

The sheet, incidentally, is stained too, with three drops of old, faded redness. - Salman Rushdie

The sky tonight is a dull black. A dithering wind did not blow away the clouds. It will be a gloomy Wednesday morning tomorrow - I will wake up, read a book sitting on the toilet seat for ten minutes, then look at the watch and rush up to take a shower, enclosed in the glass cabin that gets covered with steam and makes me look more attractive than I am in the luminous yellow light that floods a wide mirror on the front. And then, Ammu will knock on the door; remind me that I will be late to work. I will quickly step out of the shower cabin, carefully place my feet on the blue mat, careful not to spill too much water on the floor. Then I will spread a palmful of cream, and apply it on all parts of the body accessible to my two hands. The clock would have ticked another five minutes, and now, I will know I will be late to work.

But that will be tomorrow.

Tonight, it is a dull black sky. Not that I can see the sky - what with the white window blinds that shield the view from me. But the blinds are not always closed. Sometimes, Ammu rolls them up. Sometimes, I also roll them up. Earlier, when we only knew how to roll up the blinds and not bring them down again, for days and nights light and darkness, and prying eyes, had free access to our inside. Then, I learnt from a stranger how this system works - how to play hide and seek with the world, how the black dull sky can be hidden from the view one moment, and then, the next moment, how the swaying green leaves or the brazenly oversized flowers can be brought back to sight.

Oh, and that is not all that I have learn so far. The White Sheet, after all, is getting filled. The lines have been drawn out, and the ink has started to spill. Sometimes I wonder why I must bother; why not just fill my palm with mud and leave a stamp on the sheet, and then let it float away in the wind.

But I trust not the wind for it dithers a lot. And this sheet is all I have. For now I will keep it with me.

Panchhi's Flight (Revised)

2005-07-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

I run over the plains, rising above the scorched land--broken, burnt, tamed and dry. Sun pulls me close, high in the sky, till I can see a canopy of trees. Whooshing, I plunge into the trees, stirring the branches, kissing the leaves, whispering to the chattering monkeys, rippling even the calm, quiet lake.

This jungle is my deep within. It is my special place; the place where I seek refuge, I seek relief.

I love my lake here--blue like the sky, still and calm; dreamy till I stir it awake. I love the bits of the red mud soil that I can see through a thick undergrowth of plants. I love the smell of the morning dew that shines in the redness of a rising sun.

Some nights here are starry nights. Others are nights of hard rain that washes me and purges me. When the morning mist clears after such rain, new life springs again.

On one such rain, I danced all night. I shook the trees and kept the monkeys awake.

When morning arrived, I was tired. A slow sun was rising far away. The clattering of falling drops was making rhythmic sounds. I perched myself silently on the top of a tree. Here, I met the little Panchhi. I had not seen him in a while. He looked so young, so fresh, and so energetic today.

He called out aloud, "Pavan, I hear you in the murmur of leaves. Tell me you're around."

"Yes dear Panchhi, here I am," I said as I swirled around once more in the leaves.

"It's a beautiful morning. Look at those black tailed monkeys--they jump so chirpily today."

"It's a beautiful morning indeed. But the monkeys jump just as chirpily everyday. Tell me what's in your heart. What makes you so happy, so full of joy?"

"Ah Pavan you read me so well," said Panchhi as he stretched his wings lazily.

"It is for me to know it all, for I was around when none of your forefathers were even born. I was here when the Pandavas drank the water of this lake. I was around when Buddha sat underneath this tree. And Panchhi, Oh Panchhi, I was around too, when your father took his first flight. He looked so much like you."

"Aye, then you already know," said Panchhi in a dejected tone. He had thought he would surprise me. "Today, I shall take my first flight in the sky, my leap into a world so beautiful."

"Wrrrr, don't I see that you're excited."

"Yes Pavan, excited, I am. For this day I have waited all my life; to fly afar and to fly high. I practiced every morning flying from one branch to another, testing my wings in the shallow heights. And now you see how strong my wings have become."

This time Panchhi spread his wings with all his might.

"But I feel apprehensive too. I shall leave my friends, my family, and the nest behind. I shall go into the skies. I have loved them from my nest, but I have never ventured there. And, I know not how you shall behave, I know not if the clouds will pour, I know not if it will be too cold. I know not if it is a good day to fly."

"Fear you not oh, dear Panchhi, for no day is good and no day is bad. The day you are prepared is the day for you."

Cheered again, Panchhi saw his nest one last time and then roared into the sky. I rushed with him for I loved the sky too.

At first we saw the world he knew--a clutter of leaves, the black tailed monkeys, and the blue lake in the middle of the trees. And then, as we rose higher, Panchhi saw the whole forest for the first time in his life.

"Oh Pavan, I never knew there existed so many lakes, so many trees."

"Keep going higher my little one and you shall see so much more."

Higher still, it was so cold. Even I could not rise beyond a point, but Panchhi's heart was longing still.

"Pavan, Pavan it's so refreshing here. So cold. So nice. So beautiful. But what do I see down below? Is that a huge lake?"

The color of the land was no longer green. Blue of the ocean was beginning to mix in too. A riot of color filled the sky and the earth.

"Yes my Panchhi, that's a huge lake. Lovely are its colors, aren't they? Hey, but I see that your wings still strive to reach higher skies, and I am too tired. I cannot climb any further. If you want now, you must go alone."

Panchhi continued to fly higher still. I watched from below as he floated by. The sun had circled the sky by now and was beginning to dip in the horizon. Clouds below were turning grey. Suddenly, when I thought Panchhi's wings had to make no effort to fly any more, when the view was most beautiful and colors most intense, Panchhi began to descend.

When he passed me by, the excited look of his face was gone.

"Why do you descend now, Oh Panchhi? I thought you would fly all day and night."

"No Pavan, not any more. I just want to get back to my nest."

Gradually, we descended back into a forest. But this was a different forest.

Sitting on a branch, Panchhi wailed, "This is not my forest Pavan. Look at the leaves, they are so small. And look at those monkeys, they have no black tails. Oh Pavan, the knower of all, please take me back to my forest, my nest, where I belong."

I sat quietly on another branch and whispered into Panchhi's ears, "Worry you not, Oh dear. Look at those leaves, they are green too. And see those monkeys, don't they jump as well?"

Panchhi kept quiet. He looked at the distant stars and the dark night. In his heart, he felt depressed.

"Pavan, all my life I wanted to fly. For that dream, I lived till now. I had always known that flying in high skies was my destiny, and now I sit here on a branch, not knowing what I shall do."

Gradually, in the darkness of that night, Panchhi tried to imagine all the colors he had seen while he flew. And he began to realize that the colors that filled the skies filled the forest too; that the same brush painted the skies and the earth.

His heart filled with joy again. He knew that he would build a nest next morning, and that he would fly again to the highest skies if ever he felt like it. That this tree he was on was the same as any tree he had ever been on. That flying in the highest skies was the same as sitting on this perched branch.

Silently, I whooshed into another forest.

San Francisco pics

2005-05-01T00:40:00.000-07:00

We went to San Francisco last Sunday. The pics are here.

More later.

2005-04-22T23:39:00.000-07:00

And some more

2005-04-22T23:36:00.000-07:00

More of the same place

2005-04-22T23:32:00.000-07:00

Outside FRY'S - the place we bought the camera from

Ah... of journeys far away!!!

2005-04-17T00:14:00.000-07:00

Ok, if you don't know already, we are about 8000 miles (about 12800 kms) aaway from where I was born. To put it in perspective, that is about three and a half times the entire length of our country - Srinagar to Kanyakumari is 3500kms. One could say - so what. And how can one argue against that - it takes 36 hours (by train) from Bangalore to Calcutta, and it took only 24 hours from Bangalore to San Francisco. But then, it is a small world indeed and we are as far away as can be from home.

It is a six months project that brings us here to Pleasanton, CA. We had a long long flight (and yes, spending 24 hours in plane or airports in not the same as spending them in a train), and now we are checked into a hotel. The journey wasn't extremely eventful, but it was different. I didn't feel as excited as I was when I landed for the first time in foreign soil - that time, flying in an Ethiopian Airlines aircraft I had marvelled at the colors of the sky and the a blanket of fluffy clouds over which we flew, and the colorful play of mountains and the sea when we descended. And ofcourse, the first whiff of air when I stepped out of the plane. This time it was more about the duty free shops on a sleepy abandoned Bangkok airport, and trying to ensure that the special Asian Vegetarian Meal was served to us in the flight. And then, looking at the programs on the flat screen TV on Narita International Airport, Tokyo and feeling how similar we all are. The same flat screen TVs everywhere, the Americans, the Japs, the Thais, the Indians... everyone wearing ths same jeans and jackets. Ah, and the same programming for TV channels - CNN look-alike news shows and similar music videos. By the way, I saw a Japanese video playing the same tune as Channel V's Jaago Zara. So, Anu Malik is not the only one who believes in plagiarism.

But then, this trip is very different. Deepika is with me, and it is her first trip abroad. And she is very excited too.

In the evening, we walked down for dinner to a McDonald's type burger joint and then to buy some grocery and vegetables. The air has a nip in it - it feels a lot like a hill station in India. Very romantic indeed.

Well... so much of rambling for now. I believe that all journeys, far away or not, are in most ways about journeys deep within. So, I will, if time and Deepika permit, keep updating this blog with our experiences, observations and thoughts.

Asche bochhor aabar hobe

2005-01-27T22:16:00.000-08:00

“The sun went down and so did I. Night came again. Why again those haunting thoughts, those shattered dreams, those midnight screams...”

A shrill cry of the hyena woke me up and reminded me of my loneliness. When my eyes opened, the stars glistened in a distant sky. Here, I lay under a banyan tree by the side of the holy Ganges, whose water just flowed by in the stillness of the night.

A blasphemous wave hit the rock, trying to breach the boundary; the same gurgling sound. Not a blemish on the rock.

“These ripples live only to die,” I thought, as memories of the day flooded back to me.

*********

It was the last day of the Pujas – the nine day ceremony of worshipping Goddess Durga. Magic floated in the air as Kolkata drunk itself with joy.

“No Raag, I can’t love you. You know I am married. Our society does not allow this.”

“Why not Sheetal? I love you, and I know you love me too. Why must the society decide what's right...”

The drums had begun and my words got lost in the loud beats that rose to a crescendo just then. Sheetal walked away and did not look back.

*********

“Ah, the same beats, the same drums.”

A crowd had gathered at some distance. They had come to immerse the Goddess. For nine days they had worshipped her, decorated her, celebrated her, and now they would sink her in the water, for her earthen body to simply melt away.

Loudly, they chanted – Asche bochor aabar hobe – Next year, again.

Another wave hit the rock; the same gurgling sound, again. Not a blemish on the rock, still.

“If only to die, these ripples must live,” I thought as I got up to go back home.

Our first marriage anniversary

2005-01-27T06:31:00.000-08:00

For those who have forgotten (and really I don’t blame anyone here, I am pretty bad at remember dates myself), Deepika and I celebrated our first marriage anniversary yesterday. Those who tried contacting us and couldn’t, I am sorry.

We were “out of coverage area” for most part of the day. I woke up at 5:30 am (before Deepika for the first time in last one year, I suppose). Deepika had already prepared on the night before the food for the day (some Puris and sabzi and Dahi Vada), some of which we heated in our newly acquired microwave oven (now you know!) and left home around 7 am. We went for a long (120 odd kms) drive to a place called Shivanasamudram. Deepika drove on the way for about half an hour. There are two waterfalls here – Gaganchukki and Barachukki. We bathed and swam in Barachukki, which was safe for swimming (bathing in Deepika’s case), though some part of the lake on near the waterfall was almost 200ft deep. At least that’s what the boatman told us. He took us around that lake in his circular boat (remember Dil Hai Choota Sa in Roja) and even did a spin in the middle of the lake. In the evening we went to another place nearby – Talakkadu. They have excavated some temples at here and have an interesting tale about its history (maybe in another post!). Later again, we went for boating in one of those round boats in still waters of Cauvery (I think) in the orange glow of a setting sun. The journey back was again through some jungles and we stopped by at several places just to see the clear sky so full of stars. We reached back home at about 10 in the night, yet neither of us could say that we were tired. On the whole, this last one year has been just like our journey yesterday – smooth and beautiful. I hope it continues that way for me (and for everyone else).

Happy New Year

2005-01-04T21:18:00.000-08:00

A friend sent me this story with new year wishes.

As a little child was walking on the beach, she noticed thousands of star fish finding it difficult to get back to water after being washed ashore by the rough seas. In a moment of inspiration, she started to collect as many star fish as possible in her tiny hands to throw them back into water. She was doing this for some time when an elderly gentleman who was noticing her came up and asked her. "It is nice to see what you are doing. But there are thousands of star fish dying here. What difference does it make?" The little girl looked at the gentleman in the eye, pointed to the star fish in her hand and told him "to this star fish, it makes a difference".

Wishing you all a fulfilling and joyous new year!

Mango Showers

2004-12-15T07:56:00.000-08:00

To write about a time I was not even born in is difficult. I have only heard stories about Kolkata of the seventies. Surprisingly, the horror of naxalite movement had passed us by at a time when, as history books would tell you, Kolkata was in great turmoil.

Papa used to work for a railway track material manufacturing company. A young, non-descript engineer, fresh out of Allahabad University, trying to find his feet in the metropolis, he lived with his two brothers, their wives, their children, an elder sister, her children and his parents in a small one bedroom house in Kankurgachi.

My grandfather was an honest lawyer in Sikar and had not accumulated any wealth worth its name. After my uncles showed no signs of academic brilliance, they had been sent to Kolkata. It was now upon them find their way in life.

Like many other young Marwari men, my uncles started trading in steel. The Marwaris had built a fiefdom around the steel trading business – sourcing materials from rolling mills that dotted the Howrah region and selling them to BHEL and other such giants across the country. While some businessmen had fled the city due to naxalite violence, most had preferred to stay back.

Those were the days of struggle and a hand-to-mouth existence. Every effort had to be made towards cutting costs. But those were days of joys too, when the smallest victory was celebrated. So, new clothes were always bought for Diwali, even if they were mostly bought from the footpath, and then brought home and refurbished with some embroidery or patchwork to make them look presentable. The vegetables were bought from Machhua bazaar – quite some distance from Kankurgachi, but it was the cheap wholesale market. Ma (my grandma) and Bhuaji (Papa’s elder sister) would go in crowded buses and trams once a week to buy the weekly ration.

It was one of those days when Ma and Bhuaji went for their weekly vegetable shopping to Machhua; sometime early in an April of the seventies when I was only a few years away from seeing my first light of the day. I expect that they left sometime late in the afternoon, around three perhaps, after Bhuaji had her mandatory afternoon siesta and Ma her cup of tea.

They took a bus from Kankurgachi to Maniktala and then a tram to somewhere close to Machhua. After that, they would have to walk their way. Those days, the bus and tram fares were very low (they still are in Kolkata, where you would expect to get 25 paise back as change even at a time when 25 paise coins can no longer be found anywhere else in the country). The credit must go to no less a person than Kolkata’s very own Jyoti Basu. As a young student leader, he lead dharnas against the government on every 5 paise increase in fare. And, his dharnas used to be full of light and, I daresay, fire. So every time the government raised the bus fare, the only way to make them retract, would be to burn a few buses.

Anyway, fare had not been raised in the past few days, and there was no such possibility in the coming days either, so it was an ideal day to travel. The afternoon sun was shining at its brightest, so Ma and Bhuaji suspected no trouble with weather either.

Many things change with time; yet, somethings never do. Like the Mango Showers. When the scorching heat of summers begins to grip most of the country, West Bengal gets a brief respite in March and April when the north-westerly winds bring with them grey skies, dusty roads and thunderous showers. These showers, which normally arrive late in the evenings, are also called Kalboishakhi – black showers in the month of Boishakh. And, what is special about these showers is that even as they wreck havoc when they come, some water seeps into the parched lands where mango trees grow, and brings to life the juicy mango fruits that begin to arrive a month later.

For some reason, Ma and Bhuaji, did not factor in the Mango Showers that day. After hectic bargaining, with loaded baskets when they boarded a tram near Machhua, the skies became grey. It was the rush hour when offices got over with people jostling for space in the crowded little tram.

All this while, I have been telling you about Ma and Bhuaji together almost as if they were inseparable. But, alas, they were not.

At the very stop before which Ma and Bhuaji were to get off together, they got separated. Ma, along with her basket full of vegetables, got pushed out by the rushing passengers whose destination had arrived. Bhauji struggled, got off at the next stop and started walking back.

The winds had started to blow by now. Dust was swirling all around, and the trees waving hastily. For once, Bhuaji felt that she would get blown away in the madness of the elements. But that did not happen, and drenched in the now pouring rain, Bhuaji reached the tram stop where Ma was waiting for her. Together again, they sighed a sigh of relief, and boarded the next bus to Kankurgachi.

It was a minibus; unlike the other tin plated buses, this looked a lot more modern with its red and yellow coloured exteriors. Even for only a few paise more, travel in minibus was a luxury for our family. If it weren’t for the rains, Ma and Bhuaji wouldn’t have boarded one.

As luck would have it, they had to get off it soon too. The moment a conductor came to sell the ticket, Ma and Bhuaji together realized that the handkerchief in which all the money was tied and which was kept in the vegetable basket that Ma was carrying, was no longer there. And, so, all the money for the entire month was gone in one shot. All the money – with which all household expenses for the month were to be met – vegetables, fruits, milk, rations, school fees for the kids, travel expenses, house rent to be paid to Mrs. Basu, electricity bill – everything was gone.

For a while they stood stupefied by what had happened. Then, not knowing what else to do, they started walking towards home. The rain was getting only worse, and water ran past their cheeks, and rest of the body, mingling inseparably with tears. They wept and they walked and kept walking, even as Bhuaji’s only slippers came off and floated away with a current of water that was beginning to flow like a stream in rage. In the process, Ma fell down and hurt her head.

A guilty and upset Ma and Bhuaji reached home. Night had descended on the city by then, and the rains had subsided. Those were the days of severe power shortage in the city, and the situation only worsened when it rained. Everyone in the city knew this was to be a dark night. Quietly, Ma and Bhuaji, slipped into the kitchen where my aunts were already cooking meals.

Later that night, when Bade Tauji, my eldest uncle, came home, they let their little secret out to everyone and Bhuaji started crying again.

My uncle just smiled.

“Tum aam laayi ya nahin?” (Did you get the mangoes or not?), he asked.

“Aam abhi kahaan, unke aane mein to abhi kam se kam ek mahina hai” (Mangoes will take at least one more month to arrive), retorted Ma.

And then consoling Bhuaji, Bade Tauji said, “Jiji, yeah din bhi nikal jayenge. Kyun chinta karti ho.” (Sister, we shall see these days off as well, why do you worry so much).

That night no one slept well at home. But time passed by, and somehow the expenses were met that month.

A month later, my uncles got their largest contract till then. They earned a lakh from it. And, Ma and Bhuaji, given to their habit, got vegetables from Machhua bazaar. With them, they brought home some juicy ripe mangoes.

Some memories from my school

2004-10-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

Some memories of my childhood never leave me - I still remember the picture of me walking down from the park, my bat in my hand, dust blowing all around on a grey cloudy evening. The Kalboishakhi, also called the Mango Showers, had arrived, threatening to blow away the rather strangely placed tin sheet on a part of the roof of our otherwise palatial house.

Opposite that park, used to be my School – Salt Lake (Eng. Med.) School. The Eng. Med. part of the name was important. It meant this wasn't like one of the many other Bengali Medium schools in the neighbourhood, and that you had to wear clean shoes, and cut your nails. And that boys with long hair could find teachers tying up their hair with rubber bands.

This was in Salt Lake - land created by filling up a marshy salty lake; a suburb of Calcutta; known for its matrixed roads and green parks. One such park, the biggest of them all, was the BA-CA Park. The one in which I played cricket.

Ah, I should mention this here - as I tell you about all this, you would observe that all the objects appear in past tense - the school was, the park was. It is not that the school or the park or other things don’t exist anymore. Just that they are not my school or my park any more.

So, this BA-CA Park used to be my park at that time. It was divided into two halves, one for the BA Block and one for the CA Block. And, each half was almost the size of a football field. At one end of this park was a small tent-like structure. It used to be called some football association, but besides the football classes in the evenings, it used to also hold Karate classes in the mornings. Briefly, Bhupati sir, our PT teacher, also used to conduct physical training here.

I was always very bad in most sports. I used to play cricket and sometimes opened the batting too. But that was because of three reasons. One, I used to own the bat. Two, the lunch after the match was always at my place. And three, my captain always knew that I would not survive beyond an over so the batsmen to follow would never have to wait for too long.

There was a fourth reason too, perhaps. My friends used to like me.

Now I am confused. I don’t know for sure what I want to tell you about. There are so many small things that happened in the school that I could tell you about. Or, I could tell you about my summer holidays when I played table-tennis all day. Ok. Let’s settle for this. I will tell you about all of those, but for now let me just show you around my school and let me tell you about some things that changed my life forever.

Ok, now you know that my school stood in front of the BA-CA Park. This was a two storied building, white in color. When freshly whitewashed with chuna, the outside of my school building used to dazzle shamelessly on summer afternoons. The classrooms weren't whitewashed so often though, and had strange patterns built by dampness every monsoon. In most rooms, there were blackboards. Some had boards that were green, and those looked so much better. My class was one with a green board. It was a largish room that was divided into two parts by a wooden partition. One side was my class, Class IX B, and the other was Class IX A. And, there were these desks and chairs, of the same color as the wooden partition. The polish on the wood was particularly bad, and was made to look worse by all the scribbling with compasses that we had done. These scribbling were never as obscene or direct as they used to be in the boy’s toilets; most often they were either declarations of love or simply some grouse against a teacher. I never had the guts to scribble my secret yearnings though.

What were the other objects in the room? Chalks. Duster. A wardrobe in which absolutely nothing was kept. Fans. And the tube-lights of course. White radiations of which I always hated and the lizards always loved.

Talking about tube-lights reminds me that they always need a starter to get started and often we (I say we because I was part of the class, never part of the gang that did this though. Ah me, the timid little stranger in class!) used to take out the starters and hide them to delay classes. This was especially effective on those unlucky rainy days on which we didn’t get our rainy day holidays.

I want to tell you a lot more about rains really. They have been linked with my life in many ways. Lot of good things happened to me on days when skies were grey and the roads in Calcutta were water logged. To begin with, I was born on one such day. Then, on my fifth birthday (or was it sixth?), when whole of Kankurgachi was submerged in water, I had forced Mummy to get my birthday gift, wading through those waters. Years later, it had rained copiously on the day I finally got admitted to my college - Presidency College. Intriguingly, that was my 19th birthday too. And then of course, CAT 1997 – it rained in December. IIMC interview – 25th March 1998 – it rained. IIMC results day – it rained. And first day in IIMC again – it rained.

Two things here – one, it doesn’t rain round the year in Calcutta. And two, I think other things would have happened too on rainy days that I either don’t remember or have not mentioned here.

Ok, so back to the classroom and the tube-light and lizards. I hate lizards. Perhaps they look slimy, so I hate them. But I hate them. And, they make a strange kind of rhythmic sound that is so easy for humans to replicate. I had learnt how to make that sound way back in class II, and then made that sound in the school assembly when we literally had a pin-drop silence. And, when I was asked who made the sound, I had promptly pointed the finger at the girl next to me. I had taught her how to make that sound, and she had made it too with me. She got a slap for it. Eventually I got two when the whole story was out.

I hate lizards, that’s it.

Ok, so I told you that I will show you around my school. I have shown you the classroom, and you would have realized that there wasn’t much to see there. There used to be something to smell every now and then even till class VI when one of my classmates would lose control of his bowel movement. We will skip that though.

So, get out of the classroom on a typical day. Let us say it is Thursday afternoon, the period after lunch. It is the Drawing class. Drawing sir, PDG, with his long gray hair and much whiter mustache has asked, as usual, who all had not got the paints. Dipti is one of them. She is asked to leave the class with twelve others. I have got the paints, but tell sir that I don't have them either. Standing outside the class, atleast I get to see Dipti. It is a different matter though that I have never spoken to her.

Anyway, ignore us and just walk down the corridor. We have our morning and afternoon assemblies in this corridor that surrounds the central quadrangle. As part of our Socially Useful and Productive Work, we had planted some Dahlias and Chrysanthemums in middle of the quadrangle. You can see the flowers blooming now.

Where one wall of the corridor meets the other, there are the toilets. So, ignore them too and take a right. And, you hit the Physics laboratory on your left. Peep inside. If you see a spectacled middle aged lady sitting on a desk, it must be Sushmita miss, my Physics teacher. If you see a young athletic mustached guy with a smirk that can never be wiped off, well, that is Rajat da. I cannot tell you much about the other stuff you will see inside the Physics laboratory. For one, it was way too long back when I had seen all that. Secondly, even then I hardly knew what all that stuff was. If you are a keen observer, you would have noticed by now the windows of the Physics laboratory open into our small playground.

Talking about playgrounds, actually we had three playgrounds inside the school. One at the back side, the one at the front, and the third was the quadrangle. We were not supposed to run around on the grass in the quadrangle, but invariably that was the place where we enjoyed playing the most. That was also the place for the major punishments – like Nandita miss used to give us – “Go and stand in the quadrangle with your tongues out!”

The playground outside the school was of course the large BA-CA ground. That’s where we practiced for our Sports Day and that’s where our Sports day used to be held.

Ok, now move forward from the Physics Laboratory. This again ends at another corner that has the toilets, so take a right turn again, and you have three classrooms on your left. If you had come here with me, or with Manas perhaps, in 1996, you would have seen an Aquaguard water filter on this wall. This filter was installed that year but didn’t survive long. Manas’ friend, Golgi as he was known, wanted to figure out how the system works and ensured that it never worked again.

But you keep walking. Further down is another corner. On this corner is the staircase. The wall adjacent to that has the staff room. We shall not go inside the staff room for now, as that would be another long story. Let us go down instead to the ground floor. Right underneath the staff room is Madam’s room. Next to that is the school office where Rajesh sir sits. Behind other walls are classrooms or toilets in the same way as they you saw them on the first floor.

Now you must be wondering how the school could accommodate its 1200 students. Well, we had two batches – the morning batch and the day batch. Morning batch timings were from 7 am to 10 am. Manas had the misfortune of being in morning batch for several years. I was always in the day batch. For my batch, the school assembly used to be at 10:30. That was also usually the time I used to leave my home at. I had to run diagonally through the park, and as a result I knew long before we were taught in Geometry that the sum of two sides of a triangle is always greater than the third. Anyways, I used to be invariably late and I would hope that Sapna miss, our strict Vice-Principal would ask me to go back home for coming in late. But that never happened. I had to write in my diary twenty times – “I will never be late again” – and I would be allowed in.

Ok, so by now you would have figured out what a loser I was. Yes, always late to school, standing out even in Drawing class, opening the batting and getting out for naught, having a crush on a girl that I had not spoken to all my life… the list could be endless. In fact, from class III to class IX, I had always been “Promoted on trial”. Probably it took some doing to flunk in Salt Lake (Eng. Med.) School.

But then some things just happened.

We had to choose our sixth subject in Class IX. Or, I should say our sixth subject had to choose between us. The options were – Physical Education, Computers Science or Economics.

My 20 seconds for running fifty meters and the inability to complete three pushups had disqualified me from Physical Education. Now, it was a toss between Computers Science and Economics.

Those were the heady days of computers. Our school had four of them. All kept in the only air-conditioned room in the whole school where no one was allowed to walk in with their shoes on. And, even among them, the most coveted was the one with a color monitor. One in which text appeared in green.

So, there was a high demand for the Computer Science course. The initial plan was to take in students based on their marks in the final examination of class VIII. But somehow this plan got changed. So there was to be a test for the Computer Science course – an aptitude test.

20 students out of our class of 60 were to be selected. I was obviously a rank outsider.

Now, I don’t remember whether it rained that day or not, but an aptitude test was held. It had none of the math questions that I surely wouldn’t have been able to answer. Just some silly sequences and pictorial patterns. Ah, nothing from the syllabus at all.

As it would be, when the results came a lot of people were surprised. I had reconciled myself by then with taking up Economics. But I got the second highest marks in that test. A test in which there were negative marks, I had got 19 out of 25. Highest was 21 out of 25. And, most of the class was below -6.

Something triggered there.

Then came in Sushmita miss. Yes, the same spectacled middle aged lady you just saw in the Physics Laboratory. She joined the school when I was in class IX.

And, she came to take our Computer Science class. Or, was it the Physics class? Well, I cannot remember.

Anyway, she asked a question in the class, and I was the first to respond with the correct answer. Now, I don’t know what it was, was it that one correct answer that I gave or something else, Sushmita miss started believing that I was the best student in her class.

Ask me, was I the best student? No way. No way, at all!

But Sushmita miss believed it nevertheless.

I had already started believing that I was underselling myself to my own self, and started believing in my abilities. And now, there was this expectation of a teacher to be met.

So, what followed was a virtuous cycle. Old habits didn’t change. I would still not do my homework as it needed to be done. I would still have to burn the midnight lamp to pass my exams. But my performance improved. And improved quite a bit.

In my board exams in class X I did rather well. And then, in class XII, I was made the first Head Boy of my school.

Years later, during my MBA, I read about the “Pygmalion Effect”. In a nut shell – if you expect, not just want, someone to do well and convey that in unambiguous terms, then that person is likely to reward you for your belief in them.

For too many years, I had not believed in myself. And, none of my teachers had believed in me. And, when that changed, my life changed.

I feel lucky that this happened to me. I have seen many people whose would have done so well with one such trigger in their life. This, of course, is not to say that I have succeeded in keeping all my self-doubts aside. But then, I do believe that all of us have the inherent ability to achieve whatever we dream of.

Panchhi's flight

2004-09-30T11:09:00.000-07:00

It was a misty morning, dew drops were glistening on the tip of leaves. A mild morning breeze blew through the forest. The quiet murmur of leaves was interspersed by the chirping of the black tailed monkeys that jumped playfully from one branch to another, from one tree to another.

Panchhi had woken up early, way before light had begun to fill the sky. Today was the day he had been waiting for. Today he would fly far and high. The wings had been tested in the low flights around the trees. Now they were ready for the higher skies.

So many emotions filled Panchhi’s heart today. He was excited that he would take the leap, yet he was apprehensive of leaving his nest, his parents, and his friends behind. And, though he had seen the sky from his nest so often, and had loves it so much, he did never gone deep into it. He did not know what to expect.

So, Panchhi looked at his nest for one last time and spread his wings to plunge into the sky.

Initially he saw the world he knew - the clutter of leaves, the black tailed monkeys, and the lake in the middle of the trees. But as it began to fly higher up, he saw a much larger forest – so many trees and lakes that he had never seen or imagined. It was green all around.

As Panchhi kept going higher air was getting colder, but there was a freshness about it; much like the blue of the sky. And down below, the color of the land was longer green. Blue of the ocean was beginning to mix in too. Panchhi was amazed. He had never known that there existed such a big lake.

Gradually Panchhi flew into the clouds. The air was getting rarer, yet his wings were striving to reach even higher.

And then, all of a sudden, when the view was most beautiful in a riot of colors, when his wings had to make no more effort to stay afloat, Panchhi felt an urge to fly no more. Suddenly the urge to go back home, to return to his nest.

So, he descended back to a forest.

This was a different forest. Not the same where he had grown up. Yet, this forest was so similar. The leaves were a little smaller, but they were green nevertheless.

Sitting at a perched branch on the top of a tree, Panchhi now wondered what was happening. All his life he had wanted to fly in the sky and today when he was floating above the clouds, he only wanted to come back home. As a child he had been sure that flying high was his destiny. And now, he was sitting on a branch, not knowing what to do.

Sun had begun to dip in the horizon. Night was beginning to fall. Stars glistened in a distant sky. Panchhi was feeling depressed.

In that darkness of the night, Panchhi tried to imagine all the colors he had seen while he flew. And he began to realize that the colors of the skies were the same as the colors of the forest, that the brush that painted the skies painted the forest too.

Suddenly his heart filled with joy. He knew that he would build a nest next morning, and that he would fly again to the highest skies if ever he felt like. That this tree he was on was the same as any tree he had ever been on. That flying in the highest skies was the same as sitting on this perched branch.

Letter from Malaya Bhaiya

2004-09-30T08:08:00.000-07:00

Malaya Bhaiya wrote to me this, at a time when he himself was going through some struggle

5th October 1997

My dear Nishith,

Let me take this opportunity to wish you a very Happy Birthday in phase with the rising sun. Even though my writing (or ‘sermon’!) may have the stink (or ‘aroma’) of my own experiences, yet (or ‘therefore’, - as the case may be), the sole aim is to generate a meaningful proposition.

Each ‘Birthday’, therefore, could be meaningfully act as a milestone / landmark to determine the length and quality of the path covered and envisage the coordinates of the next milestone. It is the time to review, define and redefine parameters for yourself, in as global a perspective, as possible. ‘Success’, for instance, is often loosely (and ineptly) looked upon as how others view the events in your life. You, in turn, start looking at it from the point of view of others. It often infringes with your definitions. The outcome is chaotic and loss of peace results.

No external reward is rewarding enough. Seek the sanctum-sanctorum for true, unadulterated rewards. Let your thoughts traverse their own orbits / course, unaffected by the myriads around. Pure joy will descend upon you. And, a source of joy will radiate joy… will create more sources… more joy… and this train of joy will carry mankind to its destination, some day.

Act with alacrity, to the call from within. Though ‘noiseless’, these calls are ‘sound’ because they emerge from totality and generate a symphony. They carry the rationale they need.

The ‘literate’ knows how to read the lines. An ‘educated’, in addition, knows how to read between them. Be the educated man. The world rough and the implications are far-fetched (sometimes). Ensconce your educational base to deal with the mundane.

Knit your thoughts together. The pattern will be beautiful and serene. Let each breath of fresh air dance to this tune.

May God bless you,

Sincerely,

Malaya

She will see them too

2004-09-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

From my dairy... had written in December 1996... Deepika insists that I let you know that this is pure fiction...

My love for clouds began this September. Before that, I never used to like the clouds. Gray clouds on the horizon always meant that kites wouldn’t fly. So a clear sky was what I liked.

This September, I was somewhat lonely and I used to go down to the park. She used to be there too. And she used to love the clouds.

She would show me the clouds in all their different shapes. Clouds that floated like bloated cotton in the air; sometimes so white and sometimes in all the different shades that a drowning sun painted the sky in.

She would tell me that the clouds were playful like a child, carelessly bouncing into each other, merrily dancing to the tunes of air. And yet, she would say, clouds hide a well of wisdom in them. Roaring they come down, but quietly they are up there again.

I started loving the clouds too, but they always belonged to her.

Then one day, she did not come. And then, she never came.

Now, winters have set in and the clouds are gone. But I know deep in my heart that the clouds will be back. And when I see them, she will see them too.

Meri Abhilaashaa

2004-09-29T10:52:00.000-07:00

Had written this long back. Probably in 1993... This isnt me for sure though.

Abhilaashaa ke mridu panghat par
Ghadaa mujhe bhi ek bharnaa hai,
Jeevan ke is nirmal path par
Mujhko bhi aagey badhnaa hai.

Suraj chaand aur tare paanaa
Chaahta to hai har insaan,
Kya mein bhi maang loon inko nabh se
Aur kar doon sari jagati sunsaan?

Ya ban jaaoon mein woh prakhar jyoti
Jiske aadhaar par jeevan aashrit,
Jiski aabhaa se prerit ho kar
Andhakaar khud hua samarpit?

Chaahta hoon mein banoon boond
Aur gir jaaoon pyasi dharti par,
Maati mehke, panchhi chehken,
Behek uthen saare naari nar,
Khushiyon ki barsaat ho aviral
Nav jeevan kaa ullaas mile,
Khoye hue mad mast aalam mein
Mera pataa mile naa mile.

Finally our drawing room looks good...

2004-09-25T13:19:00.000-07:00

Deepika and I got my birthday gifts today.

Two bean bags – brownish grey and red. Two floor cushions – blue and green, and yellow and green. One rug in different shades of blue. A black flower vase. One basket filled with potpourri smelling of cinnamon. A violet bed sheet.

So, where I sit tonight, there is a cane lampshade behind me. My laptop is playing music from Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam. The yellow and green curtains hang infront of me. Deepika is lying on the mattress right behind me.

Deepika insists that I must tell you about the wind chime that hangs right opposite her. She loves the way air caresses the wind chime to create that tingle.

Lying scattered on the rugs are paintings we just made. Just a splashing of poster colors on pieces of paper. Colors that paint our lives today. Colors that make me want to live so much more.

Musing in the night

2004-09-20T10:52:00.000-07:00

Today Vishal got the Sarod from Calcutta. It’s been a long time since I learned or played Sarod seriously. There used to be a time when I would spend hours playing the Sarod – I used to call it – playing with the Sarod. And today my heart stirred again when my java hit the strings and my nails pressed the strings to the shiny metal plate. There is a magic in Sarod. And, a magic in my playing with it. Somehow, I just seem to melt away in the music that surrounds me. I know that I have not advanced beyond a level in playing the Sarod, and that there is so much more to learn. Yet, whenever I hear the sound of my Sarod, that exact note in all its melody, I forget the world around. Ah, how much I wish I start learning Sarod again.

Of course, Sarod isn’t the best news for everyone. For one, Deepika is already feeling a little annoyed. What with all my writing and reading and TV, she could have done without another distraction for me. So, here she is, sitting by my side, surely wanting to draw my attention. It’s a different matter, of course, that her eyes draw me more than anything else in the world.

Coming back to Sarod. There is something regal about it. The polished wood, the shiny metal plate, the white skin drum. And, the sound of course. The strength with which it emanates sound, and yet in that there is a melody that is ever so sweet. It is so easy with Sarod to express absolute rage with one stroke and touching love with another. Just like Raag Darbari – strong, sweet and majestic. Like fire that rises in the midst of the night, raging as it soars towards the sky, chirping away as it burns the twigs – and like the dying embers that remind one of the cold night that surrounds once again.

Now, it’s 11:07 in the night, and Deepika’s read what I have written in the second paragraph. Might as well let her know that I really meant the last line in it.

Vision of Paradise

2004-09-16T01:46:00.000-07:00

November 2002

Palakkad Junction, deep inside South India, is situated at the border of Tamil Nadu and Kerala. Just twelve hours away from a metropolitan Bangalore, Palakkad has a rustic charm. A virgin land, untouched by modernity.

It was early in the morning when my train reached the station. I was scared that I might over sleep and miss the station, and had kept awake all night. There was nothing to look at from my window seat. The open fields filled with dancing greens and grazing cows in the day were all black now, and merged seamlessly with the sky. The compartment was full of people. All berths were taken, and there were more at the end near the toilets, where the caged yellow bulbs burned dimly, lying on their bundles of cloth. It was a cold night, and not all windows had glasses.

As the train slowed down and moved into the platform, I could hear the sounds of vendors selling morning snacks dissolve into the chaos of songs that devotees, travelling further south to Sabarimala, sang in the general compartment. At four in the morning, the sky was still dark. Those who had woken up early, rushed to water taps on the platform to wash their faces and brush their teeth. This was where I had to get off. Lazily I dragged myself out of the compartment. My shoes untied, hair crumpled. My eyes half asleep.

On the platform, I stood by till the engine whistled into gradual start; the station master waving the green flag. All the hectic morning activity of the platform came to a grinding halt, as everyone seemed to drift back into slumber. The next train would arrive only five hours later.

It was colder than I had expected. Wind blew from the scarlet skies behind the mountains covered with descending mist. The orange halogen lamps on the platform made me feel dizzy.

This was my first destination in Kerala.

I spent the day meandering through the lanes; walking by the markets. The town erupted into most of the activity by ten. Cycles and cycle rickshaws drove by in the narrow brick streets. Crowds gathered in markets that had slippery floors and the smell of freshly caught fishes. By the time sun shone in all its brightness most people went back indoors, in comfort of the shade of their slanted-roofed-houses. It was only in the evening that town came alive again.

This was a strange place, Palakkad. Its extremes of activity and inactivity seemed to be matched only by its extremes of temperatures. Without a hint, the afternoon heat quickly transformed into an evening chill.

When the sky was dark again, lights in the shops lit up. Suddenly there were people all around again.I meandered through some more lanes in the night and came back to the hotel late.

Early next morning I was on my way to Allapuzha or Aleppey. They call this place the Venice of the East. A six hour journey; and since my early morning wasn’t early enough, I reached Aleppey only at about 2 in the afternoon.

Back waters of Kerala are what tourists come here to see. There are two ways of doing that – staying in a resort by the side of the back waters and taking a boat to see the interiors. Alternately, just taking a house boat, and spending the night in the back waters. I chose the latter.After a bit of hard bargain – this doesn’t come cheap, it cost me two and a half thousand rupees – I was off to a nearby bank from where I would board my boat. Surprised faces greeted me, for it wasn’t often that somebody came here alone to stay on a houseboat.

The journey began well. It was already about four in the afternoon, and I had missed my lunch. So, I was only glad that food was served soon enough.As we moved on, I started to think if I had made the right choice – choosing the houseboat over a resort. The houseboat held its appeal in its wooden deck and the cane structure that covered the room. But, it wasn’t exactly luxurious. No lights for one. At least not the ones powered by electricity; there were some kerosene lanterns though. Then, the houseboat was not motorised – to be rowed all along. Perhaps it was a result of the hard bargain I had made – but the other way of looking at it was that this was to be a completely natural experience.

Yet, the murkiness of the water and all the weeds floating around disturbed me. I was reminded of my trip to Sunderbans a few years back. Vivid pictures of its green-blue waters and untouched beauty flashed in front of my eyes. And I felt that I was missing something. First few hours were spent in comparing the two, looking for that something exceptional. Something special. But as it happens with all things special in life, it could not be found until I stopped looking.

The sky was a little clouded. The air blew mildly. The palm groves across the waters looked black in the shadows of a setting sun. It was like a water-colour painting. Colours melting into each other ever so gently. Mist giving it the halo of a dream. I could hear the sound of oars splashing the waves, and the birds flying on their way home. And, when we passed by an island, there were children playing cricket, and girls all dressed up and going somewhere with the ladies. And, there was nothing around. The water and the boat and the islands, the trees on them, and the sky.

On the boat, I had with me three others – Babu and Shivdas, boatmen both. And Manoj, the chef.

Shivdas was about 50 years old. Grey hair betraying his age. He wore a light pink shirt, a green lungi and a white turban. And every bit of his cloth looked striking on his chocolate brown skin. Babu looked very similar too. Only, he had a more angelic smile, as his eyes shrank when his teeth showed.Both Babu and Shivdas were from nearby villages, and spoke only Malayalam. Manoj was the one who knew a little of both Hindi and English. He had worked in Bombay for a couple of years as an AC mechanic. He would get three thousand rupees a month there, but that wasn’t enough to meet his expenses. So, here he was, doing a job that gave him thirty rupees a day and tips from the tourists. Tips, I was made to believe, that were generous.

And, this did seem plausible. In this state of Kerala, God’s Own Country, there was little development beyond tourism. Most locals worked on farms, cultivating paddy and bananas and coconut, or they worked for tour operators. So, the wages were low. This, despite, or perhaps because of, a communist regime after every alternate election. But tourism did flourish here and tourists came from far and wide.

The sun was almost below the horizon when we reached in the middle of somewhere that was surrounded by water all around. It wasn’t a dark night even though clouds covered a half moon. Stars were missing. On the distant banks shone the lights in resorts, reflecting in the mirror of water underneath. There was silence all around. Only stray sounds of a motor boat passing by filtered through once in a while. November usually heralds winters, but air did not betray any signs of it. Mild breeze brought some comfort from humidity. And, the ripples it created swayed the boat in a rhythm. I lay on the deck, watching the clouds pass over the moon to allow an occasional glimpse. I loved the quiet and I loved the dim light of the lanterns that were lit now, but I hated my loneliness. And, I hated my mind for racing through so many thoughts.

I wondered about man. And I wondered about animals. And I wondered about life. And I wondered if animals are more blessed than men. Wondered if we are unhappy because we think so much; unable to just savour the moment the way life serves it. Wondered if there was a way that I could just stop thinking so much some day. And these thoughts kept me occupied till dinner was served on the deck. Keralite food turned out to be more delicious than I had expected. In fact, it was wonderful.

I lay on the deck till late in the night. Manoj saw the walkman I had and wanted to hear some songs. He sat by my side while Babu and Shivdas chatted away at the other end of the boat. Late in the night, I went into the boat-room, and tried to sleep there. Manoj had warned me about fishermen from nearby villages who came in the night to just see if they could pickup something. So, only one window of the boat could be kept open, and the night was spent battling the humidity and the mosquitoes. I hardly got any sleep. Each time I was in the middle of some dream, a mosquito would buzz in the ear.

But, mosquitoes did ensure that I was awake before dawn. I woke up a little tired and walked out on the deck. It was a lot chiller now. The clouds still covered the sky. I could not see the sun go up in the east. But the view around was beautiful. Serene. The freshness of the air, the rippling of the waves. It was all the same as it had been the evening before. And yet, it was different. My senses seemed to melt away into the beauty that surrounded me. Something inside told me that I was part of this creation, this beauty all around, and that what I saw was part of me too. Like the mosquitoes, all my disturbing thoughts had suddenly vanished.

For a while, I lay on the deck with eyes wide awake. And then, I didn’t even realise when sleep took over. Then, Manoj woke me for breakfast after a most refreshing nap I had had in a long time. It was about 8 in the morning and time to move on. Time to explore in greater depths the backwaters of Kerala.

As we moved further on, I saw some birds and saw some flowers. Flowers that I saw were mostly red. Crimson red. Some were hibiscus. And, there were greens all around. There were palm groves, and banana trees and paddy fields. And there were stray islands, small ones, dense with trees growing into each other, climbers hanging out into waters. There were small huts and villages nearby. There were fishermen in their boats with nets under the water, working for their daily catch. And, there were these small boats, Vallum. Thin and small, very similar to canoes. So thin that after one person sat in them, there was no space for anything else to fit in.

We moved on to the place where they repaired the boats. Somewhere deep inside those water alleys; it was actually like a cross-section of two water lanes. Just a shed of tin by the side of a smallish house. It was here that I finally found someone willing to lend their Vallum. As smiling faces greeted us, Manoj and I drifted into a Vallum. It was scary to start with. A slight shift in weight on either side, and we would both be in water. But, soon we just settled into the boat so well that we were one with the lake. We rowed in the water with the light wooden oars, as we waded through to the other end to buy a packet of match sticks. And, where I sat in the boat, it was below the water level. Just extend the hand a little and the hand was full of water. We waded through the water lilies and I plucked one there. This was the clearest water I had seen in the entire place yet; clear enough to be able to spot the small black fishes.

Half an hour of rowing left us tired, and yet it left me wanting for more. The lake seemed to allure me with its beauty. It screamed to me to tell me that I wanted more of it. That it wanted more of me. It urged me to take a plunge, to feel its water on my skin, to unravel its beauty, deep inside. The lake had a strange charm, mysterious and sublime; charm that I just could not resist it.

In those waters I swam like fish. I saw the pebbles at the bottom and the greens that grew on them. I saw the small black fishes float by me. And when I swam facing the sky, I saw the towering palms bowing to me; paying obeisance to the lake. I saw the clouds filter the light enough so that it would not hurt my eyes. And every splash that I made broke the silence, and yet it was the rhythm in which my soul danced.

This lake was what life was about. About getting deep inside, about taking what came on way, about absorbing the richness of the moment in its completeness. Like swimming, like flying, like dancing, like meditation. I had to dip myself in it. Surrender to it. Completely. And then, there were no boundaries, no limits.

When the body couldn’t take anymore, I was back on deck. Exhausted to the hilt. Lying on the polished wood, warmed with a now blazing sun. Eyelids battled exhaustion for a while, not willing to miss any glimpse of the beauty around, but sleep gently took over yet again.

A quiet nap later, we were travelling back towards the point where we had boarded from.

Soon, Manoj and Babu and Shivdas and the sky and the palm trees, the water lilies, the paddy fields, the dimly lit lanterns in the quiet of the night and the rippling, charming waters would all be part of memory; etched in a corner of my heart. And, I would be on a bus to Cochin; my skin a little more chocolate brown.

Rushing for a piece of peace

2004-09-08T01:24:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, Aug 31, 2004

Time: 12:00 pm
Location: Marriage Registrar's Office, Koramangala, Bangalore

Deepika and I register our marriage. We are officially married now.

Now that we are married, shouldn't we be going for a honeymoon!

Tuesday through Friday

Been thinking about going somewhere over the weekend. Papa says I must take Deepika to Guruvayur on Krishna Janmashthami. Deepika is very keen on it too.

Options:

1. Kovalam Beach, Trivandrum - Ah, I love that place. Wouldn't it be lovely to take Deepika to Kovalam... those grey sands and green waters... just laze around like hippies...
2. Kodaikanal - Been there before. Had wished then that I hadn't gone there alone. Now I know who I wanted to go there with.
3. Munnar - Been told it's a lovely place too. Richa jiji can get the booking done in Sterling Resort.
4. Thekkady / Kumarakom
5. Wayanad - also know as the rain country. Told by Aparna (yes...Aparna Basu Mukherjee) that the resorts there are amazing... its all forest and streams and waterfalls...

Thursday is a dampener. Told Deepika today that we are not going to USA. Both of us are a little upset.

Friday morning, and yet to decide. Deepika asks me if we are going anywhere. "I don't know" is my reply. A little irritated with myself.

Friday, Sept 3Time: 4:00 pm
Location: My desk, Office

Boss hasn't come to the office. Have sent off a mail to him saying that I am inclined at being part of the project in USA. Maybe, we will discuss this on Tuesday.

What the heck! what am I doing over the weekend?

No answers yet!!

Time: 4:05pm
Location My desk, Office

Browsing through the internet to get the names of resorts in Wayanad. Shooting off mails to many of them enquiring about rates and availability on 4th and 5th Sept.

Time: 4:30pm
Location: Telephone booth, Office

Calling up resorts in Wayanad. Accommodation not available. What's available is too expensive. Wayanad seems ruled out.

Time: 4:45pm
Location: Travel desk, Office

Checking out if we can catch a bus to Kerala. Preferably to Kovalam. All buses are fully booked. Trains are fully booked too. Even, buses for Coimbatore not available.

Time: 5:00pm
Location: My desk, Office

Call up Deepika - Pack the bags. We are going somewhere. Keep it light.

Time: 6:00pm
Location: My desk, Office

Waiting for Boss to come in. Need to take him through a presentation. Also, need to tell him that I can't take the conference call at 10pm tonight.

Time: 6:15pm
Location: My desk, Office

Still waiting for Boss. It's getting late. Decide to just send in the presentation over email and leave.

Time: 7:00pm
Location: Travel agent, BTM Layout, about 30 minutes away from home

Battle through rush hour traffic. Reach an influential travel agent. Tell him I desperately want to reach Kerala...Trivandrum / Trissur / Palakkad / Cochin / Kollam... anyplace in Kerala would do!

Javed makes several calls. Finally...there is a bus from Madiwala at 8:00pm. Would have to sit in the driver's cabin, but can go.

Ah, but its 7:15 already. Cannot make it to Madiwala on time.

Time: 7:20pm
Location: Citibank ATM

Withdraw 4K.

Time: 8:00pm
Location: Home

Deepika is ready with the bag packed. We take out some unnecessary clothes to make the bag lighter still.

She has prepared Cup-o-Noodles. Ate half of it. Rest is for me.

Quickly eat and leave the house.

Time: 8:10pm
Location: HSBC Auto stand

Instructions to the auto-driver:
1. Take us to Kalasipalayam - the main bus stand - need to check if we can get any bus to Kerala.
2. If we don't get a bus there, rush to Majestic Railway station. There is a train to Trivandrum at 9:45pm.

Time: 8:45pm
Location: Kalasipalayam

Ask various travel agents for any bus to Kerala / Coimbatore.

No place at all.

Time: 8:55pm
Location: En route Majestic

Auto-driver suggests that Kerala State Transport Corporation may have some buses. Might try that instead, as even general bogie of the train would be full.

Ok.

Speeding off to the Majestic bus station now.

Time: 9:15pm
Location: KSRTC counter

Standing in the queue.

Auto driver stands by. Wants to make sure we get a bus. Would drop us to the railway station if we don't get a bus.

Yes, there is a bus for Trissur at 10:30pm. Super Deluxe Air bus (means it's quite decent). And yes, two tickets are available.

Hurray!!! We are going to Kerala.

Pay Rs. 600 for the tickets. Rs.100 to the auto-driver.

Thank the auto-driver and tip him. He was really helpful.

Time: 9:30pm
Location: Sanmar restaurant

Order two South Indian meals, a Coke, a Seven-Up.

Time: 10:00pm
Location: Platform 14B, KSRTC bus stand

This is a dingy place. No light. And, it is raining copiously. The shed above is dripping. Somehow managing to keep ourselves dry.

Time: 10:15pm
Location: Platform 14B, KSRTC bus stand

The bus has arrived. Looks ok.

Time: 10:40pm
Location: Inside the bus

Our journey has begun. Suddenly it dawns upon me that 4k (now only 3.3k) would not be enough for our Kerala trip. And, I don't know if Citibank has any ATMs in Kerala. If not, we will have no access to funds.

Ah...I know how to screw up things!!!!

Time: 11:00pm
Location: Somewhere in Bangalore

The driver has driven off the normal route. Not able to figure his way out now. I look out for signs.

This is Bannerghatta Road. That's the one on which I live.

I go to the driver and guide him to Hosur Road.

The driver and conductor are grateful. On way to Hosur Road is BTM Layout, and the same ATM from which I drew money earlier. Request the driver to stop there. He obliges.

Time: 11:15pm
Location: In the bus, Hosur Road

Speeding away to Kerala. 6k more in pocket.

Now we are well and truly on out way to Kerala.Thank God that the driver strayed, because I wasn't aware of any Citibank ATMs on the normal route.
__________________________________________________________________

What followed, of course, was even better than I had hoped.

Till we reached Trissur at 8 in the morning on Saturday, we weren't sure where we were going in next.

Checked out at the bus station, and came to know that Trivandrum (and thus Kovalam) was at least another 8 hours away. So, Kovalam was out.

The other option nearby was Alleppey.So, we hired a room for an hour, bathed and freshened up. Ate Masala Dosa and Onion Uttapam with a rather placid Sambar. And, we were on board again. This time a khatara KSRTC bus. One in which the windows either don't open or they don't close, but always creek. Trissur to Alleppey via Ernakulam.

At 3:00 pm, we were at Alleppey.

Now, as you come out of the Alleppey bus stand, you see a number of these Tourist Information Offices. Don't get fooled. They are nothing more than touts, trying to sell you packages for House-boats and lake resorts.

We were told that House-boats are available for Rs. 5000+ and rooms in Coir-Village Lake Resort for Rs. 2500+.

So, after much haggling, with the help of a boatman, we finally got a deal. Rs.2250 for the night in houseboat.

It was 4:00pm now. And the boat would start at 5pm.

Deepika and I walked through the Alleppey town a bit. Ate South Indian Kerala meals at Annapoorna Veg. Restaurant - essentially thick brown rice, sambar, vegetables, and hot brown water. I do not know what they mix in water, but like most things about Kerala, I love its food and water too.

Now, some of you are aware that I had been to Alleppey once before. Even then I had spent the night on a Houseboat. I will post that writing on my blog later. But, things haven't changed much.

There is something magical about Alleppey. Life moves in slow motion here. The tranquility of the lake, the gentle murmur of coconut leaves, the gurgling of ripples as a thin vallum (canoe) cuts through the water, the silent flight of migratory birds, the white and red and pink flowers, the butterflies floating in air...

So, Deepika and I spent the night in the house-boat, parked by a paddy field. And, we rowed through the silent lakes in a small vallum. And, we walked through the paddy fields, holding each other's hands. A silver sky overlooked us. It was almost like one of those Monet paintings.

And, as we rowed through the waters, we went to some of the lakeside resorts. One of them was Punnamada Resort. It had cottages built in traditional Keralite style - sloping roofs, and chocolate brown wood walls. The bathroom was an open bathroom, open from the top. But the rates here were too high for us (Rs. 3000, though I must insist that it's not too high for the luxury it accords).

We rowed through the lakes in the morning also, and found Malayalam Resort.

Malayalam Resort is right in front of the Nehru Trophy starting point and is owned by Thomas and his family. It has four rooms, including a hatched cottage right on the lake. In front of the cottage is a bathing ghat, and on both sides of the ghat are two protrusions on the lake. These protrusions, made of wood and painted yellow and red, have climbers growing on pillars, and a base on which lies a mat and pillow. And, just 10 meters from the bathing ghat is a skeletal bamboo structure, covered all around with green climbers with white flowers. This structure has a hammock tied to two pillars on either end that lilts with the mild breeze.

Thomas' family comprises his mother, his wife, Rosary, his younger son, Jeswin, and his elder son. Jeswin studies in 8th standard and the elder son is studying Nursing in Bangalore. Rosary is the chief-chef and cooks delicious Keralite food. Appams for Monday morning breakfast were absolutely delicious.

On Sunday evening, we went to Alleppey beach. It was quite a forgettable experience. We ended up walking over a kilometer to find an auto back to the hotel. And, then again, from the auto stand to the resort, we walked by the lake in pitch darkness.

_________________________________________________________________

On Monday morning, began our great journey back home. More adventurous than our journey while coming to Kerala.

Time: 9:30am
Location: Malayalam Lake Resort, Backwaters, Alleppey

Eating Appams for breakfast.

Hoping to catch a boat to the bus-stand jetty. No such luck.

Take an auto instead.

Time: 10:00am
Location: Phone booth, Alleppey Bus Stand

Calling up home finally to let the folks know that we exist.

Time: 10:15am
Location: KSRTC Bus to Cochin

No seat available. Will have to stand for next two hours.

Time: 12:30pm
Location: Cochin Bus stand

Will get a bus from Jetty Bus stand for Guruvayur. Decide to have lunch in the meanwhile at Woodlands Veg. Restaurant.

Kerala meals again.

Time: 1:30pm
Location: Another khatara bus to Guruvayur

Will be a three hour journey. At least we get place to sit.

Time: 4:30pm
Location: Guruvayur bus stand

Temple Darshan are open. Guy at the phone booth tells us that we need to be dressed in a Dhoti and Sari respectively. Hire a Dhoti from the guy at phone booth. Change into Dhoti and Sari respectively in a facility by Sulabh.

Time: 4:45pm
Location: Guruvayur temple

Temple is not as crowded as we thought it would be. Five elephants decorated for the occasion marching back and forth to the beats of traditional drums. Lots of diyas are kept all around. Would be lit in the night.

Stand in a queue for Prasad coupons, stand in a queue for Darshan for half an hour, do the Darshan, and walk into a Sari shop.

Deepika buys Kerala style double Sari and I buy a Kerala style Dhoti. They are all off-white in color and have a golden border.

Time: 6:00pm
Location: Guruvayur bus stand

Buy the only chips we get - Banana chips. Buy the latest copy of Outlook. Change into informals and return the Dhoti. Pay 10 bucks as rent.

No buses for Bangalore. Next bus for Trissur at 6:30pm.

Time: 7:00pm
Location: Bus to Trissur

Reading Outlook from cover to cover. Deepika is whispering a song to me. She wants me to play Antakshari, but the latest articles on Manmohan becoming more assertive and BJP believing some predictions about their coming back to power seems more interesting right now.

Time: 7:15pm
Location: Bus to Trissur

Can see "Ab mein gussa ho jaoongi" expression on Deepika's face. Quickly sing a song with "M", start the Antakshari and sink back into Outlook. Khushwant Singh is up with another silly book. Haven't read any of his books, but he seems too sensational for my taste.

Time: 7:55pm
Location: Trissur bus stand

Been told there is a KSRTC bus for Bangalore at 8pm. Debating whether to take the KSRTC bus or a private Volvo AC bus... The bus arrives and guess what... its full. Should have expected that.

Check out with private operators - all buses in the direction of Bangalore are full.

Eat our last Kerala meals at a joint next to bus stand.

Time: 8:15pm
Location: Trissur bus stand

Throw the Outlook magazine and the mineral water through the window in the bus to reserve seats.

Have made friends with Prakash and Saji - students both in Coimbatore. Prakash gets into the bus before us. Since has a huge built, if he can pass through, so would Deepika and I, even with the bag in out hand.

Would take about two hours.

Time: 9:55pm
Location: Palakkad bus stand

Been told that there is a bus every minute from Palakkad to Coimbatore.

Only one bus standing for Coimbatore, and its fully packed. No place even to stand.

Time: 11pm
Location: Palakkad bus stand

Still no signs of a bus to Coimbatore.

Many more like us waiting for the bus. All buses have names of destinations written only in Malayalam, but can guess that the bus is not going to Coimbatore as it hardly generates any excitement in the crowd.

Nah, even if a bus comes now, it won't accommodate so many of us. No way!

Time: 11:10pm
Location: Palakkad bus stand

We and five others hire a taxi to Coimbatore. Would cost Rs. 75 per head.

Time: 12:30am
Location: Coimbatore bus stand

No seats in buses for Bangalore available.

Option:
Take a bus to Salem - 3 hours
Take a bus from Salem to Bangalore - 5 hours

Wondering is staying the night in Coimbatore may be a better option.

Suddenly a middle aged man comes by and asks us to wait for a Bangalore bus. Might get a seat in one. The man is drunk, the smell is unmistakably of alcohol.

Also with is a student from Bangalore. He chats up this middle aged man.

Tells us: He is a vigilance officer, chat him up a little, he will help you.

Chat a little with the middle-aged man. He is truly drunk and in a mood to brag. Tells us that he is the nephew of TN Seshan.

The Bangalore student is taking tips from him on how to smuggle liquor bottles in.

Time: 12:45am
Location: Coimbatore bus stand

A private bus for Bangalore comes by. It is full. Won't take us.

Time: 12:55am
Location: Coimbatore bus stand

Another Bangalore bus arrives. KSRTC bus. This one is full too. Conductor refuses to take us.

The nice and nicely drunk vigilance officer steps into action. Tells the conductor about his credentials. Tells him that Deepika is his sister and she must go to Bangalore anyhow.

Conductor relents. Allows us to sit in driver's cabin.

The Bangalore student is gracious, allows us to go. He would take another bus.

Tuesday
Time: 8am
Location: Silk Board junction, Bangalore

Ah, Bangalore at last. Both of us haven't slept much. Back and neck are bruised.

Haggle again with auto-drivers. Won't give one-and-half the meter rate for going home. Walk 200 meters. Find an auto willing to take us home.

Time: 10am
Location: My desk, Office

Back in the office. Need to talk to my boss about the US project.

________________________________________________________________

Tried convincing my boss about sending me on the US project. All in vain. The organization needs me here for some other work.

Ah, that hurts.

But what the heck. May be Deepika and I would go to Kovalam beach on the next long weekend!

Beautiful red rose?

2004-07-22T01:29:00.000-07:00

Manas says - Its not a beautiful red rose. It is only just a red rose.

He says we write because we seek appreciation from ourselves and from others.

Pankaj says we write for so many different reasons - its a kind of catharsis... its fun... it makes us feel "creative"... to seek appreciation from others / ourselves... to leave a mark behind... to share a thought...

I dont know for sure why I write. It does make me feel more complete. I like to read something that I have written well. I like people that I like to read and tell me that they like what I have written. Is it about sharing my thoughts? Maybe, maybe not. In some ways I write only for myself. It helps me create a world of my own. May be writing is a form of escapism too. Whatever it be, it makes my life just a little more beautiful.

Fragrance of the Eucalyptus trees

2004-07-21T01:15:00.000-07:00

20th July 2004

Sometimes I wonder how the definition of hectic can change so quickly. Till a few months back, travelling from Kanjur Marg to Parel in a Local Train in Mumbai seemed hectic and tiring - and now, driving down 800 kms seemed so facile.

Last Monday, I had fondly remembered the fragrance of tall Eucalyptus trees and wondered what it would be like to go to Kodaikanal with Deepika. This Saturday, at 9 in the morning, we - Mummy, Deepika and I - were driving down to Mysore - about 120 kms from Bangalore. From Mysore we would go to Ooty - another 160 odd kms.

Now, before I move any further, let me tell you a few things about my little dynamo. I know an Opel Corsa Sail looks a lot like a Zen, and with a 1400 cc engine, it isn't exactly the most powerful thing on road. But then, if a car drives at 140 kmph on Indian roads (even with the improved highways and golden quadrilateral et al) it does deserve a mention. Of course, the exploits of the driver concerned come into the picture too, but that's another story. And, while we are talking about the picture here - the colour of my car looks a lot like Silver and is called Artic Breeze. I did get a feeling that the trees standing by the road would have likened it a lot to a silver streak rather than a mild breeze.

Brazenly as we drove out of Bangalore, vast fields covered the landscape. On some of these fields grew wheat plants, swaying in a mild breeze. On yet others were sunflower beds. Sun shone in all its glory. On either side of a grey road were drooping trees that created patterns of light and shadow on the road. Parts of the road were red with freshly laid brick dust - construction of roads seems to be a perennial activity everywhere in India. On the horizon was a sky blue sky. White clouds just stayed afloat - separated by a fixed distance - none of them spoiling the geometry.

Somewhere on the way, the road was blocked as some dignitaries were visiting a place nearby. While waiting on the road, we spotted an Anjaneya (Hanuman) temple. We were just in time to catch the Aarti on a late Saturday morning. Saturday is the day for Lord Hanuman, Mummy told me, to explain the crowd that had gathered in a relatively obscure place. Besides the multitude of monkeys around the temple, automated bells and drums caught my eye. A technology company from Bangalore had designed this system that made humans redundant in this method of invoking the Gods.

Well, as the dignitaries cleared the road, our journey resumed. Sometime around noon, we camped outside Tipu Sultan's fort in Srirangapatnam. Ate lunch there, and for paucity of time, we decided to move on without venturing inside.

The drive was similar till we reached Mysore. Drove around Mysore Palace before realizing that we were an hour too early to be allowed inside. And, if we were to see the Palace, we would be a few hours too late to head for Ooty. So, we decided to ditch this one too, and went on to see a temple on Chamundi Hills, about 18 kms from Mysore.

Before I move on to tell you about our journey to Ooty and about Ooty itself, its only proper that I let you know that I have been inside Mysore Palace a couple of years back. I am told it hasn't changed much over time - for many years now. Long back, till about 1897, a wooden palace stood in its place. But it got burnt in a fire that must have been huge, and the new palace was constructed. You will be told that the Palace is "built in Indo-Saracenic style with domes, turrets, arches and colonnades" and "is a treasure house of exquisite carvings and works of art from all over the world". But it's the colours really that make Mysore Palace stand out. Maroon and dark green, almost bottle green, and golden - colours of the domes. And, what captivated me was the huge ground and seating for the King's assembly - almost like a stadium. And standing by them, the leopards carved in stones. The guide had told me, leopards signified the ferociousness of the Wodiyars, the rulers of Mysore. Inside the Palace museum I had seen paintings of many a Wodiyar king, and they all looked so puny on the elephants they rode. Tell you what, I felt awed by the Palace. By the fact that it was a few individuals whose dreams had built the Palace and the empire. By the fact that a single individual can do so much.

I have been toying with a thought of late. Is there a reality that exists? Is there a truth, an absolute truth, or is every truth a relative truth? I am not sure if I would be able to articulate my thoughts here, but let me try.

This thought came to me from reading some bit on personality theories on the net (note: this is not an original thought, but only something that has been expressed by many people before, including several scholars of personality types) - The contention was that reality is really relative, and that we create our own truths and modify them based on our learning - social, cultural, experiential. In fact, there is this story about blind men touching different parts of an elephant and describing it differently - that's how perhaps we perceive life.

But what intrigues me is something beyond just this process of perception. Is there a reality that we create as well? In many ways we do - we decide to not attend economics classes and end up not understanding economics, or we decide to work hard and go to Yale or Princeton or wherever. But, if you look at some ancient cultures and civilisation, there is more to it than just this.

My mother believes in God, Hindu Gods primarily. So, in her reality they exist. I have heard stories, of and from people that I would trust, describing their experiences with various things supernatural. For instance, Baba (my parents' guru), who used to come to our place, was once told by someone that offering Prasad ((food offered to God) to Lord Jagannath is just a ritual, and it just so happened that when Baba offered Prasad, there was a certain quantity of the Prasad that was missing after the offering. Similarly, I have read some stories about near-death experiences - people who had medically died but were alive again. And, what happened to them during their period of "death"? Almost all of them describe that period the way their religion would describe it - Christians mention about their meeting Jesus, and Hindus about being taken by Yamraj (the God of death who takes the soul when a person dies). Yet again, we perform various kinds of rituals to invoke what we call Gods, and howsoever different they may be across cultures and religions, they seem to work for the practitioners.

I know there are various scientific explanations to explain away all these things - for one, its all in the mind. We create our illusions and live by them. But then, where is the line drawn between illusions and reality?

There is an experiment being conducted at Princeton, where in they are trying to measure the effect of collective consciousness (http://noosphere.princeton.edu/). They have put instruments across the world to generate random numbers, and based on events that trigger human beings to unite in their thoughts (like it happened on 9/11), they have observed that these instruments set to generate "random" numbers actually generate patterns. So, there does seem to be a collective consciousness that affects the pattern of events (the way the "random" number generator behaves). It seems to me that individual consciousness can also be harnessed to create reality.

Anyways, I have digressed a lot, and we should move back to the road to Ooty. ____________________

At around four in the evening, we were racing towards Ooty - The Queen of Hills. The road from Mysore to Ooty is very picturesque. It holds in it the Bandipur National Park (in Karnataka) and the Mudumalai National Park (in Tamil Nadu). By the time we entered the Bandipur National Park, sun was beginning to dip itself in the horizon. Through the canopy of trees, only filtered light passed through, and the weather was beginning to get chilly. Strangely enough, we met almost no vehicles in our entire passage through the Bandipur National Park. We did meet a few elephants, some deer and one hare though. The ascent on Nilgiris had begun as we started to encounter sharp curves. I drove on excitedly as memories of my earlier visits to hill stations began to flood my mind.

Mudumalai National Park was similar too, except that the state was different, the roads a little worse, and instead of the elephant boards, we began to see some lion boards (only the boards).

The trees were very similar too. But then, are trees ever similar? Maybe similar – yes. But alike - never. During my stay in Ivory Coast a few years back, I had travelled extensively through the country side - on contoured roads that lay above valleys in which villages lived. By the side of these roads grew the largest and the most beautiful trees I had ever seen. Some absolutely green, flourishing with leaves growing copiously out of every conceivable spot. Some bare and black, almost as if they had been burnt down and were somehow standing on their own ashes. Perhaps these trees looked even more beautiful because of the grey skies that followed me everywhere that I went. But in these trees, I did notice a sense of pride in being what they were. In being green or in being bald, in growing out of every place and in being so perfectly imperfect. And yet, as humans, we strive to be so much like each other, trying to ape what we conveniently call culture. Always trying to be what we are not, and never being what we are.

Ah... I digress again.

Anyways, while I mention of the trees, how can I forget the ferns that grow on foothills too. And rocks that are grey and black, and are covered with slippery green moss.

This was the ghat section we were driving through now. At places, there were these small streams of water flowing down the rocks, on to the road, and then again sliding down the ghats. The sky was almost blue. I say almost because there were traces of a purplish grey glow, almost illuminating the horizon, but only just. The only sound to be heard was that of my roaring engine - that too was only a purr. The speed was now limited to 40 kmph, as every now and then there was a board indicating a hair-pin curve. A look down such curves in usually quite scary, but this area was densely wooded and trees blunted the steepness of the mountains.

Gradually night descended. It was a no-moon night. Completely dark in a mountainous jungle. The sky above was clean and black. In the absence of the moon, stars sparkled with great vigour. The headlight of the car created a straight line of illumination. At every curve, there was a new vision to be discovered. Every time light fell on the road, the rocks, the shrubs, the trees, it was like seeing a new image, a new painting. Much like the tiny insects that seemed to burn like fire flies when car light lit them. From darkness they emerged and into darkness they vanished. Just as quickly as these paintings got created, they got destroyed, only to get etched somewhere deep inside me. It was like every moment of life that we live, every moment so different, so transient - and yet like every other moment that seems to fill an inexhaustible well of memories.

A stop at a tea stall on the way and several hours later, we were in Ooticamund. Among other things that I noticed was a BP petrol pump that stocked the high-octane fuel that my car drinks. There were auto rickshaws standing at what looked like a major crossing in the town. Hotel Lake View had put up advertising boards everywhere. Going by my experience of such hotels in Darjeeling, I could say almost with certainty that Hotel Lake View would be as far away from the Ooty Lake as it could be.

Taking directions and passing by other fancily named hotels - Hotel Royal Park, Regency Villa, Fern hill Palace - we finally reached our destination - Sterling Fernhill. It was half past nine now. In the car, with the windows closed, we did not feel cold. On stepping out, chill air of the Nilgiris gave the final stamp of our arrival at the hill top.

Tired as we were, we had dinner in the restaurant at Sterling and retired into the small single room cottage that we had booked. The food and the service, both left a lot to be desired. But the room was cosy and comfortable.

At five in the morning, Mummy woke up and went for a walk. Lazy as I am, I woke up only at 7:30. Even then, the sun hadn't risen high enough and it was cold. From the long glass windows of our cottage, I could see the green mountains right across. In such exquisite weather, nothing refreshes me more than a hot shower. So, a hot shower later, now wide awake, I was wandering about in the hill resort.

Sterling Fernhill resort has been built quite tastefully. It is cut in steps, much like the mountains that surround it. And, in those steps are these cottages, each cottage has about three - four rooms, and the rooms that I saw had a view of the mountains. Between the cottages are gardens, in which flowers grow in wilderness. And connecting them are rocks, again, pretty much like the mountain rocks. As you walk up from the cottages, you reach the central building that houses the reception and the restaurant. Slide down the road in front of this main building, take a few left turns and a few right turns, and you hit the main bus stop of Ooty. I will tell you about the bus stop and the red and yellow, and green and black buses billowing dark black smoke later. For now, let us now return to the stepped hills.

So, here I was, standing outside the cottage, on one of those rocks, overlooking the valley. From down below came sounds of boys playing cricket. Across stood the mountains. Cut in steps. Cut to patches. Some green, full and luscious. Others brown, like they had just been shaved. The houses were small with slanting roofs. Almost all of them coloured white or pink and had chimneys from which smoke gently rose. Trees seemed to have clustered together. Almost every hundred yards, there was a congregation of trees standing tall. Some of them were actually very tall, almost like single pieces of very long sticks stuck into ground; just a small cover of leaves provided. These especially long trees just shot up into the sky, bringing a tinge of the green mountains into an otherwise blue sky. The sky looked special too. Overall it was lighter than sky blue, but at some places it had a dash of darkness that made it look different. Again I must digress. While I was in Ivory Coast, I used to miss India - its people, its culture, its places - and whenever that happened, I used to look at the sky - for sky was constant. But I had begun to discover then that sky changed a lot too - and this was an Ooty sky I was seeing now. I also remember a marbled sky on way from Chennai to Trivandrum that I have often seen in the evening - I call it the Kerala sky.

I will tell you about Kerala, its skies and its waters some other time, for now let me take you down that road in front Sterling, to the main bus stop in Ooty. On the way you would encounter a few cows, blocking a rather steep road, and small shanties built along the roadside, albeit elevated. You would encounter faces that look Tamil - dark and round.

The bus stop in Ooty is just like any bus stop in south India - it could have been Salem or Kothagudem (ah that bus journey when I went to drop Deepika from Khammam to Kothagudem!) or anywhere else. The same dirty buses, the same diesel smoke, the same tea stalls. Only the surrounding mountains give it away. Thankfully, we did not have to stop at the bus stop for long.

Now, I am usually quite obsessed with lakes; specially the mountain lakes - Nainital, Dal Lake, that clear blue lake on the top of a mountain - yes, just that. But let me confess something here. On our entire trip to Ooticamund, we did not see the Ooty Lake. (By the way, Ooty Lake is not a natural lake, so I guess its ok).

This is how it went. After our rather unpleasant experience with dinner in Sterling, we decided to have our breakfast somewhere else. So, we ate at a restaurant in the main market of Ooty. This again was very Tamil - not at all mountainish; not like the quaint joints of Kodaikanal. People speak Tamil and they serve idlis and the like.

Post breakfast, we decided to hire a tourist guide - Jayakumar. Jayakumar was among the few people in Ooty who had a hint of features we normally see in people from hilly regions. He didn't have a flattish nose, but his face had a reddish look, like a tinge of red in very dark brown. And, he wore a green shirt and a red hat. It wasn't cold, so a monkey cap or a jacket was not needed.

Jayakumar took us first to the Suicide Point. It was about eight kilometres from the centre of the town, and the drive was pleasant. I do not know if people have committed suicide from this point or not, but with the almost vertical wall on which you stand, suicide can be tempting from here. On second thoughts though, why would one want to commit after coming here. Not only can one feel the mountain breeze (nah, I am not talking about the Artic Breeze of my car), but one can again sense the creator in action.

Right across on the peaks, mist floats nonchalantly. For once covering the entire valley in dark grey clouds, and then, all the while appearing to be in no hurry, clearing the sky and exposing the hues of green in yellow sunlight. The painter in action again, painting a new landscape every now and then.

We had not taken a camera along (partly the reason why I need to write all this down now), so we hired a cameraman (James if I remember it right) to take ten pictures for seventy rupees. One of them has Deepika and me on two horses.

From Suicide Point we went to the Botanical Garden. Deepika and Mummy discussed about various flowers and plants and their biological names and origins. Huh! We got several more photographs clicked. One in front of a huge tree, supposed to have been used for various films. However, the one that I particularly liked was a similarly huge Deodhar tree. Its branches spreading out like slanting roofs with a strong brown majestic trunk rising like the mountains behind.

Afternoon was spent in the cottage as Deepika wasn't feeling well. Around three we went out again – preferring to go to Cunoor instead of the Ooty Lake. Now, if you have been to Ooty, and not been to Cunoor, you have surely missed something.

The drive to Cunoor, about 18 kms from Ooty, was along a thinnish road by the side of mountain. It was a lot like rest of the hills, thickly wooded. But also on either side were the tea plantations. And, along our side were the clouds. As we drove through the clouds, passing by small streams of water and very small water falls, we reached the Dolphin's Nose Peak. And then we went to Sim's lake - it was a small man made lake, but boating in that, with mountains surrounding us was nice.

By the time we came back from Cunoor, the valley had lit up. Small lanterns in houses were glowing, making the valley look a lot like the sky above.

It was our last evening in Ooty, and we decided to dine at Taj Savoy. Taj Savoy is a heritage hotel. Finally it was cold, and we had to get the jackets and shawls out. Sitting by the fire place in the dining room of Taj, listening to melodies being played on a piano kept on the wooden floor, we savoured some Chinese dishes. Mummy was telling me about so many different things, but I can't remember it all. What with the maroon shawl and Deepika's face glowing by the fireplace; everything else seemed to melt away. I couldn't help being a little distracted.

Next morning it was a long drive back home. We started early, so we could relish a view of the mountains yet again early in the morning. And then, I drove for some eight hours. I wasn't sleepy but was dreamy nevertheless.

I was thinking of the Eucalyptus trees and their fragrance. They don't change their fragrance from Kodaikanal to Ooty. They smell the same - like the mountain rains, cold, silken, and yet brash. Like the drums that beat to a rhythm far away, rhythm that ruptures a melody within. Like the mountain rocks that look so solid and yet always slip away when I try to hold them. Like a life that baffles me, and yet the deeper I sink in it, the deeper I want to sink in it.