random rambles

A week of Sunday mornings

2010-03-18T13:46:00.002+05:30

Getting to Havelock Island is hard work. But perhaps there is something to say for the length of the journey. With every stage of the travel, you move a step away from the rapidity of life in Mumbai, and a step closer to the mildness of life in the islands.
Which is not to say that there is no adventure to be had; or that the life on the islands is idyllic. Far from it. Havelock is the centre of all scuba diving activities in the Andaman & Nicobar islands. It is also a place where the coming of tourism has created an uneasy tension for the local population.

Three-way street
It takes two flights and a ferry, and costs approximately Rs 10,000 to reach Havelock. It is a small island with a triumvirate of roads that meet at a tiny little roundabout at the Market. One runs down from the jetty; one will take you to Radhanagar beach, the island’s most popular seaside spot; and the third that comes from Kalapathar is lined with resorts both cheap and expensive, offering log huts with varying degrees of comfort.
The ferry to Port Blair is the lifeline of the island, and its only link with the other islands littered around it in the Andaman Sea. There is a helicopter service, but its schedule is more unpredictable than the moods of the sea.
Which are many. The thing about being on a small island is that you can get from the windward side to the leeward in a matter of minutes. At one end, the water is calmer than any swimming pool in Bombay. A warm, shallow blue-green, just meant for paddling and splashing about, perfect for a morning swim when you’re not still quite awake.
As you travel along the island’s coast, the colours change with alacrity, turning into a deep blue as you get close to Radhanagar. The water there is edged in white; the surf of strong waves that will pick you up and toss you closer to shore. A swim there is like an ayurvedic massage, pillow fight and kickboxing session rolled into one. You always emerge battle-weary, yet somehow refreshed and happy.

Meandering about town
The jetty and the Vijaynagar crossroad where the triumvirate roads of Havelock meet, are the two centres of activity in Havelock. The beaches and villages on the island are numbered, though in a manner of numbering that is conclusively Indian. Beach number 7 follows Village number 2 and 4 in tempestuous confusion. Most of the residents of the islands are Bangladeshi refugees brought there by the Indian government. Turns out that the villages were numbered in the order in which they were settled, which is why Beach 5 is on a different road from Village 4. They acquired names much later.
Along the beaches, all the land has been sold to resort companies, some of the more recent sales made at preposterous prices. But if you rent a motorcycle and go around riding the smaller offshoots of the main roads, you’ll find that away from the tourism and the beaches, farming still continues in the interior of the island.
Aimless riding around and exploring is one of the main activities on the island. With two litres of petrol in the tank, you have enough fuel to travel the length and the breadth of the island several times over. Many a day is well spent looking for the next likeliest spot for a swim; what other decision is of greater importance?
Just rent a set of snorkels as well. The water around the Andamans is rich and full of life. From nearly every beach and swimming spot there is an easily accessible bit of reef where you can easily spot shy clownfish peeping among the anemones. You can also rent a boat to go snorkelling at a further away spot. It’s something you can try even if you can’t swim because most boatmen give you a floating device and throw you a line; secured to those you can merrily bob around, looking into the water. Just remember to put loads of sunscreen on the back of your legs.

A more energetic holiday
If you’re looking for something a bit more energetic, sign up for a scuba diving course.
There are two kinds of holidays that can be had on Havelock. One is the restful ‘do nothing’ sort I’ve described so far, where you spend you time swimming, chasing the perfect spot of shade on the beach and snoozing in it, and sipping coconut water as you read your book and wait for the sunset.
This is not the holiday you will have if you sign up for scuba diving, but you will not regret it. For the first day-and-a-half of the course, you will feel like you’re back in school, learning the theory of the equipment that helps you survive underwater, and then performing exercises with it that help you deal with possible emergencies. The hard work done, you’ll spend the other two days with your eyes wide open for the most time, as you navigate a completely different world, with its own set of rules and full of so many hundreds of beautiful things. At no point during these four days will you have time for anything other than scuba diving, big meals, and very sound sleep.
Havelock is a small place that even during peak season may seem rather empty and bare to you. But often, during this time, the resorts take turns organising little parties every night, to which all are welcome. There will be music, sometimes even a live band and dancing. In the distance, there will be the moon presiding over a dark sea.
It was at one such party that I spoke to some of the resort and dive shop owners who have made Havelock their home. Tourism and their presence has brought good things to the island; but also wrought changes that no one fully understands. There is more money, but no land, few jobs, and exposure to a way of life that is unfamiliar. But the people and the place still retain the original charm and innocence. It is a place where tourism has come slowly and without the big restaurants, shacks, casinos and discotheques that are the mark of a busy seaside holiday spot. Neither is it a place that has room for these. Don’t go there looking for a cleaner Goa; that is one kind of holiday you will not find in Havelock.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times in January.

diving!

2009-09-29T15:47:00.003+05:30

There's seawater rushing up my nose, suddenly harsh and corrosive. My brain starts sending me danger alerts, reminding me that I have a nose, not gills, and I cannot breathe underwater. With the mask off, my eyes burn and I want to sputter and snort.
Instead I pretend like all is cool. Like I’m the cat’s whiskers and all that stinging water doesn’t bother me one bit. I swab a palm across my forehead as though wiping off sweat on a balmy summer afternoon, and look around at my teammates giving them the thumbs up.

All this time my brain been telling me I’m mad. It’s shrieking that I’m completely, utterly off my rockers; that I’m not supposed to be immersed underwater in the ocean and certainly not without my mask. Another part of my brain, the more logical one, is telling it to shut up. The regulator bringing oxygen to my mouth from the tank strapped to my back is still firmly in place, it says. ‘Stop being a chick’ it adds, sounding dangerously like an annoying colleague.

I slowly put the mask back on, tilt my head back and snort to clear it of water, and look to my instructor to see how I’ve done. She gives me the thumbs up and I can see she’s smiling. As she turns to the others, I give a smug nod to the jellyfish that’s been hanging around my shoulder. Minutes before, it’d been mocking me saying I had no business being here. I showed it, didn’t I?

To swim or to sink

When you’re learning to dive, the turning point between wondering whether you’ll be able to and knowing you will is the first time you take off the mask and let the salt water use your nose and eyes like a playground. This is when most people go gasping up to the surface, losing track of where they are and the equipment their life depends on. It's the part I was most skeptical about too. But get past this, and the rest just steps of a learning process. And getting past is easy if you can keep the urge to press the panic button under control, even every cell in your body is screaming in retaliation.

You'll discover, that the more annoying part is the way the compressed air from the tank dries up your mouth. Getting thirsty 12 m below the surface, surrounded by a crush of salt water and not quite able to swallow thanks to the big regulator stuck into your mouth, is more than a wee bit inconvenient.

It's a lifestyle

Staying at the Andaman Bubbles dive resort for the four days of the course, diving seemed more like a way of life than a sport. We woke early to get out while the tide was high and the sun still climbing the sky. By the time I came back in the evening I was too tired for anything more than a big meal and a night of sound sleep. Drinking and smoking are no-nos and everybody is fit and tanned, or on their way to getting there. The conversation revolves around the day’s dive, the conditions, the merits of the location, and the creatures spotted.

But before you're let into the water, there's the theory. Facts and figures about the underwater world and the principles behind the equipment that will allow you to navigate it. For the first time in the many years since college, I found myself studying along with breakfast so that I would be prepared for the day’s quiz.

For a holiday, it was quite hectic. I didn’t do the whole chilling by the beach, going for a swim then lying on a sarong and reading thing, and fell asleep two songs into the cool resort party I was invited to, live music be damned. But all worthwhile sacrifices for what I got in exchange.

Getting down and dirty

Once you get past the theory and get intimate with the equipment, you're finally allowed into the water. In the beginning, I felt graceless and bulky. I would either sink to the bottom, head down by the numerous weights tucked in my belt, or bob around on the surface, made buoyant by the air-filled jacket I was wearing. The mocking jellyfish was back, smirking translucently at me again.

The trick lay in figuring out that even the minutest change in the amount of air inside you can make a significant difference at a depth. When you're 12m below the surface at neutral buoyancy, (positive buoyancy makes you float, negative makes you sink, and when it’s neutral you’re a bit in water like an astronaut in zero gravity) swimming over a big boulder in your path is a simple matter of breathing deeply to rise up above it, and then exhaling to float close on top of the coral bed again.

All I remember after that is a vignette of moments that I will never forget. Like suddenly finding myself in the middle of a school of bright blue and yellow fish on my second dive, hundreds of them all around, above me, below me, beside me. Or shivering together in a huddle as the sunny sky slowly turned grey after our dive, and the boat crawled across an ocean that heaved and shook in rain that fell like heavy sheets. Till the clouds, suddenly exhausted, withdrew to let the sun back out, and two perfectly symetric rainbows made the day bright again. And then the most spectacular moment of them all – the ocean at night -- a completely transformed landscape full of bobbing, sleeping fish, and giant crabs skittering across the ocean floor. Holding the torch close to my chest to make the darkness total and then waving my hands in front of me so that the water came alive in a hundred thousand pin points of lights that swirled all around me (plankton baby, the fireflies of the sea).

But don’t take my word for it. Go see for yourself.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on Spetember 19.

Photos courtesy Andrea Blasco

on the waves

2009-09-29T15:38:00.003+05:30

On a small boat in the middle of the sea, tossing about on the waves, salt dries on lips and the sun chars skin. There are no comforts here, but there’s a reverence for the wind that fills the sails and carries us homewards. Our little vessel is part of a grand old tradition, when men met the elements directly, without walls and cocoons to shield them. Their blood and sweat seeped into wooden hulls, becoming part of the lore of the vessels and the seas they sailed.

Despite being a product of the age of airplanes and cars, I felt the sea beckon and decided to make the most of my one chance at becoming a part of sailing lore. And so, even before I stepped on board the Mhadei, I vowed I'd prove to be a good sailor. No medicines to prevent sea-sickness for me, and treat me like part of the crew, I told the captain. He, a veteran of salt spray and changeful winds, accepted the extra pair of hands, though novice, willingly.

At the start of a journey

The monsoon was petering off, but it drizzled on the morning we were to start our 250 nautical mile journey from Goa to Mumbai. The day started early, with loading fresh supplies and luggage on board. As we cast off, Captain kept me busy, hauling in fenders and cajoling open stubborn sailors' knots. Then it was off to hoist our sail, assisting the first mate, himself a bit of a novice. We huffed and puffed, pushed and pulled with our might; Captain shouting out his encouragement, telling us to put our hearts into it.

By the time the sail was up, the shore was an indistinct haze, and the 56-feet-yacht was bouncing up and down in the metre-and-a-half swell. Caught up in my chores I'd had neither the time to notice the shore fade away nor the opportunity to feel sick. The wind filled the sails, tilting the boat 30-degrees, and our little vessel shot along, up the Western coast. The inevitable bout of seasickness struck and I upchucked my breakfast off the side of the boat; careful to make sure I did it downwind. Many a sailor has thrown up on the wrong side, only to have the wind hurl his stomach’s content right back at him.

Being sick is the easy part

Throwing up isn’t as bad as it sounds. You feel nauseated, you puke, and then you feel better. The key is to keep drinking water and eating, so that you keep up your energy. Take along plenty of fruits on your first long sailing trip; they’re really the only things you’ll feel like eating. Avoid going below deck; the fresh air and the sight of the horizon helps you feel much better. In fact, once I realised this, I took it to an extreme – refusing to move even to get my sunscreen. Consequently I burnt crisp, and let me tell you, that isn’t pretty. Don’t take the sun lightly: the combination of the boat’s pitching movement and the sun overhead has the effect of sapping your will. It also lulls you to sleep, just staying awake takes a lot of energy but it’s worth the effort.

No land in sight

Forty hours on a small boat sounds like a long time. But being in the middle of the sea is an amazing thing: by plucking you out of the context of land that always describes you, it also takes you out of time. It is easy to spend hour after hour just gazing at the waves with not a thought cluttering your head. At night too, I chose to sleep above deck, where I could see the sky overhead, and hear the waves lap the side of the boat.
The sky was an ever-changing canvas. Every time I opened my eyes, it reflected a different mood – mischievously dark, romantically moonlit, and even downright sombre and menacing.

Like a good sailor, I took on a night watch, and it was hard work, I’ll have you know. Though the monsoon is yet not officially over, fishing trawlers were out in full force. The boats themselves are easy to spot -- with their red, green and yellow lights -- but they travel in clusters, and it’s the nets strung between them, marked by tiny buoys, that you have to keep your eyes peeled out for. You don’t want to go over a net and risk having it entangled in your propeller or rudder.

Watch the wind

Morning dawned and the clouds hiding the sun were a godsend. Without the sun sapping all our energy, we felt like singing, taking photographs, and even considered cooked food. The sea was calmer and the wind steady, speeding us on our way. But out on the sea things can change very fast. As we sailed under a dark cloud, the temperature dropped suddenly and a powerful gust of wind slammed into our sail, angrily knocking it about. The boat tilted further, nearly 40 degrees to the right, and Captain rushed to the sail, reefing it in quickly. The boom swung in the wind, making the sail snap out a groan each time, and we sat anxious and quiet as Captain steered us to safer waters. The swell rose, and nearby trawlers seemed to disappear underwater each time a large wave came by. Then just as suddenly, the wind eased off and our boat righted herself.

Fairs winds were ours again and we sped homewards, dreaming of warm showers and hot meals. The wind seemed to caress us, and the water sparkled in the light of the gentler evening sun.

But never take the wind for granted, I learnt. As the shore of Mumbai came into sight and we saw the lighthouse marking the city’s southern-most point, the wind suddenly dropped completely. With home so close, the wind’s betrayal was a stiff blow to the heart. Amused by our downcast faces, Captain asked: “So sailors, you want to wait it out, or shall I turn on the engine?”
What do you think we chose?

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times

Photo courtesy INS Bitra

Speak easy on the Net

2009-07-14T12:47:00.001+05:30

I came across an odd little study last week. Researchers at Sydney's University of New South Wales have found that therapy and counselling over the Internet is equally effective in combatting depression as the same thing in person.

That makes no sense! Isn’t therapy one of the few things that is immune to the Internet, effective purely because of the relationship two people – the therapist and the patient –build up through meetings over a period of time? As the patient slowly begins to trust the therapist, he starts to open up and talk more about the issues plaguing him. Then how can the same thing be equally effective over an impersonal medium like the Internet?

Turns out, it is because of this very element of impersonality that therapy over the Internet is more successful. The anonymity offered by the fact that the patient is not actually sitting in the therapist’s office, allows him to feel freer with his thoughts and emotions. It emerges that one of the biggest hindrances in the process of regular therapy is the facade of everything is okay that the patient puts up for the therapist’s benefit. Over the Internet, the patient does not find this necessary and voices his troubles sooner, hence solving them sooner.

Then there’s none of the social stigma attached with therapy. No sitting in the waiting room and wondering if somebody will recognise you. Or even the hassle of getting an appointment or commuting.

This is beginning to sound reasonable. I think I know just what they mean when they say that the anonymity offered by speaking to an unknown therapist at the other end of an Internet connection is liberating. I’m part of the generation that grew up when the Internet was becoming popular and one of the first things we experimented with was chatting. We’ve logged on to chat rooms before they became the hunting grounds of paedophiles and sex addicts and frequently asked complete strangers, “a/s/l?”

Each one of us has had a close friend that we never met; a stranger whom we met in a chat room and got seriously pally with. Whom we told our every secret, every devilish thing we ever did. After all, this was someone who was not a part of our milieu and had nothing invested in it. Their only version of it was the one we painted, from our point of view. They were faceless (though photos were often exchanged), voiceless commentators who were sympathetic to our point of view and, better still, couldn't tell on us because they were not a part of our ‘real’ world.

It was like having an imaginary friend who was your wingman, who always stuck up for you, and never ratted on you; without being considered loony. Like talking aloud to yourself. But having an excuse for it, so no one would think you’re mad.

It was therapeutic.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times today

Lights in the sky

2009-07-10T20:12:00.003+05:30

When you encounter a riverfront like the Shanghai Bund, it’s easy to see why the earliest cities were always built by the banks of a river — it becomes a lively hub of activity. Shanghai’s historical administrative buildings line one side of the Bund along the Huangpu, creating a regal line-up of sedate, impressive buildings.

On the other side is the new Pudong district, the forever-twinkling downtown area, with its office buildings and the riverside restaurants. It’s also where the iconic Orient Pearl TV tower, the third tallest in the world, looms on the skyline like a glittering jewel.

On the slightly overcast Shanghai evening, the Bund seems like the very place to go for a relaxing stroll after a shopping spree at the adjoining Nanjing Street. There are skateboarders and kite flyers, kids with their grandparents, lovers and families out for a walk. Roaming peddlers sell sticks of barbecued meat that sizzle in the cool evening temptingly. And the irresistible river ferries, strung up with fairy lights, seem to be beckoning us. We hop on to one for a dinner cruise. For the next couple of hours, Shanghai glitters and sparkles past the railing, as we sit back and enjoy the breeze and a slow meal.

a version of this will be published in the hindustan times tomorrow

Dogs at night

2009-06-25T18:56:00.004+05:30

I haven't done one of these in a while. Andthen, suddenly, this thought automatically totalled up to 55.

Last night, when we came home at midnight, the dogs downstairs started barking madly; each one competing with the other in piercing the quiet of the late hour.
They probably woke the entire building up.
I wonder who's fault that was – ours for coming home late, or the neighbours', for having two noisy dogs.

idle thoughts

2009-06-24T14:44:00.000+05:30

June 23
Everything seems clearer when it rains. Like a mist has lifted. Or some kindly soul, spotting a smudge on my spectacles, has wiped them clean. Colours seem sharper: the brown of the tree bark seems to turn a warmer shade, the red of the new leaves is brighter. Sights that I would normally miss, leap out at me. The man at the raddi shop, picking up a red coke can at a time, and hammering it flat. The crowd of people waiting to cross the street standing in a long line side by side, instead of a huddle like they normally do. The reflection of the sky in the puddle, shivering lightly in the breeze. The echo of the hammer from the construction site two lanes away.
I'm more self contained too, during the monsoon. I need people and the distractions they provide much lesser. Sitting by the window, I read or work or listen to music, and am a complete unit. There is a contentment that manifests itself as delirious joy on the overcast mornings and an indulgent melancholy on dusky evenings.
I'm happy when it rains.

June 19
Yesterday, a loud confident voice drew away from my corner in the office towards the TV. “Shiney is a good man.” It was the actor’s wife Anupam Ahuja, proclaiming her husband’s innocence in the rape case he’s implicated in.
I wondered about her then, about what must be going on in her head. From what the cops say, it seems pretty certain that Shiney is, in fact, guilty of the crime he’s accused of or, if nothing else, an extramarital affair with his bai that went wrong. What would make a woman stand up in front of so many people after all that and proclaim her husband’s innocence so calmly and confidently?
Does she, despite it all, believe that her husband is innocent? That not only is he not a rapist, but he is also a loving and loyal man? Is that why she’s not turning away with a shudder of disgust?
Or is she simply being the good Indian wife: sticking by her man no matter what storm of controversy he is caught in? But does that mean she condones his extramarital affair (best case scenario) / rape (worst case scenario)? Or does she fail to consider the implications of the heinous crime her husband has possibly committed? Does she understand the implications and still choose to stand by him and support him?
Or far more interesting yet. Maybe she knows just exactly what he’s done, understands fully the implications of his actions and their comment on the man, and has chosen, despite it all, to stick by him because his career gives her the money, fame, and comfort that she wants.

Incidentally, do check out this article that is so full of the biases that so many amongst us have. It reminds me (and some of the older readers may remember that post) of the time when I lived in this 20 floor building in Wadala where the service staff and domestic help were not allowed to use the lift when a resident was in one of them. I found that infuriating and would always ask them to come in when I was there. They'd agree if I was alone, but never if another resident was always present. In fact, I'd get a stinker of a look from the other resident for even asking.

2009-05-01T18:24:00.001+05:30

The Chinese eat early and they eat long. Dinner normally starts at 6 pm and lasts until just past eight. When they eat out, which is often (when I went there, just before the Olympics last year, China was booming and everyone had a lot of money), they order one dish of every kind.
All the food is placed on a rotating glass top at the centre of the table and everybody gets a set of chopsticks. As the glass top is rotated slowly, you can reach in and pluck out of a bowl whatever you want. Only if the dish absolutely demands it do you serve food in a plate of your own. Otherwise the glass top keeps rotating and you keep picking.
At the end of the meal you always realised that too much was ordered. So do you pack the food and take it home or to give it away to someone? Don’t you suggest it; except among the younger crowd, that suggestion is frowned upon.
I wonder if the recession has made the Chinese more prudent at the dinner table.

Ever so healthy
For all the excess, food habits of the Chinese are rather healthy. Apart from the obvious benefits of an early dinner, there was the fact that almost all their preparations were sautés that used minimal oil and subtle spices or were grilled and roasted. I don’t think I had a single fried dish during the trip. The vegetarian dishes were especially good. Now before you raise an eyebrow – yes, I too have heard vegetarians complain about the lack of food options they face in China; but I think they just didn’t look in the right places. I came back particularly impressed with the Chinese preparations of a variety of greens, right from spinach and asparagus to rape and many types of beans, all cooked in a way that retained their original flavour and crunchiness.

When in Rome…
I’m a great believer in local food. I think it is one of the best ways to experience a place and in keeping with that, I avoided the KFCs and the Pizza Huts like the plague. (Except on one memorable occasion, when I wondered into a hot pot joint unknowingly. The menu was completely in Chinese, so the waitress and I decided via an extensive dumb charades that I should be taken to the kitchen to point at the foods I want to eat. When I got there, I discovered that there was no cooking stove there. The so-called kitchen was only a space where raw foods were cleaned and cut and put in bowls that were served at tables along with a personal pot of boiling water. I beat a hasty retreat and found my way to the nearest Pizza Hut).
The range of street food available was mind-boggling. For one there were the many types of dim sums, from the famous rice cakes of Xian (thick doughy creations) to the towers of dim sum steamed in bamboo containers that I found outside Yu Yuan garden in Shanghai.
At places like Beijing’s Wangfujing Street, there were the candy sticks of meat, like kebab skewers, some a little too bizarre for even me to experiment with. Starting from marinated bits of meat, to live scorpions and even a sea horse (which I almost tried, except it was too cute). For vegetarians, there were candied grapes and cherries, which were delicious.

Facing my nemesis
If I thought I was done with the hotpot though, I was wrong. The culmination of my Chinese food trail was my second encounter with that stove of boiling water. Tickled silly by my dad’s recounting of my experience at the hotpot joint, a friend of his decided I should get a guided tour. So he took us to his favourite joint in Jiangyin, about two hours outside of Shanghai, and sat us down to a table of raw food. I made the mistake of mentioning my fondness for seafood, so a lot of the raw food on the table came from the ocean’s depths and a fair amount of it was still alive. (If you don’t believe me, go see the video.)
Brown shrimps jumped in their jug, making water splash out on my arm. On a bed of ice, there was a clam-like thing, shell on one side and sinuously-moving mass of flesh on the other. My voice was several octaves higher as I asked our host, “I’m, ulpp, supposed to eat this?”
As he replied in the affirmative, I chose from a tray the ganishings that would go into my stove of boiling water – some garlic flakes, coriander, and chilli, a few dried prawns and a pinch of salt. I decided to take things slow, so first to go into my pot were a bunch of leafy greens that turned out tasting incredible. Emboldened by this early success, the shrimps went in next, jumping and dancing their way into the stove where they were covered and allowed to cook. (Can bubbling in a bowl of hot water with some salt and garlic for a minute be called cooking?) They turned a bright orange and actually tasted quite delightful.
The big hurdle was still to come though. The unnamed clam thing went into the pot next. It gurgled and bubbled loudly, and I jumped with each sound. In less than a minute, it wound up in my plate, and I heard myself asking plaintively, “Are you sure it’s cooked?”
Yes, yes. My fears were dismissed and the object was cut and served. Suffice it to say that it was chewy and tasted like an entire glass of water (which I gulped down with it). With that the ice was broken, and I could begin to enjoy the meal. There was sliced fish, oyster and chicken, and I have to admit that the food was very delicious and super healthy (no fears of too much oil, or overcooking and losing all the minerals eh?).

Parting words
If reading this has convinced you that local food is the way to go, then my work’s done. But before we part, as a cautionary tale, here’s the recipe for a dish that was really popular in China a few years back and I didn’t try.

Drunken Prawns

Put a dozen live prawns in a pitcher of vodka.
Leave covered for a couple of hours.
Use tongs to pick out a prawn, place deep inside mouth and then, with a backward jerk of your head, swallow.

Clearly, not all local foods should be tried.

Food on a stick: candied fruits above, and scorpions and sea horses below.

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Seafood. The cooked varied above and the raw type below.

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Hot pot fodder. Before (below) and after (above) the one minute of boiling in water that passes for cooking.

* A version of this will be printed in the Hindustan Times tomorrow

Right, so...

2009-04-06T19:14:00.003+05:30

I'm writing a travel blog on the HT website. Here.
And this is part of the job, so you might actually get regular posts. Go check it out, I have a couple of pics up from Andaman and Nicobar.

dreams of grandeur

2008-12-22T19:54:00.003+05:30

This is about Xian, China.

The hall is huge. Very wide, and twice as long. The ceiling, so high that even though there are over two hundred people inside here at the moment it just swallows up their words, dimming them to a dull murmur, like a distant waterfall.
Everybody is looking at the men in the pits. Terracotta men. Warriors whose weapons — spears, swords, bows and arrows — are no longer in their hands. Some of them are whole but most wear signs of their battle with time, missing bits of nose, ear, chest, leg; leftover smudges of once-bright colour.
They’re tall men, of noble bearing. You know it just by the expressions on their faces — chins up, looking squarely at whatever the future might bring. They stand in neat rows, protecting the tomb of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, who became the ruler of China in 246 BC.
Emperor Qin is credited with building a unified law-abiding nation — he defeated six kingdoms and built the first version of the Great Wall of China. He survived three attempts on his life and perhaps, as a result of them, became obsessed with the idea of death.
Some say that he died looking for Peng Lai, a mythical land of immortality, inhabited by the undying. He started the construction of his mausoleum and the Terracotta Army that was to accompany him in his battles in the afterlife, several years before his death.
The army was discovered fairly recently, in 1947, when a farmer digging a well in his field found pieces of terracotta arms and legs.

Imagining the possibilities
Inside Pit 1, listening to the guide’s story, it’s easy to let the imagination wing its way on a flight of fancy.
After the first few thousand warriors were excavated, the uncovering of the remainder was halted until a way could be found to continue the process without submitting them to the ravages that occur when they come in contact with air.
Looking at the row of warriors peter into a bank of soil, covered with tarpaulin, it’s easy to picture hundreds, nay, thousands of sombre-faced warriors standing in the dark, dank underground all the way to the tomb, about a kilometre away.
The imagined picture lends greater grandeur to what I actually see before me.

Old world charm
The Terracotta warriors maybe the reason why Xian figures on almost every tourist itinerary to China, but it’s not all there is to this city. Xian was once the starting point of the Silk Road, known as Chang’an in those days. Traders from along the route, Persia, Afghanistan, the Middle Eastern countries, came to live here, giving rise to the city’s Muslim Quarter, a tight knit group that exists even today, lending Xian its distinctive character.
Head here in the last of the evening light, so you can see the lights come on. Everyday is a festival here, with music and lights and dancing. Stalls that sell all kinds of foods, and nuts and souvenirs. Each step of the way you find something that catches your eye. Clay flutes that look like little pots. Crickets in tiny cane cages, like keychains — in Xian, the sound of the cricket is considered musical and brings luck. Don’t miss the ‘jing gao’, the rice cakes, and ‘shi zi bing’, the city’s famous parsemon cakes. Xian is also home to its distinctive dumplings — little doughy bundles of full of delicious meat and veggies, each bite soaked with flavour.
A tiny lane off Muslim Street leads to the local mosque. Here, the stalls come closer together and the bargaining is fiercer. Chinese kaftans and cheap cotton t-shirts compete for attention with antique silver and stone jewellery that is a unique mix of Chinese and Muslim designs. Narrow streets crisscross and run into one another, turning in on themselves in to a maze of bylanes.

A time for celebration
Walking out of Muslim Street, it feels like you’ve left behind a older century and entered a new one. Xian has the wide streets and well-behaved traffic that is typical of most Chinese cities. Broad sidewalks and boulevards encourage aimless strolls past the Drum tower and Bell tower at the city’s centre. Each inch of the monuments is lit with tiny yellow lights, looming in the night as the backdrop to so many Chinese kites snaking skywards through the evening breeze.
In the square between the two Xian landmarks, a boisterous celebration is on, celebrating the launch of a new energy drink. There’s music and contests and ice sculptures, and streams of melt water at our feet. I like the lemon flavour more than the orange, and as I nod my approval, I get offered a second; ‘Welcome to China’ says the beaming face attached to the hand extending it to me.
Suddenly the music changes to a more steady, urgent beat, and tall beautiful models walk on to the improvised ramp, their heels clicking in time with the music.

A slice of life
Xian’s two main streets cut the city into four quarters, like an orange, The Bell and Drum tower like the pits in the centre. Heading east down Main Street, I walk past the more modern shops, the McDonalds and the KFCs, the international brands that are booming in a China where suddenly everybody has more money to spend on clothes and eating out. And then all of a sudden are the souk-like bylanes. Offshoots from the streets full of designer labels that meander into no where — displaying women’s knick knacks like hair clips and cosmetics on one side, and fresh meat and seafood and nuts on the other — and beckon to you in with the friendly babble that your can hear from far away.
It’s these little surprises that make Xian the sort of place where you want to finish off the main sightseeing spots on your agenda quickly, so you can spend the rest of your time walking around, exploring. It tempts you to stop and watch the kites soaring in the sky, to listen to the haggling at the shops, watch the musician’s fingers fly over the holes in his clay pot flute, to sip a beer sitting at the park benches and take a late night walk on the lit ramparts of the city walls.
It also makes you wish you were in the city on a Wednesday, so you could find out for yourself if the rumours you heard of boisterous noisy cricket fights held during the weekly market in the Muslim Quarter that could put the cock fights of old to shame are true.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on December 6

see what I saw

2008-12-06T12:25:00.004+05:30

After eight hours of crouching by the side of the Taj, scouring its left profile, picking out every wart (there were few), examining every window, every corner, seeing the front was overwhelming.
I’ve looked at this facade so many times before. Quick glances while walking in; slow examinations while standing at the seafront promenade engrossed in conversation; complete awe when I saw it in the distance, from the harbour ferry coming back to Gateway. Its bright façade looming in the smoggy, orange night; a solid block of light in Mumbai’s twinkling coastline.
I looked at that facade again that night. Darkened. Slowly, as the fact that the naval commandoes had managed to push the terrorists to the rear left corner of the building sank in, a light or two went on in some rooms. Some occupants (they’re hostages now, my brain interjected) were waving at their windows, seeking the attention of the firemen already setting up their ladders to evacuate as many as they can.
It was an incongruous sight. Frightened, harrowed faces framed at windows that looked into comfortable rooms. Tasteful fabric and classy furnishings witnessing their fear, smelling their sweat.
Towards the left of the front façade, no lights went on. But the windows were lit in a golden glow there as well, this one dancing in the still night. (It was a very still night. I remember being surprised by that again and again during that night. Maybe the import of what was happening, weighed in on everything). A fire set by grenades that was put out by the seven, eight, nine fire engines that showed up; only to flame up again with every loud explosion that shook the silent night.
The road in front of the Taj has scorched patches at periodic distances, where grenades were dropped. The windows of a car are shattered. (Only one; why didn't more break?) .
A man in a white shirt walks over the scorched patch I’m staring at. He’s talking on the phone, coordinating the rescue efforts or something. Maybe he’s a hotel official, maybe a cop. As he walks, he looks up at a lit window where a woman and a girl are waving a white handkerchief. They want to be rescued and are trying to catch someone’s eye. They’ve been noticed, but no one has the time to stop and reassure them that their turn will come and their nightmare will get over. The man spots them and waves back, without a break in his stride.

In the morning, I was thirsty and my ankles hurt. So much.
Not my knees, from crouching behind a pile of concrete paving blocks all night. From crouching, as I moved slowly in the dark.
Not my butt, from sitting constantly on the pavement. Getting up every now and then to stretch my legs, to try to see more. But mostly concentrating on staying out of the way of the operation and being a mute witness.
Not my eyes, from staring nonstop. Trying to adjust to the night and see more. From blinking less. From seeing wave after wave of cops, armymen, commandos go in and, some minutes and gunshots later, the return trickle of injured men.
Not my ears, which had just learnt to distinguish the sounds of an AK-47 shot from that of a pistol or a rifle. That rang with the sounds of the periodic grenade blasts, slowly learning to judge the distance and direction more accurately.
My ankles.
I remember cursing the flatmate’s cat. Two days before, he’d bit me in the left heel. I maintained that he was having a nightmare and it was an involuntary reaction, cause one second he was asleep, the next he bit me, and then he was asleep again. But during that vigil outside the Taj, I cussed him as I stood there, shifting weight from my tired right foot to the left, and then back again immediately, cause the left hurt too much.
I remember the sorrow and the distress of the crime reporters when they confirmed the news that Kamte, Salaskar and Karkare were dead. Heads collapsed into shaking hands and, for a moment, the silent night was even more silent. Then they were back at work: Discussing the ramifications of the deaths, the TV journos calling in their reports, in that screaming-to-be-heard-above-the-crowd-and-noise voice they use.

I remember the waiting. Most of that night was about waiting. Waiting to piece together what was happening in other parts of the city and understand the magnitude of the attack. Waiting for the next grenade to be thrown. Waiting for the next round of firing. Waiting for the next injured man to be rushing out of the Taj, waiting for the next batch of hostages to be freed, waiting for the naval commandos, waiting for the firemen, waiting for the NSG, waiting far the tear gas, waiting, waiting. Waiting for it to be over.
I remember having our hopes pinned on the NSG. Wait till they get here, then it’ll be over in a couple of hours. They’ll be here at daybreak, and then the terrorists won’t have any place to run.
I was looking at a pigeon sleeping on a window of the Taj all night. I realised it was daybreak when I discovered that many more pigeons were now sharing his perch. Just minutes before dawn the NSG commandos, in their crisp black, had slunk into the Taj. Half an hour went by; there were gunshots. Another hour, and some more intermittent firing. With each gunshot the pigeons took off from the Taj, circled the sky above it, and returned to the same spot. The naval commandos brought in more ammo, more tear gas. More time.
At around 8:30 am, I decided to end my vigil. I wanted to see it through but I was tired, physically and mentally, and no longer so sure that with the NSG here it was just a matter of hours. My phone had been off all night, I knew people were worried. I went back.

ps. There are more things I remember. As I find the words for them, I’ll add them on.

pps. For C, who worried all night. See what I saw.

ascending to the clouds

2008-09-22T13:03:00.002+05:30

Chinese cities are a lot like Indian ones. Always bustling and full of people. When you’re in a good mood, they seem vibrant and full of infectious energy, but when you’re tired, they’re noisy and exhausting and all you want to do is get away. It was on one such formidably sunny day in Shanghai that we slipped away to Wuxi for an overnight trip.
Wuxi is the home of the Lingshan Grand Buddha — an 88-metre-high bronze statue of Sakyamuni Buddha — the largest Buddha statue anywhere in the world. It was built only in 1996, but is already very popular not just among Buddhists, but other tourists as well. So you’re likely to encounter crowds here as well. But don’t worry, the serene and large grounds some how just swallow them up.
I couldn’t have asked for better weather when I visited. The sun hid behind the clouds and a light drizzle made the surrounding hillside cool and green. Standing beside the Maji mountain, facing the Taihu lake, the statue made for a majestic sight. But the best part was that it wasn’t the only thing there that caught my eye. At every step right from the entry to the 216 steps that lead up to the statue, there was yet another glimpse from the life of Buddha.
Like the massive bronze pillar, topped with a lotus bud, that you see, as soon as you enter. Four times a day, this opens up to the accompaniment of specially-composed music and a fountain show, to tell the story of Buddha’s birth. Or the statue of the laughing Buddha — if you manage to toss a coin into his mouth, you can be sure of good luck for the rest of the year.
There are engraved scenes from Buddha’s years of meditation in the forest, a temple for the faithful, and a 12-metre-high hand, an exact replica of the one on the statue, that you can pat and walk around for blessings.
But while the sights were fascinating, the best part was the secular nature of the place. It was both a pilgrimage for Buddhists and a sightseeing spot for tourists. There were people posing for photos and buying souvenirs. And there were those who knelt, shut their eyes and prayed. And still others, who came to sightsee, but stayed a little longer to light a few candles.

The long flight of stairs (216 steps) leading to the giant statue is called the ‘Ascending to the Clouds Route’.

The Lingshan Giant Buddha is 88 metres or 250 feet tall, which makes it about a 100 feet taller than the Statue of Liberty; Rubbing the toes of the statue brings good luck.

Turning a cylinder once is the equivalent to reciting the scriptures once. You can walk around the Sutra-turning corridor and turn the 108 cylinders to earn blessings.

The fountain show called the ‘Bathing by Nine Dragons’ takes place four times a day. While the rest of the pillar is bronze, the baby Buddha statue placed inside the lotus is gold-plated.

The statue of the plump Maitreya Buddha and the babies tickling him are a traditional expression of people’s wishes for a happy and prosperous future. Managing to toss a coin into his mouth brings luck.

An engraving that shows how Buddha meditated under a Bodhi tree for seven days and nights, suppressing the inner devils.

During the construction, when the hand was left sitting at the site for a while, people began burning incense to the hand and rubbing it to show their devotion. Seeing its popularity, the administrators left the palm there and a cast a new one for the statue.
A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on September 28.

the boatman's song

2008-08-20T15:56:00.005+05:30

As a 12-year-old, Venice had made a great impression on me. The stone foundations loomed straight out of the water, music pervaded the canals, and there were arched bridges everywhere. I liked nothing better than standing on a bridge, head hanging down, watching the boats go under and out of my vision, listening to the songs of the gondoliers.

Earlier this month, I revisited that memory. Standing atop a bridge, looking at the reflection complete the arch and make a circle in the water. And the line of boats floating through that circle, making the reflection ripple. But the music was different. A Chinese boatman’s song, its cadence like a heartbeat, falling and rising with a reassuring regularity.

That weeping willow-lined canal, and the old houses beside it, is part of the Venice of the East. The name belongs to the city of Suzhou and the small townships around, that are well known as the few remaining water townships in China. But development and progress have taken the water out of Suzhou, leaving behind only the ancient private gardens and tall, modern buildings.

It is only in smaller townships like Zhou Zhuang and Tong Li that fragments of an old way of living have been lovingly preserved. Though often you wonder if the preservation has come at a harsh cost — the houses along the canals have become shops, selling painted likenesses of the town, flutes, jewellery, tea sets, and the locally grown Grandma’s Tea. There are new houses being built along the canal, but they’re mostly vacation condos, part-time homes for the rich of Shanghai.

But, then again, if you look around carefully, you’ll find that under the veneer of commercialisation, life does continue in the old way. In the way the lady at the teashop scurries to her house in a back alley to fetch fresh snacks; in the older, nuder boats that you spot in side canals, so different from the ones ferrying tourists up and down. And long after you’ve left, the boatman’s melody will replay in your head, and you’ll know that it’s rising and falling cadence has always been that way.

A version of this will be published in the Hindustan Times tomorrow

My cat, the goldfish

2008-08-15T17:16:00.005+05:30

My cat has schizophrenia.Here, right out the outset, let me clarify that he isn't really my cat. He belongs to my flatmate. But since she only wakes up at 11 am, and he likes to have his first meal at 7 am, he's adopted me as his primary food provider. I suspect that's my only role in his life. Though I'm also occasionally required to scratch him, and sometimes, be scratched. But all in good time.

To go back to where I started, he's one of the most multifaceted people I know. He's one part cat and one part dog. There's also some goldfish and ostrich thrown in for good measure. Just to avoid repetition, I suppose. I also think he's gay. He lives in a house with three women who fawn over him (though one only from a distance), yet he's happiest when there's a man in the house. He's also quite the slut, believes in sharing the love with all new men who come into the house. None of the catlike being snooty and being picky for him. But I guess that's also the dog part of him making him all affectionate. (Except of course with the people who provide him food and shelter; us he takes for granted with a healthy dose of the disdain that is otherwise missing in his relationships.)

He has an extremely short memory. Leave the house for a few days and he'll forget you ever existed. Every time I come back from a trip, I have to be prepared to have my advances jilted. He only begins to recollect faintly my role as the regular supplier morning time food when the next 7 am rings around. But it get's shorter, his memory, to a goldfish-like five seconds. So flatmate can use the same red string to distract him and draw him out of the room, again and again. No matter how many times the door slams shut on his face, the silly billi falls for the red string ploy every single time.

When he gets bored of that game, we play hide and seek. He burrows his head under my bedsheet and feels well hidden. Only until his very exposed and gigantic ass (it's about 5 times the size of his head) is thwacked. But does he learn? Oh no, the ostrich in his blood doesn't let him. So back he'll go, head burrowed under the roommate's bedsheet this time, feeling all secure and well hidden. Right until the point when he jumps up in surprise when his ass is thwacked again. And then he'll turn his big round eyes on you, looking betrayed, accusing, "You peeped. The sheets are transparent? You have x-ray vision!"

But hey, I'm not complaining. He's one helluva cat. A handsome cat, all puss-in-bootish, especially at night when his black pupils swell to fill his eyes. And he's got enough personality to fill a house with. A big house. With two bedrooms, a giant hall, and a roomy kitchen, which are all empty 'cept for me right now. I think I would consider bouncing off the walls if he didn't take care of that chore for me. Though he usually does that at 3 am, our sleep cycles being completely at odds.

(He sleeps till 3 am. Wakes up, starts bouncing into things and streaking across the house. Stays up till his morning meal. Then disappears, only to make a guest appearance whenever he needs water, food, or a human leg to rub against. He occasionally deigns to meow at old crows.)

Photo courtesy Charles

the Fellowship of the Wall

2008-08-13T18:28:00.004+05:30

When we set out there were four. But one by one, my companions dropped behind, daunted by the seeming endlessness of our path, the steepness of the hurdles, the unflagging manner in which they just kept coming in our way.
One was lost in the very beginning. Daunted by the harsh sun beating down on the unprotected mountaintop. Another dropped out just past the halfway mark; spirit unflagging, but the body demanding rest. My third companion gave me company for long. But at last, she too fell by the way, gasping out her parting words, “So. Many. Big. Steps.”

So many big steps
That statement from Rainy, my friend in Beijing, who came with me to the Great Wall, had to be the understatement of the trip. “So many big steps” could not even begin to describe our attempt to walk the Great Wall (though why the act of going up and down the stairs that make up the Wall is called walking, I don’t know).
Surely, there would have been bits where the Wall dipped before climbing again, where the steps must have led down, instead of up. But I don’t remember these bits. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t climbing, my eyes set at the last tower that I’d promised myself I would reach. A time when I wasn’t surprised when the baby steps that I was climbing three at a time, suddenly changed into an enormous boulder (a big step in Rainy’s lexicon) that I had to clamber over.

In the beginning, it’s always easy
As is usual with these things, at first I had no idea just what exactly I’d let myself in for. And there were absolutely no hints.
There are four access points to the Great Wall around Beijing that are open to the public. The most popular is Badaling, two hours from the city, well conserved and in some ways the newest, since it’s constantly being made safer and more comfortable for tourists. But I wanted old stone, really old stone. So I went to Mutianyu, a less popular and hence less developed, and so for me more fascinating, section of the Wall. The drive itself, through beautiful countryside and mountain views, convinced me that I’d made the right choice.
We stopped on the way to buy the biggest, juiciest peaches I’ve ever seen, the colour of winter sunsets. And fresh nuts of all kinds — macadamia and hazelnut; chestnuts and walnuts of three kinds — roasted to crisp perfection. There were several little roadside restaurants, the Chinese equivalents of highway dhabas I imagine, with little fishponds where you could catch your own meal, and I pre-picked the one where we would stop for lunch on the way back.
At Mutianyu, a ropeway took us to the entry point into the Great Wall. Without breaking into the slightest sweat, or straining my little-used muscles at all, I was atop one of the greatest wonders of the world, the Great Wall. So excuse me for thinking that the rest would be just as easy.

Knowing when to stop
Just being on top of the Wall isn’t enough, one has to ‘walk’ it. Since the five people who came before us had started walking to the left, I obviously chose to go right. As we made our way to the first tower, it seemed as though the sun had decided to concentrate all its power into a single beam focused right on us. Taking cover in the tower, my companions pressed for a break, but I egged them on. It didn’t help that a cheery little lady selling chilled beer, juice and water, sat under an umbrella by the tower, looking calm and not-sweaty. I blame her completely for the first dropout from our fellowship; she swayed my mother with the promise of shade and cold juice.

Depleted, but not beat, the three who were left pressed on. Another tower came and went; and another. A boarded-up guard’s hut. And pretty Luna from France, leaning against the wooden wall, reading. The Moroccan man and his pregnant Belgian wife, slowly climbing the stairs, resting in the tower.
The towers were tiny oases of shade, community spots where you didn’t need to speak a common language to get along; just that feeling of “so many big steps” writ large in the wan smiles you exchanged was enough to build a sense of camaraderie, the sense of a shared experience.

Reaching the top
I kept climbing mechanically, my hand trailing along the wall, as though touching the surface could give me a sense of the years it had stood. The more I concentrated on the details, the lesser I noticed the fact that I was still climbing, or that I was now alone. I marvelled at how green the moss was, growing in the gaps between the large stones of the wall. The way the stone steps seemed to change colour depending on the angle at which the sunlight hit them.
When I finally did reach the top, with the sign stopping visitors from going any further, I’d somehow forgotten that I’d been climbing. But only until I turned around and saw the wall undulate on the mountainside behind me. Then there was nothing for it but to find a shaded spot and marvel at the distance I’d come, and how little it was compared to the length I could see stretch out before me in the distance.

Not everything that goes up, comes down
The return should have been all downhill. After all, what goes up, must come down, right? Not with the Great Wall. I can’t quite explain the physics of it, but I swear on the beautiful linen skirt I bought on discount in Shanghai (for about one fourth what it costs here), at the Great Wall, you climb up to go down.
Even so, going back didn’t take as much time, gathering my fallen comrades along the way, telling other sweaty climbers that yes, that climb was definitely worth it. But if you thought the adventure was over, think again. To go back down from the mountain, you have several options. The cable car or the ropeway. Or the one that we took, tobogganing down a long slide that snakes through the mountainside right to the bottom. Just plant your bottom on the tiny rubber cart, grab on to the lever that is both your brake and accelerator, and remember to lean into the turns!

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on August 14.

Decked up

2008-08-06T14:28:00.019+05:30

From the moment I get into a taxi and pull out of the Beijing Airport, all the signs are there. From the red flags fluttering on poles along the expressway, welcoming participating teams, to the five rings painted on the main lane, restricting it for Olympic vehicles only. Beijing is clearly a city gearing up to host the 2008 Olympic Games.

Olympic flags line the streets

The main lane is retricted for Olympic cars only.
Most people follow the rule

All construction in this fast-growing city is at a standstill for the Games, the sites cordoned off with neat facades. Like a soldier dressed in a new uniform, the creases neatly in place, the city too is decked up – manicured lawns line the roads, hedges are pruned just so. Fully-grown trees have been transplanted from nurseries to the sides of roads, propped up by tripod-like supports. And it seems like all the flowers in Beijing have conspired to bloom just now, to wow the crowd of visitors here for the Games.

What size tree you want?

Tasteful flowers everywhere

There’s no sign of the dreaded traffic I’ve heard about. On even dates, only cars with even number plates ply on the roads, odd numbers on odd dates. The off days of working people across the city have been staggered across the week, so that on any given day, there are fewer people on the roads. And in offices across the city, employees have been encouraged to take their annual vacations during the Games. A couple I met at the airport, practising Buddhists, were on their way to India, on a pilgrimage to Varanasi and Bodh Gaya. They could stay a week or a month; their office was okay with both.

Posing with the Fuwa

The Fuwa, the five cheery mascots of the Games, are everywhere. In the foyers of malls and shopping centres, with little children posing next to life sized figures. And on keychains and bags and scarves and any kind of souvenir that you could possibly want at the many Olympic Flagship Stores in the city. There are even miniature working models of the Torch to be had, but they cost a pretty penny. Looking for a bargain, I wander off a branch of the bustling Wangfujing Walk Street and find myself a Fuwa t-shirt for just 20 RMB.

The sheer variety of Olympic souvenirs is overwhelming

At Tiananmen Square, last minute preparations are still on. I watch wonderstruck as a large crane gingerly lifts a single flowerpot at a time, placing it in its rightful place in the Olympic logo taking shape right before my eyes. Next to it is a replica of the Nest, the impressive Olympic Stadium.

I was impressed by the precision of the exercise

the nestplica!

As I look around, a policeman walks up to me, warning me to hold my bag closer in the crowded Square. He points out the police booth, where I can go if I need assistance. And he’s not the only one willing to help out. There are volunteers everywhere; only some speak English, but all are ready to engage in a game of dumb charades and lend a hand if they can.

When the sun sets, the faint smog hanging over the city glows lightly orange. The lights come on, and I spot the clock outside the National Museum, counting down the hours to the 2008 Olympic Games in bright yellow numbers.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times today.

light and dark

2007-11-21T23:59:00.000+05:30

She's wearing a green sari with a gold border and sitting, one leg bent, on a thela. Around her, people have fallen asleep; except for the half-awake man huddled on a tarpaulin sheet on the ground, reaching across his wife to pull the sheet.
Her right arm is resting on the knee of the bent leg, her head bent at an angle, as she looks at the cars going by. At one in the morning, there isn't exactly much traffic on this road. I wonder what she's thinking as she looks out; her gaze is unwavering, her face unchanging except for reflections of passing headlights, alternately light and dark.

One night in Kathmandu

2007-11-14T00:06:00.000+05:30

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on Saturday, November 10.

Urban Gypsy - Kathmandu

What struck me first was the number of children in the waiting crowd. While I was trying to psyche myself into bravado, they were running around fearlessly. Playing catch and almost tripping over the priest, while I found it hard to look away from the buffalo waiting to be sacrificed. Oblivious to the children’s antics and the flutterings in my stomach, the priest was meticulously laying out the ingredients of a familiar ritual.
There was going to be a full moon in Kathmandu that night…

Heart of the old city
We’d rolled into Kathmandu late the previous evening. Tired, but hungry, we headed out in search of dinner. But walking through the tourist district of Thamel, it felt as though we’d been plunged into some postmodernist dystopia of neon lights, loud music, drug pushers and American convenience stores.
In the brightness of the next morning, Kathmandu seemed friendlier. Ready to make the most of our only day in the Nepali capital, we headed to Durbar Square. The complex comprises the Royal Palace that was the home of the Nepali rulers till recently and about 50 temples. Closed to cars, it’s perfect for a long mid-afternoon stroll, weaving your way among the temples. The lack of traffic means it’s a convenient hangout for local teens and couples, as well, sitting comfortably on the large stone steps. Exploring the temples took us a couple of hours, but the one that really caught my attention was the Kumari Che– the temple to the Living Goddess. The young girl looking down at us from the balcony had been selected as a reincarnation of Goddess Taleju at the age of four. According to tradition, she would stay at the post till she reached adolescence. I wondered what life for her would be like after that.
The only way to know was to speak to a former Kumari. We found out from a priest that a former living goddess, Rashmila Shakya, lived close by and decided to track her down.
But before that, we had another appointment.

As the moon looks on
At one corner of the Durbar Square is a temple of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati. We’d been told that every full moon, a goat and buffalo are sacrificed to them and their idols washed in the warm blood. Animal sacrifices in a crowded square in the capital city? This I had to see.
The sacrifice began as the sun started to dip below the horizon. Two men rapidly trussed up the goat and slit its throat before the altar; warning onlookers to step away. A collective gasp went through the crowd as the goat’s life drained out of its body, one plaintive bleat silenced even before it was over. Finally, the severed head was placed before the idols. I willed myself to look, thinking that if I could eat meat, I should be able to watch or be called a hypocrite.
The buffalo was trussed up next; its mouth roped shut, legs tied together. Unlike the goat, which could be lifted to the altar, the buffalo posed a problem for the men. To ensure that the blood reached the idols, its throat was skinned, a vein identified and slit; and a foot planted on buffalo’s stomach to apply pressure and pump the blood out. It was gory, yet not one person, including all the children, looked away. We were all held in place by morbid fascination.

In search of a goddess
Walking through the narrow streets of old Kathmandu, we tried to shake off the impact of what we’d seen and look for the Kumari. Once we found her locality, it was easy to get directions to Rashmila Shakya’s house; goddesses are well-known. And though we turned up unannounced, she agreed to meet us.
One would think that the transition from divinity to mortality would not be an easy one. But Rashmila Shakya seemed to have managed it with relative ease. There was dignity in her shyness, and even her ‘flaws’ had a touch of the divine. She doesn’t speak fluent English because conventional education was thought unnecessary for a goddess. And she has two balding spots on either side of her head, the result of having her hair constantly pulled back in the hairdo of a Kumari.
She was once at the head of processions that thousands participated in; today she is an IT engineer, applying for jobs like any other 24-year-old. Yet, she doesn’t think that her two realities are incompatible. “The way I think of it,” she said, “I’m luckier than other people because I have had a chance to live two different kinds of lives. I miss feeling that importance sometimes, but here I am among my family, and they make me feel an important part of their lives.”
She talked to us about growing up in the Kumari temple, its rituals, about returning home to family life, and being the only Kumari who is a graduate. As we said our goodbyes, I managed to get her to recommend her favourite Nepali dishes.

That knockout Roxy
The first thing we did after leaving her house was to write postcards to our families, “A goddess recommended my dinner menu!” The second thing was to go to a restaurant in Thamel and order those dishes. Kathmandu’s coup de grace in a day of sensory overloads was a mud tumbler full of ‘Roxy’, a local brew that came with the food. She’s a knockout, that one.

The brilliant photos were taken by Akshay, who learnt something about himself that day; that when he's behind the camera, he can take just about everything.

On top of the mountain

2007-11-06T13:38:00.001+05:30

A version of the following was published in the Hindustan Times about a month back. All these words and still, I was able to say nothing about the quiet exhilaration of that moment when the rain let off for fifteen minutes and I set out on a solitary stroll. Down, past the stream, to the outermost outcrop of mountain overlooking the horseshoe river. Where I sat and looked at the v-shaped patch of sky where two mountain slopes met. I felt alive and content and peaceful.
But, read about the rest.

On top of the mountain

Who would've though that cooking and eating a packet of Maggi could be such a complicated affair? But the truth is that at 13,000 feet, the two-minute-noodles take a whole longer than that to cook. And demand a lot of gymnastics.

First, you have to pray for the rain to stop. Then, you have to shelter the stove behind a pile of rocks. When that proves inadequate, the only option is to use your body as a shield from the cold biting wind. Even so, the flame goes out every 30 seconds, and you have to stay alert and re-light it quickly. Eventually, the water boils and you toss the Maggi in. A longer eventually later, it's ready to eat.

Taking the food out on a plate is a bad idea. There, on the top of the mountain in the middle of the night, it cools down almost instantly. The only way to eat it warm is for all five campers to sit around the stove and eat directly from the kettle, passing around the sole fork.

In the beginning, there was the sun

When you've just driven 3,200 km across two countries in a red three-wheel autorickshaw, driving on one of the highest motorable roads in the world seems like the next logical thing to do. Which is why, when we reached Manali at the end of the Monsoon Rickshaw Run with a day to spare, we decided to head up to Rohtang Pass.

Almost no one who we met or spoke to thought the rickshaws could go up the steep, barely-there roads. But then, almost no one had thought we could make the trip from Kolkata to Manali either. Without falling off a mountain, being stranded without petrol, having a major breakdown or getting caught in torrential rain. None of those things had happened. How could this be any different?

Tempting fate

When we set out from Manali, the day was cold and clear. We fuelled up at the last petrol pump out of the hill station. According to our calculations, a full tank would be just enough to get us about 10 km past Rohtang Pass to a place where we could camp, and then back to the petrol pump again. For safety, we filled up a jerry can with extra fuel, which went with Chris and Owen who were accompanying us in their autorickshaw.

The drive up took over four hours. Many times, we had to get off the rickshaw and push it up steep inclines, then run and jump into it as the one behind the wheel kept it moving. But the views were worth the labour. Nothing could dampen the exhilaration we felt when we looked down at the curving steep road behind us. As we went higher, the vegetation became sparse, and dotted with patches of white ice.

Then, a landslide blocked our path and it seemed we would have to turn back. But the workers managed to clear enough of the road to give us a space to squeeze through. Twenty minutes before Rohtang, we passed a wide waterfall that had frozen over. Behind the hard packed ice, we could still hear the water flowing. It seemed magical.

The Rohtang Pass that we finally reached was a much-diminished version of the mountainside covered in hard muddy ice that I remembered from a previous trip. But the place was busy as ever, with tourists posing in front of the 'zero-point' sign, eating corn on the cob, and tossing empty wrappers by the side of the road. We decided to move on quickly to a place without crowds.

Watch what you wish for

It started drizzling just as we finished setting up camp on a grassy hillside 17 km beyond Rohtang Pass. Pitching the tents was an adventure in itself, considering that only two of the five people trying to do it had ever been camping before. A horse grazing on the mountainside tried taking a bite out of our tent with its camouflage-print brown and green leaves. It looked truly mystified by these strange leaves that it couldn't get a grip on. From the place we had pitched our tents, the hillside rolled on gently for a bit then dropped sharply, a small river flowing by in front. Beyond that was another range of mountains, brown and barren with snow-capped peaks. At the highest point on our hillside was a pole adorned with many hundred strings of prayer flags, each fluttering in the wind with an urgency.

Owen, the ever-genial Brit, stuck out his palm to catch the rain and said, "Is this the monsoon… where is all that torrential rain I heard of?" We shushed him and looked around anxiously. And sure enough, the heavens decided to oblige him and fulfil his wish.

What looked pleasant and picturesque in the warm sunlight, became majestic and awe-full when the sky became overcast and all was shadows. With the rain came the cold winds and the temperature dropped suddenly. All five of us huddled inside the larger tent, listening to the raindrops breaking loudly on the cloth over our heads, trying to calculate just when the waterproof material would become too wet to be waterproof anymore, or whether the other tent would survive the strong winds.

It was past 11pm when the rain finally stopped and we were hungry and very, very cold. Stepping out of the tent on to a mountainside to the darkness and the realisation that there was no soul around for miles (at least none that we knew of) was a strange feeling. We scrambled around to cook ourselves a satisfying meal of instant noodles and tea and sat around the charcoal (more for the feeling of warmth then any actual warmth they gave) exchanging stories.

Murphy's Law*

Morning couldn't come quickly enough. With the first sign of light, I started to unzip the tent an inch at a time, hoping to slowly acclimatise myself to the cold outside. At least, it wasn't raining. We quickly packed up camp and made ready to leave. But just as we finished, it started to rain again.

If you thought driving up the Himalayas in an autorickshaw was tough, picture this. A cold morning with even colder winds and rain like drops of ice. Our autorickshaw may have brought us so far, but it was no protection from the rain and it wasn't long before we and all the five layers of clothing each of us had on were completely wet. The barely-there roads became streams of muddy water. Visibility was low. If that wasn't trouble enough, we ran out of fuel. The boys, who were driving ahead of us just then, didn't realise that we had stopped and drove off with the spare fuel. It was important to keep moving, so we pushed the rickshaw up inclines and free-wheeled down slopes. We'd travelled about five km this way by time Chris and Owen realised we were missing and came back.

Pouring the fuel into the tank turned our fingers blue. As it evaporated from our fingers, it made the already biting cold we were in seem like child's play. But by this time, we were beyond caring. We just needed to get off this mountain.

We drove like we'd never driven before in our 15 days with the autorickshaw. We'd been caught in torrential rain, and stuck without petrol. The only reason we didn't end up down a hillside somewhere is that some magical hand must have been guiding us, because we drove at a speed of 40 kmph down that hill, slowing down for nothing, not potholes or hairpin turns.

Distant dream

Back in Manali, after a warm shower and with a cup of hot tea in our hands, the events of the previous night and the morning already seemed distant and unreal. Now that we were dry and warm and well-fed, we could laugh about our adventures and file them under 'experience of a lifetime'.

As we'd kept reminding ourselves while we shivering up on that mountain, some things are better in the retelling.

* 'Whatever can go wrong will go wrong, at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way'

say hello

2007-11-04T16:09:00.000+05:30

Priyak's cat. Mr Mahajan's hands. Photo by me.

indulgence

2007-10-27T13:43:00.000+05:30

When Priyak first saw what is now his home, it was just four barely-there walls sheltering some weeds. Now, in addition to a house, there is a back garden that is an orchard in the making. Three-feet-high plants that promise breadfruit, cheeku, papayas and mangoes in the future, looked over by a gigantic jackfruit tree, laden with ripe fruit, a remnant of the past.

Peer over the back fence and you see tiled roofs and a thin lane that the sand and mud have almost reclaimed for their own again.

From the garden, nine steps lead down to a tiny lawn. The steps are made of roughly-hewn slabs of rock, tiny shells embedded in them. At the centre of the lawn is a waist-high plant with small pink flowers. Tiny leaves grow in hundreds upon small branches that stick out from the plant’s centre like staggered plates.

Sitting in the back verandah, all I can hear is the whirring of a tablefan, which gets louder as it swivels towards me, some cicadas and the occasional bird. By ten in the morning, all is already hot and languid and even the birds are snoozing in the shade of the leaves. Even the wind is lazy and slow; it doesn’t just blow away the cigarette smokes but carries away the swirls intact, tossing them and playing with them till I can’t see them anymore.

As I sip the ganna juice with its distinctively grainy sweet flavour, Priyak tells us about his neighbours, two magpies punctuating his words. The one on the left, with whom he shares a well, lives in a two-storey house with stone walls and roughly filled-in mortar. A shingled roof and a wooden balcony without a railing. Two blue plastic chairs and an earthen pot are the only indicators that it is lived in. The window frames are painted the same blue as the chairs, though the paint is flaking and blackened in places. The owner of this house knifed the owner of the house we’re now luxuriating in the back porch of. In fact, that’s how Priyak ended up owning the house in the first place, getting it cheap as a result of a distress sale. On the right, in a house shaded by mango trees, lives a professor. To the front left, is a man who does different things at different times; these days he’s a gravedigger. And directly opposite, in the red house with the yellow diamonds adorning the fence, and the red mud lions perched on the gate, and netting that covers the entire front porch of the house in a translucent veil, live two old Catholic ladies who spend their time writing complaints about their neighbours to the cops. They once complained to Priyak that his door squeaks in the night when it is opened and shut.

...

If you follow the lane that goes by the front of his house it leads you to the Mapsa river. Past houses that seem to be a part of the trees and the brush that surround them. Past men hacking logs of wood and children on a swing slung from a branch. The green is almost overwhelming and I can imagine it becoming stifling in the monsoons, when the water makes everything come alive; every rock and fallen leaf would have some creature crawling under it, some little green thing trying to push its head through the soil. The air laden with moisture, with little flying insects and the call of cicadas. I can imagine it becoming a tropical jungle.

Up ahead, the lane branches into two. A flight of stairs seems to lead up, back into the centre of the village. The right lane wanders into a gentle, rolling decline, past a little stream, the offshoot of the river that I know is somewhere beyond the trees and the brush and the marsh-like heaviness in the air. A few hundred yards ahead it narrows into a goat path, and slowly meanders to the left. Then, suddenly, it opens up and in front, I can see the Mapsa flowing by, broad and sluggish like some Amazonian river. Trees bent over, leaves stretching out towards the water. Three narrow, long boats, built from single barks, seamless, jointless, are pulled up on the bank. Settling down in a boat each, A and I watch the river flow by, till we become mosquito meal and decide to head back.

...

That was inland Goa. Then, there was the sea.

Much delayed account of my one and only trip to Goa, earlier this year. Hence, the indulgent descriptiveness.
Photos courtesy Mr Mahajan

During the party

2007-08-26T17:30:00.000+05:30

She stands in the balcony, looking out at a black sea defined by the white of waves silently rushing to the shore. The wind blows the hair back from her face, and a single resisting lock attempts an almost fatal tangle with the burning tip of her cigarette.
As she stares in the distance, her eyes lock on a lone light bobbing in the distance. Well, she imagines it is bobbing, it's too far really, to say. But the harder she looks, the surer she is that it is the single light shining in the cabin of a boat out in the sea. It's a couple of years old, and just big enough for two. She imagines herself lying flat on the deck of this boat, looking at the sky change colours above her. She imagines hearing the waves hit the side of the boat as it is tossed to and fro. And all that she can hear is the sound of the water and the wind rushing past her ears.
Stubbing the cigarette out, she turns around and heads back to the party. A tiny little thought tucked safely in the back of her mind: 'I don't care what they say, I just know I wouldn't be sea sick.'

the perfect solution

2007-08-22T11:27:00.000+05:30

Apparently, Delhi men can’t hold their drinks very well. [1] So the Delhi government’s solution is to stop women from working in bars as bartenders. They’re protecting them that way, keeping them safe. Perfect isn’t it? We’re to chicken to solve the problem, or too lazy, so we punish the victims instead.
It’s just like what happens at the promenade in Mumbai at night. At Marine Drive or Worli seaface or even Carter Road, the cops send everyone packing at midnight. The place has a history of muggings and knife attacks, you see. And since sending innocent, law-abiding citizens away is far, far easier than actually having to patrol the place and keep away the rowdies (work? The sheer horror of it), that’s what they do.
And don’t tell me that there aren’t enough cops and they’re not well equipped enough to deal with the problem. I’m so sick of lame-ass excuses like that. Would you expect to get away with an excuse like that at work?

[1] If anyone is contemplating cracking one of those Delhi versus Bombay jokes at this point, don’t even dream of it. Delhi is like my first love. I see what’s wrong with it, but it’s still inviolable and perfect.

Can I have your password, honey?

2007-08-20T17:36:00.000+05:30

Recently, a friend of mine told me to mind what I say in my emails to him, even in jest. The injunction was not so much an admonishment for something I had said, as a warning against something I may say in the future. The reason: he had shared his email password with his girlfriend.
For some reason that freaks me out. I would never expect anyone I was in a relationship with to share their email password or bank pin with me unless it was a shared account or an emergency, in which case I would ask them to change it immediately after the emergency was over.
Of course, there are different ways of looking at everything, but everybody has some private spaces and should be allowed them. Having a personal space does not necessarily mean it is being misused. If I don’t want someone reading my messages, even a boyfriend, it does not mean I’m up to no good.
If my friend is fine with sharing his password, that’s his decision. But I don’t think by doing so the two are bringing any more openness into the relationship. Because he is going to watch what he says and he’s warned his friends too. So all that has been added is a layer of subterfuge.
I no longer feel comfortable mailing my friend. You may argue that since I’m not flirting with him or bitching about his girl or something like that in the mail, I have nothing to hide and the fact that she reads the mails shouldn’t bother me. But it does.

What would you do if your partner asked for your password?

Reader's guide

2007-08-10T13:36:00.000+05:30

This is a p.s. that is going to be a sticky post for a while.

At some point, I realised that while everything I write makes perfect sense in my head, it may not to everyone else.

So here’s the explanation. The following are my posts from the Rickshaw Run, a rally for charity that I participated in with Shez and Akshay and about which we started posting at teesra.

Though the plan was to post during the trip, that turned out to be pretty impossible, and after returning I wrote as and when I liked about whatever took my fancy. So you’ll encounter posts that talk about the way I felt after I returned, almost simultaneously with a journal entry about the third day of the trip. Hopefully the context will now help you to make sense of the posts.

All photos used so far are, of course, courtesy Akshay.

This is it, this is why I am here

2007-08-02T13:33:00.000+05:30

RR Journal - June 26

Islampur-Siliguri
590km-650ish km

We’re enormously glad we didn’t attempt this journey in the night cause somebody imported all the craters from the moon and put them on this road. It is a rather bumpy ride and at one point we even get stuck in some mud (nothing a good shove can’t fix); doing this at night would be suicidal, we feel immense pity for those who did.
It would have been a shame to miss the tea estates as well. Knee-high shrubs of the most beautiful shades of green cover entire hillsides. We stop at an isolated tea stall in the middle of a tea estate and have some tea and instant noodles (or chow-chow as they’re called in these parts) for breakfast. We wander through the gardens and breathe in deeply of the mountain air. This is it, this is why I am here, on this trip. For moments like this.

It rained in the night, but luckily, there’s nothing more than a drizzle right now. Lucky, cause we realised that the ‘rain coat’ that the mechanics fixed to protect the inside of the autorickshaw from the rain is a compete farce.
We’d run into some heavy rain on our way out of Kolkata on the first day itself. The green tarpaulin sheets were immediately pulled down and we were safely cocooned inside the semi-darkness they created. But that was when the rickshaw was still. Once it started moving, all hell broke loose. The tarpaulin waving around crazily and actually letting more water in, since every 2 minutes it would unload the water that collected on top on us. It didn’t take us long to decide that we preferred being at the mercy of the elements than this bit of homicidal plastic. Thereafter, all the should-never-be-near-water things in our luggage (of which there were many: two laptops, three camera, one voice recorder, money, three passports and sundry paperwork) were piled towards the middle and protected by a wish (mine) and a prayer (Shez’s). So far we’ve done pretty well.
By 8:30am, we roll into Siliguri. The traffic in the city is pretty crazy and Shez has a harrowing time negotiating through trucks and cars and autos and cyclists. We make our way to the Bajaj showroom; a lot of the teams made straight for the border in the morning, but we want our rickshaws checked before we enter Nepal.
The expressions at the service centre, when we drive in, are priceless. They can’t fathom why sensible-looking people like us want rickshaws checked at nine in the morning. Once we explain what we’re up to, they are much enthused and even though it’s a service centre for two-wheelers they assure us they’ll give our three-wheeled rides a good once over. Rickshaws handed over, we head for breakfast. On our way out, we run into Barnaby and Jamie again. They’ve had a harrowing 48 hours with multiple breakdowns and no money and an all night drive to get to Siliguri. Shez gets a chance to do some more mothering, and between us we try to get the boys shipshape for the journey on. We rescue our autorickshaws from the service centre (where the workmen were spending more time taking joyrides than doing any actual fixing) and head for the border. On the way, we find another team in distress – their clutch stopped working, much like ours – and another rescue is in the offing. We find them a mechanic, explain to him what needs to be done and get them going again. Finally, we make our way to the border, our solo ride expanded to a four-auto convoy.
Shez and Akshay generously let me drive us across the border and I’m thrilled. This is my first border crossing by road and I’m driving a bright red rickshaw, whoo hooo!

cross posted on teesra

wandering off the map

2007-07-30T19:19:00.000+05:30

RR journal - June 25

Behrampore-Islampur
231km -590km

The Brits probably think we’re daft, but we left today at 5am and decided to go off the map. Do some sightseeing and explore a little instead of driving point-to-point in a mad rush to reach the Nepal border.
So we had our morning tea in Lalbagh, a little town 20km off Highway 34 to Siliguri. I don’t think I have seen a morning so green and fresh in a long time. Hardly anyone was out on the roads, and everywhere we stopped for directions, people were surprised to hear us talk Hindi, cause only ‘foreigners could be dumb enough to do something like this.’
But we were too engrossed by the sights to bother to explain why we were doing what we were doing. (What would we say? That it was a combination of wanting to do something interesting, have an experience worth writing about, raising money for charity, being the only Indians in the Run and a healthy dose of madness?) A small cloud trailed us, moistening the air with light rain. Dappled sunlight made the fields shine in different shades of green. A stream flowed by the road, populated with little floating gardens. Men sat at the shore, casting fishing lines into its gently flowing water.
We stopped for tea at the Katra Mosque in Lalbagh where Murshidkuli Khan was buried (alive, a local said, “Who bada kameena aadmi tha”) about 250 years ago, though my facts might be a bit hazy (and I can’t cross check right now, writing as I am from the back of an autorickshaw).
By 10am, we were off the country roads and we soon crossed three teams that were stopped by the side of the road. One of them had a flat tyre and they were having trouble getting their spare wheel out. One of the boys had a nasty scratch and we offered the service of our antiseptic and bandages. But they seemed all right, so we were on our way again. A little while later, our clutch went on limp, and Akshay who was driving then, discovered that he couldn’t change gears anymore. He managed to pull up by the side of the road, and we found out that there was a motorcycle mechanic in the village who may be help us. So off we went, me behind the wheel, urging Saira along in first gear through narrow, muddy and rather rocky village lanes. We found the mechanic and put him on the job, but it didn’t take us more than two minutes to realise that he knew even less than us about autorickshaw mechanics. So we asked him to put everything back the way it was and go on and hunt for a different mechanic. I found a little nut on the floor of Saira and asked him to put it back where it belonged. He said he’d not taken it off and it was just some random bit that I should throw away. For some reason, I tucked it in my pocket (luckily).

So we were back on the road, driving at the speed of 10km per hour on a busy highway and trying not to get run over before we found a mechanic. This time we were luckier. Mohammed Ansari had never worked on a rickshaw before but he was confident he could fix it. So while he started work under Shez’s supervision, I foraged for breakfast. I returned to a rather breathless Shez, who anxiously asked me if I had kept the little nut I had found on the floor. I got a beaming smile when I said I had. It turned out that our clutch problem was simply caused by a loose nut (heh!) and had been compounded by the inefficient mechanic before who’s simply removed it and forgotten to put it back.
Around this time, the three teams that we’d stopped for earlier drove past us. They didn’t stop to help, even though it was obvious that we were in trouble and the three of us loudly cursed the entire British nation for their callous behaviour. But soon Chris and Owen, the Vindalosers, came along to redeem the British people, not only stopping to ask if we were okay, but staying till our problem was fully solved.
The other teams were gunning it for Siliguri, but we decided we were in no hurry and didn’t was to miss the tea estates along the route in the darkness of the night, so we stayed at Islampur for the night. We’d been told to avoid staying there since it is close to the Bihar border, but we found a brightly-lit government guest house next to the bus depot and a shopping complex and spent a comfortable night there. We slipped the night watchman Rs50 to keep an eye on Saira and Jess (Chris and Owen’s ride).

cross posted on teesra

Eager to leave

2007-07-27T18:53:00.000+05:30

RR journal - June 24, Still Kolkata

Kolkata-Behrampore
16km-231km (mileage reading)

The flag-off is at noon and we’re upset about that. We would have liked to leave early in the morning and covered as much as distance as we could before it got too hot. Instead, our first journey with Saira will begin in searing heat. But even that can’t keep our spirits low for long. We tuck all our things into Saira, fitting them as best as we could. We knew we’d get better at this (and we have). The rest of the morning is spent chatting with the teams and recording audio and exchanging boasts. Our team is a big favourite with all the newspapers and television channels. They all want to know more about the only Indian team participating in the event. I try to fade to the background a bit, being from a media organisation and all that, but my size makes that difficult, I realised.

Akshay and Shez decide that the journey should start with me behind the wheel. It’s quite an honour and means a lot to me. I think they could tell by the manic smile I wore the rest of the day till we left. At the flag-off, we were in the lead and I was super glad that we didn’t stall, like many of the teams did. Tom’s words from two nights before were at the back of my mind: “Most of the accidents happen in the first ten minutes, even before the journey has fully started.” And that did happen with a lot of people. But our Saira was a star; she purred blissfully and kept us in the lead behind the traffic marshall who was leading us out of the city. The going out of the city was good, especially with Kolkata’s autorickshaw drivers giving us a resounding applause when our convoy stopped for fuel and they saw we were up to.
But before we were too far out of the city, we realised that three teams that were planning to take the India route to Manali (as opposed to going through Nepal like us) were travelling in the wrong direction. We flagged them down, and set them on the right track. That was our first rescue. Just a little later we ran into Barnaby and Jamie, the Orient Express. They were already having a spot of trouble with their rickshaws and had discovered that they were out of cash and their ATM cards weren’t working. We spotted them some money and helped them along their way, our second rescue. We didn’t know then that this would be the trend for most of the journey.
Once we escaped the city traffic, our drive was beautiful and our spirits were high. We all drove Saira for a bit and we reached Krishnanagar by six in the evening. We decided to go on to Behrampore, which in hindsight was not a very smart decision, since we ended up driving in the night for a bit. But, as darkness descended, we ran into more autos (Andy was having trouble with his rickshaw and we found the convoy of three he was part of by the side of the road. After some driving tips, we were back on the road) and we travelled through the night in a bright little caravan. In Behrampore, we found the same hotel where some of the teams had reached before us, and dinner was a lively affair, with everyone comparing notes on their first day of driving a rickshaw and the size of the blisters on their left hands, which they use to change gears.

cross posted on teesra

Hello Saira

2007-07-26T17:33:00.000+05:30

RR Journal - June 23, Kolkata

When we reach La Matiniere at 10am, the first four autorickshaws have already been taken and we have to wait for the next lot. They were all supposed to have reached by 7am, but the organisers just tell us, “This is India, you guys know better than us how things work here.”
When the next four rickshaws arrive, Shez and Akshay are off wandering, one examining the handiwork of the others, the other taking photos. So it’s up to me to grab a rickshaw for us and I choose the one with the nicest license plate number – 4114.
The rickshaws are 175cc, 4-stroke machines with self-starters. That’s 28ccs more than the 147 we expected – which makes us very grateful – when you’re planning to go the Himalayas in an autorickshaw, an extra 28ccs tend to have that effect.
There’s a guy at hand with a team of painters and mechanics who can soup up our rickshaws with whatever extras we need. We opt for a dog horn, extra headlight and a stereo, plus a raincoat to cover the sides of the rickshaw when it’s wet. We consider asking the painters to paint it for us, but the price is too high, even with our ‘Indian’ discount, and we decide painting it ourselves will be more personal. So we head off to buy the paint.
Just before we left, Tom decided to give everyone a tutorial on how to drive the rickshaws in our Saira (that’s what Shez named her by then) and another auto. He took the keys to Saira, and gave me another set and told me to give it a whirl. Thanks to the little training I’d had with Faisal back in Mumbai, driving the rickshaw wasn’t hard and I was soon giving some of the students of La Martiniere a joyride around the compound. Once everyone had given the rickshaw a whirl, we were ready to go. We were also beginning to get worried about everyone learning to drive on Saira and stalling her every five seconds, so we stole the keys away from Tom and went off to buy paint.

The rest of the day went by in a whirlwind. At some point Akshay and I disappeared to run various errands and Shez was stuck till late in the night, painting Saira. As you can see, she did a good job. At night we went for the kick-off party, but we were all pretty exhausted and decided to turn in early, so we could be well rested before beginning our journey.

cross posted on teesra

The secret to sleeping well

2007-07-26T16:53:00.000+05:30

I’ve been a grouch since I came back. A bit lethargic, a bit of a recluse. The city makes me claustrophobic and I can’t handle the company of more than one or two people at a time. A learned friend put it down to a nature versus city life syndrome. I think it’s something he made up to appease me, but it’s still accurate. Because somewhere at the back of my head, I’m yearning to have the open road ahead in front of me again; longing for the expanse of green paddy fields and the majesty of the Himalayas and the surprises that each turn in the road brings.

When we set out on our trip, we had only the roughest idea of where we were going. Despite excellent advice from many quarters, we had not planned what roads we would take and where we would stop every night. We wanted to play it by ear, go where instinct would take us, stay where fancy decided to stop and take a look. All we knew for sure was that in 14 days we had to be in Manali, so we should be travelling roughly 250km a day, if we took the straightest road. If we wandered, we’d have to make up for it.

We had maps, but they were largely useless. They gave us a sense of direction, but what looked like a biggish town on paper, inevitably turned out to be a significant crossroad or a truckers’ stop. The towns that actually had places to stay were often not even mentioned. So, people were our most reliable source of information. And getting that information was my job; because I knew the language best (I’m also the journo, asking questions is my ‘thing’).

So each morning, while everyone was getting ready to leave, I would sneak out for a bit in search of our next destination. Hotel receptionists, shop owners, truck drivers were all quizzed. Often I had to face a barrage of cross-questioning before I got any information. Was I Indian? Why was I travelling in a red autorickshaw? Did I drive it myself? Does it run on petrol? What is the average? Who had come with me?
In return I had my own litany of questions… what is the next best place to stop? At 200km? And if we reached there early enough and wanted to go on, then at around 300 km? Any places along the route that were must see? Even if we had to take a diversion? After all, we didn’t mind meandering. Driving straight from one point to another seemed ridiculous, I wanted to explore every little lane that caught my fancy, but maybe they could tell us which ones were really worth seeing?

And that’s how it was every day. All that was important was the road ahead of us and the sights along the way. Not knowing was liberating. If we reached a town and it was getting dark, we stayed. If we had enough light, we carried on. All we had to do was find a bed at night.

And we always did. Though the conditions varied. Some times there was air conditioning; sometimes, just a sluggish table fan. Sometimes the flush didn’t work; other times there was hot water and we felt like royalty. At Chitwan, there was no one else and we got a big discount. At Attari, a town at a crossroad, the only guesthouse was full and we paid a high price for a dorm with a common (very dirty) loo (no one had a bath that day).

When we had the luxuries, we enjoyed them. But even when we didn’t, just having a place to sleep was enough. By night, so full were we of the day’s experiences that nothing else really seemed to matter. And we always slept well, knowing that in the morning we would feel the pull of the road again.

cross posted from teesra

Molten memories

2007-07-26T16:51:00.000+05:30

With time, her memories have become like yellowed pages curling in on the edges. Here and there words are smudged, and phrases are lost. Like she doesn’t remember the words M used to shriek down the phone line every afternoon, the moment she got home from school. She remembers the high-pitched tone, the lilt of her voice, the way the words rushed together to become one word. But the words themselves are lost.
She strains to remember them. Trying different permutations and combinations of words that fit the tone. Different words that say the same thing. She says them at varying speeds, in different accents. Shuffles them back and forth. But no matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to find that phrase that the phone would shout back at her every afternoon of the torrid Delhi summer. But the tone is stuck in her head, playing on endless repeat.
At the time, she thought those memories had become frozen in her mind. Like the images on that last reel of photographs of them together, taken on that warm afternoon spent at A’s house. The one she’d exposed by mistake while fiddling with the camera. Memories permanently frozen on an exposed film reel; never to see the light of the dark room, never developed.
Now, she wishes she could make her memory whole again. Pick up the phone and dial the number that she, oddly, still remembers and hear M gush those words at her. Then maybe the endless repeat would end; the way you just have to hear a song once it’s stuck in your head to make it go away. She wishes it were as easy as that. Hitting play on the cassette player and satisfying the craving. But she’s afraid all she will hear is the silence at the end of a song.

Team of four

2007-07-26T16:48:00.000+05:30

When I drive Saira Bano (our autorickshaw) I feel like a rockstar. Children wave and run after our rickshaw. Old people give us gap-toothed smiles. Women look up from their washing. Men’s mouths fall open to see a girl driving a three-wheeler. When we stop at a town, we’re swamped by onlookers, like any Bollywood star would be. Surveying the road from behind my semi-circular windshield, my hands resting on the handlebars, I listen to Saira’s purring, and feel content, almost deliriously happy.

Shez named Saira after sitting inside her for 10 minutes. She said the rickshaw “spoke” the name to her. I pulled her leg about it a little, but Akshay and I quite liked the name, so we decided to go with it. I knew that for me Saira was just a name, it would only acquire characteristics later, as I got to know her quirks. I’d simply chosen her on the basis of her license plate number, the symmetry of 4114 appealed to me.
In the beginning, driving her was quite painful; I could feel the blisters rush up to the skin in my left hand, which I used for the clutch and to change the gears. Also, for the first 1000km we couldn’t push her to full throttle and had to follow Bajaj’s directions about top speeds at different gears. That made things quite difficult, and we stalled a number of time, until we realised that instead of trying to follow written instructions to the letter, all we had to do was to listen to Saira. Her engine would tell us when we needed to change gears and just how far we could push her. Learning to listen is perhaps the most important thing Saira taught us.
The other was patience. Whenever we tried pushing her to higher speeds before she was broken in, the engine sputtered and died. Or if we tried starting her too suddenly, or didn’t warm her up long enough in the morning. We learnt that we must take regular breaks, because even if we’re not tired, our hardworking little rickshaw needs time to cool down. That if she stalls in the middle of traffic then instead of panicking, we must make our movements measured and purposeful.

She’s a great little vehicle to travel and see new places in. You definitely can’t complain about the size of the ‘windows’, plus she wins us friends and goodwill wherever we go. I may have done a shoddy job with her base coat (which Shez and some painters covered up rather well) but she’s a bright bubbly creature who makes everyone want to smile at us and curiously ask where we’re going and what we’re doing with her.

We’ve crossed many a hurdle with trusty Saira. In fact, Nepal was an obstacle course of sorts. When it wasn’t natural obstacles – rivers flowing across the road, a bridge collapsed like a pack of dominoes, steep and curving mountain roads – it was manmade ones. In the Eastern Terai, the Maoists had set up roadblocks everywhere using whatever was handy. Fallen trees, stones from bridge bulwarks, truck tyres. In many places we crossed the charred remains of buses and vehicles they’d burnt, and round burn marks on roads where tyres had been burnt. The Western end of the highway was no better, suffering from general lawlessness. In one place, once I persuaded the protestors to let us cross their roadblock, Shez had to negotiate little Saira past flames that were as high and bright as her. There, fuel also became increasingly difficult to get. At one point, we’d used up all our fuel, included the extra five litres we carried in our jerry can, and our reserve was about to run our when we found a man by the side of the road selling petrol.
Since he knew our need was desperate (every single pump we’d passed over the last 220km had been dry), he sold the fuel to us at a 30 per cent markup, but we got ourselves enough to get us out of Nepal.
Driving through the mountains was another experience all together. When we first hit the steep winding roads, I was behind the wheel (handlebar?). I drove surely and carefully, and later when I asked Shez and Akshay they told me they did not feel unsafe at any point. But throughout that journey a voice in my head kept screaming that I was a horrible driver and I would not only crash Saira and myself, but endanger Akshay and Shez as well. The two of them say that it is perhaps this voice that makes me a good driver. But as I grew more comfortable, I began to love the way a new vista would open up before us, each time we took a sharp curve. I even enjoyed the surreal feel of a bit of night driving that we did on our way to Kathmandu, when all I could see was a solid block of shadow to my left (the mountain) and only five feet of road was illuminated at a time by Saira’s little headlight.

On the road, we drove past all kinds of creatures as well. The suicidal dogs of West Bengal, which would do their best to come in our way; the cows and buffaloes of the Eastern Terai; and the fireflies and frogs that took over the highway in the evening in the western part of Nepal. What I liked best were the hordes of yellow and green butterflies that would scatter in our way as we drove past, some of them hurtling towards the windscreen in a fatal trajectory only to pull up the last minute and float lightly past.
We left Kolkata as a three-member team, but now as we get ready to make our way up the hills to Manali, we’re a team of four that will be giving it everything we’ve got.

cross posted from teesra

To pack a bag is no easy thing

2007-07-26T16:45:00.000+05:30

One of the most important things when we were getting ready for this trip was to pack light. Everyone was allowed one medium-sized bag to fit all their worldly possessions it – or whatever they needed for a week on the road.
The clothes alone posed a problem. We’d be travelling through varying terrain: the rickshaw run would throw everything India and Nepal had in our face – sweltering heat, lashing rain and the cold of the Himalayas. I started with taking things out of the cupboard and piling them on the bed, choosing very, very carefully. The t-shirts had to be strong and worn in; the pants sturdy but light, so they would dry easily. A raincoat. Warm clothes. Maybe a vest to add layers if it gets cold. No point taking anything pretty, even for the starting and end party, it’ll just be a waste of space.
Even so I ended up with two tallish piles. But after two rounds of whittling down, they were reduced to the barest minimum. Five t-shirts, two trousers, one pair of shorts. A sweater and a windcheater that could double as rain protection. Five sets of undergarments, four pairs of socks, two of them warm. One towel. This included the clothes I’d be wearing. For the rest, I would have to wash and reuse. When I couldn’t wash, I could give an old t-shirt away and buy a new one.
Toiletries? Shampoo, check. Conditioner, waste of space, live without it. Facewash, errrm…okay, but double it as soap, so you have to carry one thing less. Toothpaste and brush. Spare spectacles, notepad, passport, medicine kit, comb, recorder, laptop and charger. Shall I take something to read? Tempting, but no, it would be space consuming, just look out when you’re bored, there’ll be plenty of new things to see.
Shez is a regular boy scout. She rolled everything she needed into the smallest size possible and fit it into a small backpack. Then she surveyed my pile of clothes like a schoolmistress, okaying things as I showed them to her one by one, and making me remove some. The next morning when Akshay showed up with a bag half his size and two cameras, we almost attacked him.
Since then, we’ve been roughing it out. Washing clothes when we get a chance, drying them where we can. Back of chairs, window sills, curtain rods, balconies when we have the luxury of one, and even on a string stretched across the rickshaw (which won us many laughs, and almost lost me a t-shirt). Akshay is a bit lazy in these matters, so he prefers to buy t-shirts. Now his bag has expanded to the point that Shez and I are planning to bully him into giving some clothes away.
But with each passing day, our packing has become more efficient. Shez is the expert, and I beam with schoolgirl joy when she looks at my bag approvingly, and praises its increasing compactness. Each day we find a better way to sling our jerry can of extra fuel or fit our bags into the back of our tiny rickshaw efficiently. We know what is the best way to pack out things so that everything can be neatly out of sight, yet the medicine kit, the pen knife, the toollkit, the jackets and our papers are easily accessible when we need them. For that, we consider ourselves minor heroes.

Cross posted from teesra

Gathering a crowd 101

2007-07-26T16:35:00.000+05:30

How to gather a huge crowd on an empty desolate highway.
Or
How to have fun changing a tyre

Take two three-wheeled rickshaws. Paint them red.
In one, put three crazy Indians.
In the other put two 21-year-old British chemical engineers, Chris and Owen, who look really sensible (note to self: looks can be deceptive)
Have a flat tyre in the middle of an absolutely empty road, when the only person you can see in the distance is a shepherd girl with her six goats.
Have an incredible amount of fun changing the tyre.
For starters, discover the fact that you never thought about the possibility of needing a jack.
Look for alternatives. Find one large stone, one smaller, flattish stone.
Find one local who is walking by, stops out of curiousity, speaks a mix of broken Hindi and English, has one, very brightly pink nail, and is good at shoving stones under the front end of rickshaws.
Lift rickshaw. Takes me, Owen, Chris and Akshay to do that. Takes all my energy. Ask Shaizia and pink-nailed local to prop up rickshaw with the two stones pile on one another.
Try not to drop rickshaw, also, try not to let it slide back on its rear wheels. Stones have to be re-adjusted and you have to hold the rickshaw up longer.
By this time, everyone who has used this road in the last twenty minutes is gathered around you. Field questions about who you are and what you’re doing in bright red rickshaws in the middle of Nepal. Drains all remaining energy.
Wander in the field while the boys change the tyre. Jump across stream. Skip stones. Find one smooth round very white one. Eat some chocolate. Chase some goats.
Return fully refreshed to lift rickshaw again, this time to remove the stones. Bow when everyone gathered around cheers and claps when you’re finally done. Wave like a film star. Blow some kisses. Leave. Try not to stall. Cramps style.

Changing a tyre has never been so much fun. Rolling green paddy fields as far as you can see on one side. In the other, faint hills framed against a bright blue sky with powder puff clouds. A gentle breeze, lots of energy and some good cheer. It was more like a fun thing to do together than a problem.
In fact, whatever auto trouble we’ve had on this trip has been fun or led to some good. When our clutch wire got lose on the second day and we lost two hours finding someone who could fix it (the first guy we found actually made it worse), the boys caught up with us. Earlier, some of the teams had passed us without bothering to pause (that really annoyed me; we’d stopped for them a little earlier and offered help when they had a flat), but Chris and Owen stopped to ask if we needed help.
Running into them was one of the best things that happened. They are always in good spirits, even when they’re incredibly tired. They’re willing to wake early and hit the road so we can drive longer. Ready to slug it out and go the distance, if we have to make up for lost time. Just like us, they like making pitstops in the middle of nowhere for some chai and scenery. They’re ready to change the plan and stay in an out of the way place so we can see some more of the country we’re travelling through instead of just speeding through from point to point.
In fact, they’ve redeemed the British folk who didn’t stop when we were in trouble. And together we’ve found out: trouble can be fun.

Cross posted from teesra

update

2007-06-14T16:09:00.000+05:30

As it usually is with long walks, mine has ended some way off from the place I started out from. But it is a small world and I’m close by, so we’ll meet soon.

Meanwhile, this is what I’m up to. It's all very exciting. And it's for a good cause. So, help if you can.

2007-05-19T11:34:00.000+05:30

Random Rambles is out for a walk.