This is a long overdue tribute to the only elder sister I have known or will ever know. It is in first person narrative. I wanted to keep myself out of the narrative as far as was humanely possible. Chechi was one of the inexplicale highs of my life. Why it is that God chose to bless me so still remains beyond my grasp, but like summer rains and starry skies, I would rather be grateful than try to find a reason for such benevolence.
With all my love, for Nikhi chechi....
Ee kabani pole njanum…(I too am like the Kabani)
As long as I remember, my journey from childhood through girlhood, womanhood and now, what I hope is a long and fruitful motherhood was always like the flow of the Kabani, the flow of my thought always an exception to set norms and conventions. It was never done intentionally. Like the flow of the river, I believe it just happened. The other direction was mine, always. It seemed ironic, when in my 23rd spring, I was initiated into the activities of KABANI, an NGO dedicated to shatter every pre-existing notion of tourism and regular work ethics. For all I know the Kabani is an extension of my self.
My parents never practiced any conventional religion at our home. I was free from the fetters of religious belief and rituals at the very outset. Even today, as my friends call the name of the elephant God Ganapati as they enter an examination hall, I just remember the people I love or rather the love that I bear them. I do not deny the right of people to believe in God, rather having never had any systematic belief system to rely on, I had to develop my own and this is the system that convinces me most. The beauty of the here and now overwhelms me, without the need of a supreme being to create moments, solely mine.
I have always been interested in the creative arts. Dance was my principal interest but the amount of training and investment required scared the high-school Nikki. I regret it now and I realize more fully what it means when people say that when you look back at life what you regret most is the stuff you did not do, rather than what you did.
Later on I took up Drama and spent a considerable part of my youth traveling with a troupe of artistes. Besides the thrill of traveling across the state to perform, what I remember most of the experience would be the feeling of a duality of existence that permeated it. I was the youngest member of the group, the others being working men, mainly teachers, housewives and some others. Outside of the stage I was their baby, their child, pampered to the hilt, and then suddenly, on stage, I am a wife to one, nurse to the other, lover to a third. The change in perspective reveals parts of you, you never knew about, never knew even existed. And then, those rare moments, when you completely forget yourself and identify with the character, heady, euphoric, the realization of the truth of heaven on earth. I particularly remember “Karkidagam”, a play where I play two roles. Basically, the story revolves around the inmates of two adjacent cells in a mental asylum. The first is a woman who is forced to kill her husband after he repeatedly abuses her. The second is a young man who determines to kill his lover and then himself, as they are of two different castes and therefore, society does not allow them a future together. However, he survives the attempt. I appear as the woman, normally with a red hibiscus behind her ear, perpetually waiting for her deceased husband. And occasionally I appear as a hallucination that the young man has of his lost love. He keeps telling her that he loved her so and was looking forward to a life together; and she replies sobbing,” Then why my Darling did you kill me?” There was a point in the performance I forgot the reality of the play and I could have sworn that I was her. So deeply did I feel the sorrow of my death, my appearance in front of my lover as nothing more but a hallucination. Later in the play, we see the two inmates holding hands through the bars of the cell and smiling peacefully while across the bars, outside the cells, on the other side, we observe the tension between the warden of the institution and its chief Doctor building to a final climax. They quarrel vociferously and for a moment we feel that they are in the cells and the inmates outside. It questions in one stroke the definition of sanity, reality and the unity of the human soul. For me, it meant that the moment in the play when I identified with the boy’s lover, I was really her, at that moment she was more real than Nikhila Vijay. Later, when I came to BIT to do my M.Sc in Biomedical Instrumentation, in order to relive the experience of the play, while ragging my juniors, I forced one of them to re-enact the female inhabitant of the asylum, hibiscus flower et al. She did as I said but burst out crying later. I was hurt too. I felt terribly ashamed of myself. I who professed the power and strength of the individual and his freedom to act on his own convictions was trying to subjugate the ego of another. How could I! I felt I had betrayed myself. Later when all my batch mates had fallen asleep, I went to console her and she went on to become my favourite junior. This is the true spirit of great art. It never stops working magic in your life.
BIT was a phase of my life that forced me to leave most of my Art behind. However, this place gave me exposure to a world of people outside my little Kerala, two years of peace and tranquility in the virgin environment of the campus and an Elema (Aunty/Mausi) for my 2 year old. The only thing I hold against my Soni mol, would be her total anti-Kerala stand, while I was there. I believe that when you are outside a system you must not complain about or criticize it. Inside the system however, you may and must raise your voice, as that is the only way to affect a positive change. I understand you love your “Malluland”, as you call it, in this weird, cranky way of yours, but while you are at BIT, I was hoping you would express that love in more clearly decipherable terms.
Shortly after my sojourn at BIT, I moved in with my fiancé of nearly 4 years, Suman(Sumesh Mangalassery), in Bangalore. I was an intern at Wipro GE for six months. It was then that I realized that Biomedical Instrumentation had severely narrowed my scope. I wish to tell all of you youngsters out there to specialize in something only when you are totally sure of yourself, never as an escape from something else. Specialization increases your expertise in a particular field but it means narrowing down your overall scope. Normally (at least in the Indian system), there is no going back. I also realized that these high-end jobs at MNCs feed your ego unnecessarily, stripping you of your humility. You lead a dissipated life, spending in excess of your means; and when you are truly in crisis, your shabby, new-born superiority complex makes you too proud to ask for what you really need. Whatever our job or our pay, what we need to live never changes, what we love never changes, the only variable is the level of comfort, and there is such a thing as getting too comfortable.
When I look back on this phase, I feel more than ever blessed to be the daughter of my parents and Nikhimol of Suman. In Kerala, live-in relationships are generally looked down upon. Even now my eyes get moist remembering how my parents trusted me in spite of what everyone else thought. That is the thing about trust. It is one of the most solid investments you can make. Once invested, the other party can never break it. The trust becomes sacred, becomes binding.
Around this time, Suman left his job at Equations and started KABANI. The name was inspired by a river in Wyanad, our home-town. There are three rivers that run through the district. While two of the rivers flow in one direction, Kabani flows the other way. When he conceptualized it, Suman visualized a work-space where people could come and go according to their convenience, voluntarily or on a pay-for-hire basis, flexible working hours, flexible working styles. It was to be a tourism NGO which would allow native populations to benefit from the recent influx of tourists in Kerala.
When we started out, we really struggled. I remember how, when we used to walk through the streets of Bangalore, trying to arrange finances for KABANI, I would feel hungry around noon. I knew that Suman did not have more than 50 Rs. in his pocket, and then there was the question of getting back home. My Wipro stipend was consumed in normal household expenses. With those 50 Rs we faced the challenge of feeding ourselves in a city like Bangalore. We would choose the cheapest looking restaurant in the vicinity. Both of us would glance quickly at the menu card and fix our eyes on the only item that fitted our budget, curd rice at 20 Rs. I would remark, “A plate of curd rice would be nice. I love curd rice so.” He would reply, “Yes, curd rice is good for the stomach. Curd rice it is.” It went on for countless days, both of us craving to eat something else, both of our eyes wandering up and down the menu, I wishing desperately that at least today we may have a decent meal, him feeling both ashamed and helpless at his inability to provide it, both of us finally fixing on the same line, Curd rice………20 Rs. If I had complained once, he could not have gone through with his grand plan. It is surprising to think how little it takes for a dream to crash, crumble, fall…..wither away.
KABANI has come a long way since. Even yesterday when he called home from Germany, he asked me, “Do you remember our old curd rice?” I replied that I did and wished to know why he posed the question. It was a long time ago. He said that no matter how much we grow, it is good to remember where we came from.
Let me fill in the blanks between long ago and now. I got married to Suman two winters ago. We have a little girl, we call Aamy, who is now a year old.
When I look back, what really strikes me is that the instant Aamy was born, I and Suman had not turned into this pair of Johnsons baby parents. It was only later, that we started to appreciate the miracle that had been entrusted in our care. The first time she opened her eyes, when she started swimming around in her swaddling clothes, then crawling on all fours, wet kisses…..Her first word was not Ma but rather kaka, Malayalam for crow. For me it was not the word, it was that she said it. She makes me want to be better every day for her sake. So that she may see in me something worthy of emulation. Eons ago, so it seems, Nikhila Vijay gave up on dancing. She was intimidated, scared, worried, she gave up. In the present day, Aamy’s mother attends dancing classes at Tara Kalyan’s in Trivandrum, while Aamy watches and dances along as she sees fit. Aamy’s mother cannot afford to be intimidated, cannot afford to give up. As I do a bit of abhinaya, Amy looks at me and is amused. A spontaneous blessing rises in my mind, “May you flow forever like the Kabani.”
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Monday, October 01, 2007
Yawn
Creation yawned yesterday
And in it's open mouth
I saw
My memory.
Stretching to either side
Endlessly, end to end,
I saw
What was not mine
Bountifully bestowed,
Absentmindedly accepted,
Wiping crocodile tears
On monotonous Mondays,
Also not mine.
An excuse for everyday existence,
Never an elixir for extraordinary endeavor,
Sealed in pink photo albums and lucky charms
I caught a glimpse
Of my legacy, between parted lips,
Before a hasty hand
Clamped it shut,
In modesty.
And in it's open mouth
I saw
My memory.
Stretching to either side
Endlessly, end to end,
I saw
What was not mine
Bountifully bestowed,
Absentmindedly accepted,
Wiping crocodile tears
On monotonous Mondays,
Also not mine.
An excuse for everyday existence,
Never an elixir for extraordinary endeavor,
Sealed in pink photo albums and lucky charms
I caught a glimpse
Of my legacy, between parted lips,
Before a hasty hand
Clamped it shut,
In modesty.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Conversation Clips
This is something I wrote a long time back. I don't know why but I feel like putting it up today
Walking Paradox
Location: G-86, H-9
Sudha Rajgadia, Final year, B.Pharm says:
Sometimes, without quite intending to do so, I imagine myself as a house with a million swarming inhabitants. It seems everything in the house is working perfectly well- the mothers know exactly when to cook and how to, and where the dirty laundry goes and when it would be a decent time to clean up. The children know when to feed and the Fathers, when to make a buzz for the office, when to grab a cappuccino, tall, latte, Grande. The bachelors play cards on Sundays, then wake up Monday morning to make themselves omelet, just so. Everything’s going great. Life goes on. Then one fine day, all the moms decide they’re tired of their chores and just laze about all day. The kids are wailing, the husbands are freaked and go play cards with the bachelor guys all day. The kids wail even worse. And the funny thing is the house is incapable of knowing all this. As in, as far as the internal workings of my body are concerned, I’m about as passive an observer as that house.
The human conscious is aware of itself, of the world, of language, of black holes, mesons, dinosaurs and cells. Yet, the workings of our own body as we live, and move on each day, are beyond the grasp of our conscious. To find out about your ailing heart, which is very much a part of you, you need a host of paramedics and specialists, to know for sure. To find the cure for an illness, we must know how it attacks our system, the pathways, the way various intricate mechanisms swing into place over the course of its advancement. Even if we ourselves are afflicted, we just don’t know, (as we know intuitively that we are sad or that the rose is red) that our various little antibodies and antigens are doing this right now and so and so is happening to them. We are incapable of this kind of awareness. Even if it is genetic, inherited over generations, we still don’t inherit along with the illness, an awareness that we may be afflicted. Maybe, all for the better, maybe not. We need two millennia worth of civilization, a century’s worth of research in the Biological Sciences….and more, to attain this tiny fragment of knowledge about our own genetic constitution. At times it feels like the self is playing a game with the conscious, all the while knowing that it has the upper hand. If we are a truly conscious being, I dare to ask, HOW is it that we have an absolute lack of awareness of the way we tick? If our conscious lacks this awareness, then, are we anything more than a bag of chemical reactions with fancy gadgets attached? Rephrasing, are we truly conscious as we believe ourselves to be? Or is it like everything else, Maya, a projection?
Friendly Feminist Fun
Location: Coffee Shop
Udita Sanga, Final year, Biotechnology
I really don’t like the way Ayn Rand develops her female characters. They are born pillars of strength, focused, determined and of the most profound principles. As the story develops they wither away submitting to the nearest male character, as in Dominique, or multiple male characters as in Dagny Taggart. Somehow the Randian ideal woman needs the support of a man or considers fulfillment in the light of submission of her will to that of the ideal man. When you think that Ayn Rand was a woman herself, this puzzles you all the more. The mind behind the Objectivist school, the founder of the ARI, an institution that has spread its influence throughout the world, found the need to submit her women creations to men. Which is quite frankly medieval. Even Margaret Mitchell could conceive an independent Scarlett who doesn’t need a Rhett Butler in the dusty red soils of Tara. Coming to think of it, the characters of Mammy and many other supporting female characters too, had spirit, to the end. Virginia Woolfe showed women in traditional roles, house-wives and seamstresses, who emerge triumphant as figures of steel and concrete, souls that provide refuge and courage for many male characters, ideal and not so ideal. Mrs. Dalloway, mid 20th century house-wife, best hostess in London, peels like an onion as the story develops, revealing layers, asserting herself, manipulating circumstances, never pretending to be intellectual and at the same time much more lucid and intense than the so-called “intellectuals” in the story. Bearing in mind the tradition of Jane Eyre and Scarlett, the woman in an Ayn Rand work is a mere shadow, a poor imitation of the ideal. When it boils down to the basics, where does Ayn Rand, foremost Objectivist thinker of the 20th century stand in relation to her own tribe?
How would you like to go to the moon?
Location- H-9 Lawn
Sonia Joseph, Final Year Biotechnology
There are times like this, midsummer, when the grass is wet with dew, yet not damp. The sky is almost black, yet not quite and the clouds have a silver underbelly. And then you lay yourself on the grass and look up. What strikes you first is the moon, and I hope, for your sake, that it’s a full moon.
This reminds me, whenever I see a full moon, I remember this Malayalam song that my dad used to sing. The lyrics were very beautiful. Something on the lines of “the full moon emerged from her bath, drying herself on a towel of fog” and then the guy goes on to say something about how all these women were there at this place, (some fair or something-ancient version of piya milan chowk)except his lover. And then he keeps waiting, and I guess she never turns up. No, the song was never dedicated to my Mother. My Dad is my Dad. Cruel little mind games are his thing.
Anyway getting back to the point, there are times when you just imagine you are going on a trip to the moon. Some people choose to go by car, sports, sedan, anything. These are normally the busy to get there people. Of course, there are ultimate no-dreamers, the “practical person”, who goes like “obviously space shuttle, people!” They deserve to be hanged. A friend of mine wanted to ride a Harley, the ultimate roadie experience, vrooming through inter-planetary space.
I, I thought of riding a cycle and still a moment later thought it would be nice to just walk. Maybe you could gather a handful of star dust, stop and watch a comet whizz by, where was the hurry?
There were three of us, lying on the grass, getting ready to go to the moon. We looked fairly comical, our legs in the air, one of us turning the steering, another revving the handle and a third swinging her arms and legs in exaggerated leisure. The moment defined for each of us at least a part of who we were. And I figured, hey whatever, I don’t want to miss a thing.
Walking Paradox
Location: G-86, H-9
Sudha Rajgadia, Final year, B.Pharm says:
Sometimes, without quite intending to do so, I imagine myself as a house with a million swarming inhabitants. It seems everything in the house is working perfectly well- the mothers know exactly when to cook and how to, and where the dirty laundry goes and when it would be a decent time to clean up. The children know when to feed and the Fathers, when to make a buzz for the office, when to grab a cappuccino, tall, latte, Grande. The bachelors play cards on Sundays, then wake up Monday morning to make themselves omelet, just so. Everything’s going great. Life goes on. Then one fine day, all the moms decide they’re tired of their chores and just laze about all day. The kids are wailing, the husbands are freaked and go play cards with the bachelor guys all day. The kids wail even worse. And the funny thing is the house is incapable of knowing all this. As in, as far as the internal workings of my body are concerned, I’m about as passive an observer as that house.
The human conscious is aware of itself, of the world, of language, of black holes, mesons, dinosaurs and cells. Yet, the workings of our own body as we live, and move on each day, are beyond the grasp of our conscious. To find out about your ailing heart, which is very much a part of you, you need a host of paramedics and specialists, to know for sure. To find the cure for an illness, we must know how it attacks our system, the pathways, the way various intricate mechanisms swing into place over the course of its advancement. Even if we ourselves are afflicted, we just don’t know, (as we know intuitively that we are sad or that the rose is red) that our various little antibodies and antigens are doing this right now and so and so is happening to them. We are incapable of this kind of awareness. Even if it is genetic, inherited over generations, we still don’t inherit along with the illness, an awareness that we may be afflicted. Maybe, all for the better, maybe not. We need two millennia worth of civilization, a century’s worth of research in the Biological Sciences….and more, to attain this tiny fragment of knowledge about our own genetic constitution. At times it feels like the self is playing a game with the conscious, all the while knowing that it has the upper hand. If we are a truly conscious being, I dare to ask, HOW is it that we have an absolute lack of awareness of the way we tick? If our conscious lacks this awareness, then, are we anything more than a bag of chemical reactions with fancy gadgets attached? Rephrasing, are we truly conscious as we believe ourselves to be? Or is it like everything else, Maya, a projection?
Friendly Feminist Fun
Location: Coffee Shop
Udita Sanga, Final year, Biotechnology
I really don’t like the way Ayn Rand develops her female characters. They are born pillars of strength, focused, determined and of the most profound principles. As the story develops they wither away submitting to the nearest male character, as in Dominique, or multiple male characters as in Dagny Taggart. Somehow the Randian ideal woman needs the support of a man or considers fulfillment in the light of submission of her will to that of the ideal man. When you think that Ayn Rand was a woman herself, this puzzles you all the more. The mind behind the Objectivist school, the founder of the ARI, an institution that has spread its influence throughout the world, found the need to submit her women creations to men. Which is quite frankly medieval. Even Margaret Mitchell could conceive an independent Scarlett who doesn’t need a Rhett Butler in the dusty red soils of Tara. Coming to think of it, the characters of Mammy and many other supporting female characters too, had spirit, to the end. Virginia Woolfe showed women in traditional roles, house-wives and seamstresses, who emerge triumphant as figures of steel and concrete, souls that provide refuge and courage for many male characters, ideal and not so ideal. Mrs. Dalloway, mid 20th century house-wife, best hostess in London, peels like an onion as the story develops, revealing layers, asserting herself, manipulating circumstances, never pretending to be intellectual and at the same time much more lucid and intense than the so-called “intellectuals” in the story. Bearing in mind the tradition of Jane Eyre and Scarlett, the woman in an Ayn Rand work is a mere shadow, a poor imitation of the ideal. When it boils down to the basics, where does Ayn Rand, foremost Objectivist thinker of the 20th century stand in relation to her own tribe?
How would you like to go to the moon?
Location- H-9 Lawn
Sonia Joseph, Final Year Biotechnology
There are times like this, midsummer, when the grass is wet with dew, yet not damp. The sky is almost black, yet not quite and the clouds have a silver underbelly. And then you lay yourself on the grass and look up. What strikes you first is the moon, and I hope, for your sake, that it’s a full moon.
This reminds me, whenever I see a full moon, I remember this Malayalam song that my dad used to sing. The lyrics were very beautiful. Something on the lines of “the full moon emerged from her bath, drying herself on a towel of fog” and then the guy goes on to say something about how all these women were there at this place, (some fair or something-ancient version of piya milan chowk)except his lover. And then he keeps waiting, and I guess she never turns up. No, the song was never dedicated to my Mother. My Dad is my Dad. Cruel little mind games are his thing.
Anyway getting back to the point, there are times when you just imagine you are going on a trip to the moon. Some people choose to go by car, sports, sedan, anything. These are normally the busy to get there people. Of course, there are ultimate no-dreamers, the “practical person”, who goes like “obviously space shuttle, people!” They deserve to be hanged. A friend of mine wanted to ride a Harley, the ultimate roadie experience, vrooming through inter-planetary space.
I, I thought of riding a cycle and still a moment later thought it would be nice to just walk. Maybe you could gather a handful of star dust, stop and watch a comet whizz by, where was the hurry?
There were three of us, lying on the grass, getting ready to go to the moon. We looked fairly comical, our legs in the air, one of us turning the steering, another revving the handle and a third swinging her arms and legs in exaggerated leisure. The moment defined for each of us at least a part of who we were. And I figured, hey whatever, I don’t want to miss a thing.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Our Tribute to the Auto Rikshaw Community...
I have never seen such a corny one-liner in my life. The one liner in question is the title to this blog. This is one of the many ingenious ad strategies that Himesh Reshammiya's creative team (or was it Himesh Reshammiya himself?) came up with for the former's debut movie.
The tribute in question involves three auto wallahs crashing into and....obstructing three Australian (or being Himesh, maybe even American) police cars.
The real tribute lies in actually getting those autos to Australia (or the US) and getting the authorities there to allow the shooting of such a blatant affront to their law and order machinery.
All this aside, there are a million other things about the movie that can consume the whole of this blog entry and the next and the next.....
But my blog audience deserves better. Therefore, following is my tribute to the auto rikshaw community.
I have always held this partiality toward the auto rikshaw as my preferred mode of mobility. For one, it is open on both sides, allowing the free passage of air. Two, Indian traffice jams do not affect the mobility of this vehicle. Three, auto rikshaw drivers are great people to use as specimens in character sketch assignments. No two auto wallahs are alike. Of course you could counter with no two people are alike. But you just don't get introduced to random people from random places on a Sunday morning. Most of the time, you are with friends, family, blah. New people come in once in a blue moon.
The auto wallah community not only varies from state to state across India but even within little pocket roads of a single city, their dialects and mode of action vary. By mode of action, I refer to the varied ways in which they attract potential passengers.
During the four years of my bachelors in Ranchi, I have figured that the auto wallahs in Ranchi are the most harassed and unfortunate in their fraternity. They normally ferry twice, or even thrice the auto's capacity at sometimes less than half the standard fare. There are times when I think an auto fit to explode and yet......as if to defy every known law in the universe, a full grown Bihari man (and they are of decent built) can still fit in. If that was not enough, every girl above the age of 5 in the state can bargain. There are days when I have seen my friends bargaining for half an hour to save a rupee. Over the last two years, I have had the opportunity to see myself doing that. Its insane how that sort of petty victory can get to your head. But there it is, it can.
Now I chose to move on to the many auto drivers who have made or screwed my day. Buried somewhere in the deeper depths of my chidhood is the friendly neighbourhood auto karan who used to ferry a dozen or more of us to the local school and back. Besides having to deal with stuffing all of us into the vehichle and extricating us from it later, which involved making sure he didn't loose even one of us (we were the size of mosquitoes and a hundred times more pesky), he had to deal with screaming, wailing, unearthly nature calls, lost tiffin boxes and bags and not to forget the occasional child who felt the need to crawl all over him while he drove. In spite of all this he was ridiculously cheerful and kept singing this very corny malayalam movie song that goes something like "Tell me the vowels..aeiou.." I used to like that song at that point. In fact I knew my vowels better than the ABC because of it.
Another auto driver of repute was the guy who constantly felt the need to assault me with malayalam riddles. Taking into consideration the fact that I was a fraud mallu, (born and brought up outside God's own country), it was painful even trying to understand what he was saying. As for actually getting around to answering them, its anybody's guess.
Recently I met him at a vegetable stall. I turned away as a reflex. I guess thats how he recognized me. He actually started off right there in the middle of the vegetable stall, by the main road, near the Palarivattom Bus Stand. He was literally gloating at the fact that I, a full-fledged engineer, could not answer his questions. He even dared to ask me what they taught me at college. Since I wasn't particularly sure myself, I decided to pass.
There was of course the Ranchi auto wallah who kept insisting that all his female customers were like his sisters while giving us very un-brotherly looks through the rear view mirror.
I could never complete this blog without mentioning my mom's favourite auto driver. As a sort of preface, I must tell you that my mom has a hundred watt smile. This implies two things
A)That she looks lovely when she smiles
B)That she finds it necessary to flash all her pearly whites when she does so
Legend has it that this cute little man use to remark "the sun has risen", every time she passed the stand on the way to college. Since the finer nuances of this comment is only captured by the malayalam lexicon, I rest my case.
And my final salute goes to the Mangalorean auto wallah who drove us all over town on a rainy day, all the while knowing that the three women in the back seat had no clue where they wanted to go. Now thats what I call heroic. ;)
Now if this isn't a tribute, I really don't know what is.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Calcutta Chronicles
When you are a student at BIT, at some point you are aware of the truth of the phrase “All roads lead to Calcutta.” Watch 300 as it should be watched- INOX, Calcutta. Eat decent food, street food or otherwise- Calcutta. Shop till you drop-Calcutta. Get away from this shit-Calcutta. Everyone at BIT knows how to get there, overnight Howra-Hatia. You reach Hatia around 7 in the morning. Best time to visit the place, October-February.
So it happened when all the shit in BIT got to us, the three of us set out one day for Cal. The three of us would mean- me, the Zog (a mutant of a most disturbing nature), Udita, partner in crime and Nibha, unsuspecting victim. The journey to Cal was fairly uneventful other than Nibha’s constant whining regarding the absence of a deck of cards. This is a condition that affects most of us when we know we can win at a game because the people around us don’t know the rules. That’s why I keep playing 20 questions with my sister. She never reads the newspaper, therefore, I always win. Sadistic but true. Since we were on the loser end this time, I and Udi promptly went to sleep.
When we got down at the station, after a quick visit to the S.T.D booth, where I spent a considerable amount of time scaring a toddler, we took our luggage and headed for the exit. Soon enough, we were barraged by a hoard of taxi drivers, enthusiastically quoting what I assume to be fares, in Bengali. Our blank stares however forced them to reconsider their quotations and promptly double them. This time in Hindi. Udita having been there before, ably steered us away towards the pre-paid taxi stand, where we promptly hired a taxi to Park Street. The taxis in Calcutta are yellow, like those in New York. I immediately developed this childish idea that their colour made them more authentic than other taxis. I am so racist! We went through the Howrah Bridge. It looked so lovely in the morning mist. The tiers were sparkling silver and gold against the fiery morning sun, an orange orb. I was finally in Calcutta, or if you prefer, Kolkata. From the station to anywhere in Cal, always take the pre-paid taxis, they have fixed rates. If you are new to the city, it helps not to be cheated. Within the city, the metro is the smartest and cheapest way to travel. The Calcutta metro is a place worth visiting for its own sake. Each station has a unique theme. The Rabindra Sadan terminal is definitely worth a dekho. It has Tagore’s poems copied meticulously on the walls, in his own handwriting, in English, Hindi and Bengali. The entrance to the terminal has his profile done in mosaic.
Once we were in Park Street, we went directly to our rooms at Camac Street (adjacent to it), freshened up and then jumped into a taxi to go straight to Gariahat. For the uninitiated, this is Calcutta’s flea market capital. It is basically this long road at the side of this over bridge near Hindustan Park. And yes, taxi drivers totally get you when you ask them to take you to Gariahat.
For female eyes only: [More than buying stuff from the place, most flea market aficionados derive their pleasure from haggling for prices. If that is the case, Gariahat is the place to be, providing you with hours of pure, unadulterated bargaining pleasure. Moving on to the stuff worth buying. There are a range of jute bags available here in really cute colours and designs. Check that the zippers and buttons are in working order before you buy though. Gariahat is an accessories heaven. Clay, lacquer, metal, stones, you name it, it’s there. Another souvenir worth taking back are the leather bags crafted at Shantiniketan, with attractive motifs like the smiling sun, dancing stick figures etc. You could get a standard hand-bag for a 100 bucks.]
We had lunch at Malgudi Junction, a unique South Indian restaurant at Park Street based on the theme of R.K. Narayan’s “Malgudi Days.” On the walls are sketches of Malgudi as seen in the books and the overall ambience is very laid back (rustic kinda) from the cute little South Indian cashier with his neatly oiled grey hair and black goggles to the steel cups and saucers in which they serve filter coffee. The Uttapams here are great and the dosas too feel authentic to my South Indian taste buds.
While I’m at it, the road-side stalls at Park Street are quite literally Street Foody Heaven. The must try items include the egg rolls (more than amazing), biryanis (the queue at the stall should give you a hint) and the momos with soup (steaming hot, unforgettable….cheap. ;)).
Next Stop: Science City. The place is an ideal place for kids to go picnic. The three of us still qualify as kids, therefore, we had a great time. I kept running through the optical maze, highly amused at bumping into myself so many times. That is, until I bumped into 50 images of the same married couple making out. Meanwhile, Udi and Nibha kept making gurgling noises at their inverted images. We fought with an Uncle and his son to get Nibha a chance to ride this weird cycle. The funda is to cycle real fast and see how far you can make this ball rise in a transparent glass column. Nibha made it go all the way up and we clapped. To annoy the little boy further, we started jumping all over this humungous piano that you can play with your legs that he too was playing. Satisfied that he would go home and cry later, we went to the butterfly house, pirouetted through the evolution park and just missed the time machine. Never eat at Science city. The food sucks and the prices make you bleed. Drink water if you must.
Swabhoomi. This is an ethnophile’s heaven. It is in salt lake, right beside FORUM. The place is basically an old palace converted into a semi-flea market. It also serves as a platform for upcoming artistes in Bengal to showcase their talents. Semi cause it is somehow a class apart. The shops are arranged at various levels around a central courtyard which also doubles as the food court. The food court is split into Paschim, Uttar…etc etc (translates to North, West…). The three of us literally went mad as we ran in circles trying the stuff out. Food from all over the country, wow whee! The other visitors were highly amused. Though I must remark, I liked the lime soda best.
Me and Udi being the aforementioned ethnophiles, we accumulated a lot of junk. Ethnic skirts (hand-painted), kurtis with really quirky motifs, jute sandals (pick any one, it’s a 100 bucks), paper mache artifacts, accessories, antique furniture, clay masks and sculptures, madhubhani paintings. You could get a pair of really cool tribal masks at 140, the same stuff you get at Archies for like 700 and stuff.
Around four, totally exhausted, we sat down to the worst cup of chai in our lives at Adda’s chai. However, for ambience and effects there is nothing like this place. The outlet is in the shape of a hut with a tiny veranda. Tea is served in clay utensils and the notices outside are printed on faded brown parcel paper. For the entertainment of their guests, they have arranged for a man on stilts to dress as a clown. We were highly amused to see him chase one of the female employees across the courtyard for a bill.
Around 6 in the evening, when we were about to leave, we were drawn by soft, melancholy strains of music, rising and then falling in a million cadences. As we moved toward the source, at first all we could see was a multi-coloured cap. Then we beheld a frail, bespectacled man, his hands dancing along the fine strings of an ektara. His visage was at times brooding, sometimes beaming with a joy, almost divine. We stood there as if in a trance. When the music stopped he acknowledged us by a slight nod. A passerby later told us that he was a famous Bengali music and documentary director; and that he comes and performs every evening at the stall. To this day, at times, the same songs play in our head. I have searched long and hard for them but it seems none of my Bengali friends have any records in their possession. However, on the plus side, it taught me to appreciate Bengali music. These people do seem to have a natural flair for the arts.
The next day, Udi and Nibha left for their TCS health check-up. While they attempted to drink a zillion gallons of water for the ultra-sound, I made a bee-line for College Street. A long, long street lined with second hand books. The mere pleasure of walking through the place can give you a high. The bargains are of course the icing on the cake. The complete works of Oscar Wilde, hard-bound, at 80 bucks, are you kidding me?! I could have kissed the shop-keeper.
Afternoon saw us gorging away at the park street way-side stalls. And before I forget, if you go to Cal and come back without having Mishti Dahi, you are not fit to be alive, my friend. The sweetened yoghurt is the perfect antidote to deliriously hot Cal afternoons.
Sometime in the evening we set off for Victoria Memorial. The place has been glorified enough by other travel writers and since I believe I cannot do it more justice, I will skip it. What I can do justice to however are the buggy rides at the gate of the memorial. These horse drawn carriages are your ticket to 19th century British India, my man! At 40 bucks a ride, the guy takes you on a round of the grounds in front of the memorial. More than the places, it is the experience of riding on the buggy that totally kills you. You feel like a Queen. The three of us spent a lot of time waving “majestically” at passers-by and on spotting cute guys, throwing them flying kisses.
After the ride, we walked from the Victoria Memorial to Birla Planetarium, trying every road-side stall, and discovering to our delight that all of them were great. The gol gappas, bhel puri, chai, everything. Meanwhile, whenever my hands were free, I kept taking pictures of the memorial. At one point, while I was taking a pic from across the street, Nibhs and Udi kept gesticulating madly. I didn’t pay much heed until this guy stepped out of the car I was standing in front of and started screaming at me. After some time, I had rearranged my senses enough to realize that he was making out with his girl friend in the car and that they thought I was taking their pic. Oooops! Well…….Run for your lives! (In retrospect, I do seem to have a knack for running into these things).
After the 6:30 show at the Birla Planetarium and a short visit to the St. Paul’s Cathedral, we went to Flurys. Flurys is a must visit. It has something distinctly British about its ambience and the tea and madeleines are just how they ought to be, served in porcelain or pewter tea pots, with milk at the side and sugar cubes. The madeleines crumble and yet are ever so slightly sticky, masticating pure heaven must feel like this. The lemon tarts too are exemplary. Soft jazz played in the background and as we looked out the glass façade, a million blinking lights in the Calcutta twilight smiled at us.
The journey back compensated in part for the boredom of the onward trip. Besides the train being half a day late and us meeting all sorts of weird people, it taught us something. Travelling with us was a group of college girls, accompanied by their teacher. After we left Howrah, eunuchs started pouring into the compartments. The so-called “men folk” started scurrying for the toilets while the three of us pretended to be asleep. The girls however were unperturbed by their presence. They cracked jokes with them, teased them, were teased in return, and even asked these so called “Hijdas” to bless them. Suddenly the environment in the compartment was much more pleasant, we felt less stuffy and much lighter inside.
The girls got down at Ranchi, but we remember them for their openness and their ability to embrace all of humanity. For if not to meet new people and see, smell, hear, taste and feel marvelous new things, if not to embrace all that the world has to offer, why travel?
So it happened when all the shit in BIT got to us, the three of us set out one day for Cal. The three of us would mean- me, the Zog (a mutant of a most disturbing nature), Udita, partner in crime and Nibha, unsuspecting victim. The journey to Cal was fairly uneventful other than Nibha’s constant whining regarding the absence of a deck of cards. This is a condition that affects most of us when we know we can win at a game because the people around us don’t know the rules. That’s why I keep playing 20 questions with my sister. She never reads the newspaper, therefore, I always win. Sadistic but true. Since we were on the loser end this time, I and Udi promptly went to sleep.
When we got down at the station, after a quick visit to the S.T.D booth, where I spent a considerable amount of time scaring a toddler, we took our luggage and headed for the exit. Soon enough, we were barraged by a hoard of taxi drivers, enthusiastically quoting what I assume to be fares, in Bengali. Our blank stares however forced them to reconsider their quotations and promptly double them. This time in Hindi. Udita having been there before, ably steered us away towards the pre-paid taxi stand, where we promptly hired a taxi to Park Street. The taxis in Calcutta are yellow, like those in New York. I immediately developed this childish idea that their colour made them more authentic than other taxis. I am so racist! We went through the Howrah Bridge. It looked so lovely in the morning mist. The tiers were sparkling silver and gold against the fiery morning sun, an orange orb. I was finally in Calcutta, or if you prefer, Kolkata. From the station to anywhere in Cal, always take the pre-paid taxis, they have fixed rates. If you are new to the city, it helps not to be cheated. Within the city, the metro is the smartest and cheapest way to travel. The Calcutta metro is a place worth visiting for its own sake. Each station has a unique theme. The Rabindra Sadan terminal is definitely worth a dekho. It has Tagore’s poems copied meticulously on the walls, in his own handwriting, in English, Hindi and Bengali. The entrance to the terminal has his profile done in mosaic.
Once we were in Park Street, we went directly to our rooms at Camac Street (adjacent to it), freshened up and then jumped into a taxi to go straight to Gariahat. For the uninitiated, this is Calcutta’s flea market capital. It is basically this long road at the side of this over bridge near Hindustan Park. And yes, taxi drivers totally get you when you ask them to take you to Gariahat.
For female eyes only: [More than buying stuff from the place, most flea market aficionados derive their pleasure from haggling for prices. If that is the case, Gariahat is the place to be, providing you with hours of pure, unadulterated bargaining pleasure. Moving on to the stuff worth buying. There are a range of jute bags available here in really cute colours and designs. Check that the zippers and buttons are in working order before you buy though. Gariahat is an accessories heaven. Clay, lacquer, metal, stones, you name it, it’s there. Another souvenir worth taking back are the leather bags crafted at Shantiniketan, with attractive motifs like the smiling sun, dancing stick figures etc. You could get a standard hand-bag for a 100 bucks.]
We had lunch at Malgudi Junction, a unique South Indian restaurant at Park Street based on the theme of R.K. Narayan’s “Malgudi Days.” On the walls are sketches of Malgudi as seen in the books and the overall ambience is very laid back (rustic kinda) from the cute little South Indian cashier with his neatly oiled grey hair and black goggles to the steel cups and saucers in which they serve filter coffee. The Uttapams here are great and the dosas too feel authentic to my South Indian taste buds.
While I’m at it, the road-side stalls at Park Street are quite literally Street Foody Heaven. The must try items include the egg rolls (more than amazing), biryanis (the queue at the stall should give you a hint) and the momos with soup (steaming hot, unforgettable….cheap. ;)).
Next Stop: Science City. The place is an ideal place for kids to go picnic. The three of us still qualify as kids, therefore, we had a great time. I kept running through the optical maze, highly amused at bumping into myself so many times. That is, until I bumped into 50 images of the same married couple making out. Meanwhile, Udi and Nibha kept making gurgling noises at their inverted images. We fought with an Uncle and his son to get Nibha a chance to ride this weird cycle. The funda is to cycle real fast and see how far you can make this ball rise in a transparent glass column. Nibha made it go all the way up and we clapped. To annoy the little boy further, we started jumping all over this humungous piano that you can play with your legs that he too was playing. Satisfied that he would go home and cry later, we went to the butterfly house, pirouetted through the evolution park and just missed the time machine. Never eat at Science city. The food sucks and the prices make you bleed. Drink water if you must.
Swabhoomi. This is an ethnophile’s heaven. It is in salt lake, right beside FORUM. The place is basically an old palace converted into a semi-flea market. It also serves as a platform for upcoming artistes in Bengal to showcase their talents. Semi cause it is somehow a class apart. The shops are arranged at various levels around a central courtyard which also doubles as the food court. The food court is split into Paschim, Uttar…etc etc (translates to North, West…). The three of us literally went mad as we ran in circles trying the stuff out. Food from all over the country, wow whee! The other visitors were highly amused. Though I must remark, I liked the lime soda best.
Me and Udi being the aforementioned ethnophiles, we accumulated a lot of junk. Ethnic skirts (hand-painted), kurtis with really quirky motifs, jute sandals (pick any one, it’s a 100 bucks), paper mache artifacts, accessories, antique furniture, clay masks and sculptures, madhubhani paintings. You could get a pair of really cool tribal masks at 140, the same stuff you get at Archies for like 700 and stuff.
Around four, totally exhausted, we sat down to the worst cup of chai in our lives at Adda’s chai. However, for ambience and effects there is nothing like this place. The outlet is in the shape of a hut with a tiny veranda. Tea is served in clay utensils and the notices outside are printed on faded brown parcel paper. For the entertainment of their guests, they have arranged for a man on stilts to dress as a clown. We were highly amused to see him chase one of the female employees across the courtyard for a bill.
Around 6 in the evening, when we were about to leave, we were drawn by soft, melancholy strains of music, rising and then falling in a million cadences. As we moved toward the source, at first all we could see was a multi-coloured cap. Then we beheld a frail, bespectacled man, his hands dancing along the fine strings of an ektara. His visage was at times brooding, sometimes beaming with a joy, almost divine. We stood there as if in a trance. When the music stopped he acknowledged us by a slight nod. A passerby later told us that he was a famous Bengali music and documentary director; and that he comes and performs every evening at the stall. To this day, at times, the same songs play in our head. I have searched long and hard for them but it seems none of my Bengali friends have any records in their possession. However, on the plus side, it taught me to appreciate Bengali music. These people do seem to have a natural flair for the arts.
The next day, Udi and Nibha left for their TCS health check-up. While they attempted to drink a zillion gallons of water for the ultra-sound, I made a bee-line for College Street. A long, long street lined with second hand books. The mere pleasure of walking through the place can give you a high. The bargains are of course the icing on the cake. The complete works of Oscar Wilde, hard-bound, at 80 bucks, are you kidding me?! I could have kissed the shop-keeper.
Afternoon saw us gorging away at the park street way-side stalls. And before I forget, if you go to Cal and come back without having Mishti Dahi, you are not fit to be alive, my friend. The sweetened yoghurt is the perfect antidote to deliriously hot Cal afternoons.
Sometime in the evening we set off for Victoria Memorial. The place has been glorified enough by other travel writers and since I believe I cannot do it more justice, I will skip it. What I can do justice to however are the buggy rides at the gate of the memorial. These horse drawn carriages are your ticket to 19th century British India, my man! At 40 bucks a ride, the guy takes you on a round of the grounds in front of the memorial. More than the places, it is the experience of riding on the buggy that totally kills you. You feel like a Queen. The three of us spent a lot of time waving “majestically” at passers-by and on spotting cute guys, throwing them flying kisses.
After the ride, we walked from the Victoria Memorial to Birla Planetarium, trying every road-side stall, and discovering to our delight that all of them were great. The gol gappas, bhel puri, chai, everything. Meanwhile, whenever my hands were free, I kept taking pictures of the memorial. At one point, while I was taking a pic from across the street, Nibhs and Udi kept gesticulating madly. I didn’t pay much heed until this guy stepped out of the car I was standing in front of and started screaming at me. After some time, I had rearranged my senses enough to realize that he was making out with his girl friend in the car and that they thought I was taking their pic. Oooops! Well…….Run for your lives! (In retrospect, I do seem to have a knack for running into these things).
After the 6:30 show at the Birla Planetarium and a short visit to the St. Paul’s Cathedral, we went to Flurys. Flurys is a must visit. It has something distinctly British about its ambience and the tea and madeleines are just how they ought to be, served in porcelain or pewter tea pots, with milk at the side and sugar cubes. The madeleines crumble and yet are ever so slightly sticky, masticating pure heaven must feel like this. The lemon tarts too are exemplary. Soft jazz played in the background and as we looked out the glass façade, a million blinking lights in the Calcutta twilight smiled at us.
The journey back compensated in part for the boredom of the onward trip. Besides the train being half a day late and us meeting all sorts of weird people, it taught us something. Travelling with us was a group of college girls, accompanied by their teacher. After we left Howrah, eunuchs started pouring into the compartments. The so-called “men folk” started scurrying for the toilets while the three of us pretended to be asleep. The girls however were unperturbed by their presence. They cracked jokes with them, teased them, were teased in return, and even asked these so called “Hijdas” to bless them. Suddenly the environment in the compartment was much more pleasant, we felt less stuffy and much lighter inside.
The girls got down at Ranchi, but we remember them for their openness and their ability to embrace all of humanity. For if not to meet new people and see, smell, hear, taste and feel marvelous new things, if not to embrace all that the world has to offer, why travel?
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Rohtak Reminiscences
My first trip on the Rajdhani. Besides occasional disturbances from the Hathi’s side, the trip was more or less enjoyable. Most of the pleasure being derived from sending a hapless steward back and forth to fetch innumerable sachets of sugar and ketchup. On realizing that the two of us had no intention of shifting our arses, so to say, from the comfortably elevated position that even Hathi couldn’t drag us away from, the latter settled down to obediently rip DVDs, as we had commanded him, and to entertain a group of very inquisitive children. As we approached Delhi, the view from the window came to be increasingly dominated by sugarcane and mustard fields. Something my Malayali self found extremely novel. But then, everything about this trip was novel.
And then, Delhi Central. There is something about huge metropolitan Railway Stations. A river of humanity. So much noise. And yet, I don’t believe I am wrong when I say it is the most profound silence that civilization offers. Each man an island, a person is the most objective observer of life at this busy junction. I have read somewhere that the human eye is the most wondrous of all creations, a revolving door, where the creative spirit meets the created spirit. I would extend the comparison to all my senses. It allows the universal conscious to perceive the magnitude of its ingenuity. There is the guy in the dhoti spitting pan, the wailing babes, moms yelling, porters in red uniforms, hungry Hathi….Then there is this thing about Indian porters- they basically wait at the doors of the train, grab your luggage and refuse to return it until you agree to hire them. Really! I never cease to be amazed at the will of the living organism to survive.
The rest of Delhi Station is a blur. Perhaps due to the fact that I spent a lot of time trying to keep track of Hathi’s Samsonite bag through the large mist of humanity that kept swarming around him. He refuses to acknowledge that I am five feet tall and have naturally short legs. After making sure that he was suitably fed and settled in a quiet corner of the station where he could do no harm, we left for Rohtak.
Great Roads. The first thing that came to mind. Once you were on the outskirts of Delhi, making your way into Haryana, the roads were, as the locals put it, like "Makhan, malai", incredibly smooth and wide. Sugarcane, wheat, mustard, painted the landscape, dusty green, flaky brown and vibrant yellow. Quaint villages lined the roadside. An old man with a signature mustache, snow-white and curling upwards in majesty, blows into his hookah. The women, strong and ruddy, betray their ancestry. Tanima explains to me that the Haryanvis are descendents of the union of Pathans with the indigenous races. Their culture, physical appearance and dialect reflect this joint heritage. The women wore the dupattas of their salwar suits so intricately wrapped around their head and shoulders that only the slit of their eyes was visible. A purdah system, subtle, but effective nevertheless. And yet they were not averse to hard physical labour. There is even a joke round these parts that when they first decided to separate Haryana and Punjab, the policy makers declared that wherever the women started working in the fields, that would demarcate where Haryana begins, and as a natural consequence, where Punjab ends. Since most men here join the Army, it is up to the women to tend the fields and look after the family. I wonder whether this was the legendary land of the Amazons that the Greek poets refer to. I can literally see these women, clad in tiger skin, with eagles on their breastplate, screaming for war. But then my imagination runs away with me.
Another interesting feature I had the chance to note was that there were lots of temples dedicated to the Lord Hanuman in this state. He is apparently the patron God of warriors. The beautiful thing about our country is, the way people can worship freely, the form of God they identify with most. In fact, the majority religion in our country, Hinduism, is a kaleidoscopic celebration of secular thought in itself. Marwadis in my hostel set up little shrines for the Goddess Lakshmi, Bengalis erect intricate pandals to Durga Ma, artists sing praises to Saraswati, Tanima gave me a picture of Ganeshji to take with me when I gave my GRE and young women all over India keep a portrait of the young Lord Krishna eating curd. I believe this lies at the core of our tolerance of other peoples and cultures and our assimilation of them. And also at the core of a profound spirituality that permeates the fabric of our everyday existence. The Indian God is above all a personal God, never a compulsion, always a choice.
At Tanima’s place, her Father received us, a very jovial person, who has generously donated a healthy portion of good humour to his forever grinning offspring. I had finally established the source of Fatass’ funny bone. Lunch was brilliant. Tanima’s Mom had made Chola Bhatura, expressly at her request. Ever since, I have been quite incapable of eating the miserable substitute offered by the H-9 mess. Later on in the course of the day, the two younger siblings appeared, so to say. As we poured over BIT memorabilia and related the oft repeated tales and sagas to Pankhuri aka Gullu (Fatass’ Faery-like younger sister), Pranjal (the genius of a brother) plays incessantly with the baby doll we gifted Dubeyji on her birthday. Among other things, the doll could say "mama", "papa" and sing "tuki tuki tup tup." Pranjal couldn’t get enough of the singing and I guess Uncle had more than his share. He stares at Pranjal and tells him to stop playing. Why? Because if the battery is exhausted, we won’t get spares anywhere round here. Peals of laughter. It’s been ages since we’ve heard situational sarcasm delivered with such flair.
Aunty was back from the University around five. Most of you must have heard of Lord Byron’s "She Walks in Beauty." Aunty could have been the woman Byron was talking about. There are just two other contemporary women who could have been his subjects, my Mother or my Grandmother. But then, yes, Byron wrote it a hundred years ago, I know, I know. For the sake of comparison, people!!! Five feet tall, swathed in a deep purple silk sari, she still looked like she was in her twenties, very sprightly with twinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks. She loved to drink tea like most people of the old school and she had a happy way of bringing her hands together whenever she spoke. She was truly a very beautiful woman.
In the evening, we went out for a bit. Having discovered the Banta, a lime soda drink shot through with kala namak (half the pleasure lies in seeing….and hearing the man making the thing. Pop! Squuesh! Pfzzzz!) , I went on to spend nearly 2000 Rupees on a very flashy pink suit piece for my sister, totally smothered in embroidery and sequins. Dubey informed me that it was typical Punjabi shaadi wear. After rigorous calculations, I figured 2000 was definitely a decent price to pay for the humiliation of a younger sibling who had no shaadi to attend and would therefore be forced, by my very patriotic parents, to don the habit at one of my mother’s innumerable kitty parties.
Oh yes! Let me tell you before it slips out of my mind - if you ever go to Haryana, I must tell you, the kulfis are to die for. Solidified milk cream seasoned with elaichi, badam and I can’t say what else.
Next stop, a typical Haryanvi house.
Haryanvi houses generally have very interesting motifs carved into the walls. The house I had been to had birds, particularly storks, as a predominant theme. The walls are generally done in pastel shades and the motifs tinted a pale blue or deep navy. The furniture is generally very functional. The hookah is a necessary part of the décor and an intellectual meeting point for the men in the house. Since the fire had nearly died out, Uncle allowed the two of us girls to take a puff. For five minutes, we listened to ourselves make gurgling noises….and then we grew up. They had a large silo to store the wheat. I have never seen a silo before and for those of you who haven’t, allow me to describe it for you. It is a large cylindrical tin can, with a lid to pour the wheat flour in, and a small kitty-trap kind of door in front, to retrieve it later. Very funky.
Somewhere in between this potpourri of events, Pranjal and Gullu discovered that I had never seen a live buffalo before and this started what could be called a rather relentless period of buffalo spotting where the two of them pointed at a number of assorted buffaloes that they encountered, for my benefit.
Unfortunately, the incorrigible trio also discovered that I have never seen Sholay before, which in India, amounts to treason. To remedy this sorry state of affairs, a VCD was hastily purchased and I was instructed to watch this monumental Bollywood saga. I struggled to keep myself awake but my tired eyes refused to take in anything after Basanti elopes with Dharmendra’s character or at least what seems like it. I think his name was Kalia. Whatever. End of Day one.
The next day I spent lazing around, while I arrogantly proclaimed to the world that I was writing my SOPs. Observation: I never knew that roti could be made of corn flour. But yes, I am introduced to Makki di roti and sarson da sag. I hope I got it right this time. Sometime in the evening we decide to surprise everyone by preparing Litti.
I am interrupted by two big surprises of my own. Tilak Bhaiyya, the very cute driver, and Tanima’s Dad unanimously think that it’s a shame I’ve never had sugar cane before. Two separate loads of sugarcane have been arranged, again for my benefit, Tilak Bhaiyya, having gone the extra mile, stealing it from a factory for me. Unfortunately my teeth are not the material Vicco Vajradanthi advertisements are made of and two inches of the cane can uproot most of them. Uncle threatens that if I don’t finish it, I will have to take the rest of them with me to Saudi. I nervously chop onions for the Litti. We end up making something that is definitely not Litti but tastes fantabulous never the same. End of Day two.
Uncle has to leave to Hyderabad for a conference. After we drop him off at the Air Port, we head for the Air India office at Connought Place to confirm my international ticket.
During my 21 years of being an NRI and nearly 15 years of being a fully conscious NRI, Air India has taken an incredible amount of trouble to establish that they are the worst means of International aviation available. And yet again, they dramatically exceed my expectations. They achieve amazing new levels of incompetence and inconvenience. Besides ordering me to translate my Visa which was already in English to English, they treat Tanima’s Mother with not even a pretense at basic courtesy. Also, the guy at the counter was suspiciously aware of the number of the stall at Sarojini market where I could get it done. And the cost (300 bucks). Infuriated at this turn of events, we approached one of his superiors who informed us that the translation was required because Saudis look at the moon and we follow the sun. The next half an hour the two of us spent in giving a lecture on reading English and assimilating it. Seeing that I was not the average dumb teenager traveling alone, AI finally had to give up. Ta da! (symbols clanging, angels singing, trumpets in the sky)
What followed was a whirlwind tour of the underground market, Janpath and numerous other markets where we purchased a range of junk jewellery, bags and trinkets at bargain prizes. The problem with bargains is that you end up buying much more than you intend to and then later, you are forced to buy clothes at not-such-a-bargain prices to go with the accessories.
I have formally declared myself madly in love with the Delhi Metro. It looks like a slice of Australia in India, great staff, great rates, great look, great services- forcing Indians to treat their public transport with respect. No paan spitting or littering here, this is truly a holy place. Kudos to Mr. Sashidharan and his team for completing it in time and to the Indian junta for keeping it spanking clean.
On the way back to Rohtak, we get stuck in a three hour long traffic jam. Punjabi shaadi. Hmmm. End of day three.
National Bandh. Damn! What do we do now? Gullu, I and Pranjal settle down to make Cheenu didi’s favourite snack- blueberry muffins. Gullu exerts all her mental and physical prowess to get the can of blueberries to open. I keep my hands in the dough and swirl it around coz I am sure opening the tin is beyond my intellect, or my strength. The dough is cold and after five minutes I cannot feel my fingers. Hardly are the muffins in the oven, Tanima ushers us out to see an Indus Valley Civilization excavation site.
We spend two hours in the Honda Civic, getting to a remote village, on the outskirts of the technically defined outskirts of Rohtak. Two young men in pronounced neon jackets-one yellow, the other orange-take us to a small house, by the side of which runs a wall with cow dung cakes plastered all over. This semi-plateau like structure juts over a vast planar area where rows and rows of dung cakes have been neatly arranged. Where the vertical surface of the plateau met the surface below was a trench, one foot wide and maybe two feet deep. Our guide explained to us that certain statues and artifacts had been found in that trench. "What kind of artifacts?" He had no idea. "Which period?" He opined that it was at least a hundred years old. Most important question: "Can we see them?" No, they didn’t keep them (obviously! Duh!) the museum people came and took them away. "Which museum?" Rohtak University. "OOOOOH!" Pranjal and Gullu look at me, the perfect picture of dismay. I can’t stop laughing. They think I have gone mad. "We should have gone to Kurukshetra," "Akshardam Temple", they lament. I on the other hand, wouldn’t have traded this experience for the world.
When we used to travel with my Dad, which we have done quite extensively, we always took a tour bus, stopped at landmarks, took a snap posed in front of them, and moved on. Back then, the whole idea of anthropocentric tourism, cultural tourism, eco-tourism, all these GenY concepts had not developed. I had seen lots of things before my time, I had many snaps to show, I knew lots of useless trivia…..but what I wanted, what I craved for, were the fragments of experience that piece the snapshots together, the moments that are bigger than the snapshots and the memories that live after the snapshots are forgotten. And I thank Tanima’s family for giving these to me. Later in the evening, I attended my first North Indian wedding. It was just the four of us kids. We made a buzz for the food stalls where we spared no one. Chats, flavoured milk, sweets, served in amusing little pots, all generously doused in ghee. Once Tanima showed me a container that could hold nearly four kgs of ghee. She informed me that it didn’t last a month in their house. The upper fourth of the can was suspiciously empty. It was the ghee used since the two of us had arrived and I could begin to feel it accumulate on my hips already. Woe is me!
When it was time for me to leave, Madhulika Auntie showered me, for that is what she did, with goodies. Of the many beautiful trinkets that she set aside for me, one is particularly close to my heart. It is a brown book made of handmade paper and cardboard. The cover has a crinkly old leather sort of effect and the two lapels are held together by a brown rod that you can slide through the hinges. Auntie liked the way I wrote and told me to write in that book.
When I got back to Saudi Arabia, I couldn’t wait to start. I sat down with the front page facing me, reliving all my memories of Rohtak, and strangely, I could not write anything. I struggled with the many fragments of thought creating havoc in my mind and finally understood their import. I just drew a rainbow.
And then, Delhi Central. There is something about huge metropolitan Railway Stations. A river of humanity. So much noise. And yet, I don’t believe I am wrong when I say it is the most profound silence that civilization offers. Each man an island, a person is the most objective observer of life at this busy junction. I have read somewhere that the human eye is the most wondrous of all creations, a revolving door, where the creative spirit meets the created spirit. I would extend the comparison to all my senses. It allows the universal conscious to perceive the magnitude of its ingenuity. There is the guy in the dhoti spitting pan, the wailing babes, moms yelling, porters in red uniforms, hungry Hathi….Then there is this thing about Indian porters- they basically wait at the doors of the train, grab your luggage and refuse to return it until you agree to hire them. Really! I never cease to be amazed at the will of the living organism to survive.
The rest of Delhi Station is a blur. Perhaps due to the fact that I spent a lot of time trying to keep track of Hathi’s Samsonite bag through the large mist of humanity that kept swarming around him. He refuses to acknowledge that I am five feet tall and have naturally short legs. After making sure that he was suitably fed and settled in a quiet corner of the station where he could do no harm, we left for Rohtak.
Great Roads. The first thing that came to mind. Once you were on the outskirts of Delhi, making your way into Haryana, the roads were, as the locals put it, like "Makhan, malai", incredibly smooth and wide. Sugarcane, wheat, mustard, painted the landscape, dusty green, flaky brown and vibrant yellow. Quaint villages lined the roadside. An old man with a signature mustache, snow-white and curling upwards in majesty, blows into his hookah. The women, strong and ruddy, betray their ancestry. Tanima explains to me that the Haryanvis are descendents of the union of Pathans with the indigenous races. Their culture, physical appearance and dialect reflect this joint heritage. The women wore the dupattas of their salwar suits so intricately wrapped around their head and shoulders that only the slit of their eyes was visible. A purdah system, subtle, but effective nevertheless. And yet they were not averse to hard physical labour. There is even a joke round these parts that when they first decided to separate Haryana and Punjab, the policy makers declared that wherever the women started working in the fields, that would demarcate where Haryana begins, and as a natural consequence, where Punjab ends. Since most men here join the Army, it is up to the women to tend the fields and look after the family. I wonder whether this was the legendary land of the Amazons that the Greek poets refer to. I can literally see these women, clad in tiger skin, with eagles on their breastplate, screaming for war. But then my imagination runs away with me.
Another interesting feature I had the chance to note was that there were lots of temples dedicated to the Lord Hanuman in this state. He is apparently the patron God of warriors. The beautiful thing about our country is, the way people can worship freely, the form of God they identify with most. In fact, the majority religion in our country, Hinduism, is a kaleidoscopic celebration of secular thought in itself. Marwadis in my hostel set up little shrines for the Goddess Lakshmi, Bengalis erect intricate pandals to Durga Ma, artists sing praises to Saraswati, Tanima gave me a picture of Ganeshji to take with me when I gave my GRE and young women all over India keep a portrait of the young Lord Krishna eating curd. I believe this lies at the core of our tolerance of other peoples and cultures and our assimilation of them. And also at the core of a profound spirituality that permeates the fabric of our everyday existence. The Indian God is above all a personal God, never a compulsion, always a choice.
At Tanima’s place, her Father received us, a very jovial person, who has generously donated a healthy portion of good humour to his forever grinning offspring. I had finally established the source of Fatass’ funny bone. Lunch was brilliant. Tanima’s Mom had made Chola Bhatura, expressly at her request. Ever since, I have been quite incapable of eating the miserable substitute offered by the H-9 mess. Later on in the course of the day, the two younger siblings appeared, so to say. As we poured over BIT memorabilia and related the oft repeated tales and sagas to Pankhuri aka Gullu (Fatass’ Faery-like younger sister), Pranjal (the genius of a brother) plays incessantly with the baby doll we gifted Dubeyji on her birthday. Among other things, the doll could say "mama", "papa" and sing "tuki tuki tup tup." Pranjal couldn’t get enough of the singing and I guess Uncle had more than his share. He stares at Pranjal and tells him to stop playing. Why? Because if the battery is exhausted, we won’t get spares anywhere round here. Peals of laughter. It’s been ages since we’ve heard situational sarcasm delivered with such flair.
Aunty was back from the University around five. Most of you must have heard of Lord Byron’s "She Walks in Beauty." Aunty could have been the woman Byron was talking about. There are just two other contemporary women who could have been his subjects, my Mother or my Grandmother. But then, yes, Byron wrote it a hundred years ago, I know, I know. For the sake of comparison, people!!! Five feet tall, swathed in a deep purple silk sari, she still looked like she was in her twenties, very sprightly with twinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks. She loved to drink tea like most people of the old school and she had a happy way of bringing her hands together whenever she spoke. She was truly a very beautiful woman.
In the evening, we went out for a bit. Having discovered the Banta, a lime soda drink shot through with kala namak (half the pleasure lies in seeing….and hearing the man making the thing. Pop! Squuesh! Pfzzzz!) , I went on to spend nearly 2000 Rupees on a very flashy pink suit piece for my sister, totally smothered in embroidery and sequins. Dubey informed me that it was typical Punjabi shaadi wear. After rigorous calculations, I figured 2000 was definitely a decent price to pay for the humiliation of a younger sibling who had no shaadi to attend and would therefore be forced, by my very patriotic parents, to don the habit at one of my mother’s innumerable kitty parties.
Oh yes! Let me tell you before it slips out of my mind - if you ever go to Haryana, I must tell you, the kulfis are to die for. Solidified milk cream seasoned with elaichi, badam and I can’t say what else.
Next stop, a typical Haryanvi house.
Haryanvi houses generally have very interesting motifs carved into the walls. The house I had been to had birds, particularly storks, as a predominant theme. The walls are generally done in pastel shades and the motifs tinted a pale blue or deep navy. The furniture is generally very functional. The hookah is a necessary part of the décor and an intellectual meeting point for the men in the house. Since the fire had nearly died out, Uncle allowed the two of us girls to take a puff. For five minutes, we listened to ourselves make gurgling noises….and then we grew up. They had a large silo to store the wheat. I have never seen a silo before and for those of you who haven’t, allow me to describe it for you. It is a large cylindrical tin can, with a lid to pour the wheat flour in, and a small kitty-trap kind of door in front, to retrieve it later. Very funky.
Somewhere in between this potpourri of events, Pranjal and Gullu discovered that I had never seen a live buffalo before and this started what could be called a rather relentless period of buffalo spotting where the two of them pointed at a number of assorted buffaloes that they encountered, for my benefit.
Unfortunately, the incorrigible trio also discovered that I have never seen Sholay before, which in India, amounts to treason. To remedy this sorry state of affairs, a VCD was hastily purchased and I was instructed to watch this monumental Bollywood saga. I struggled to keep myself awake but my tired eyes refused to take in anything after Basanti elopes with Dharmendra’s character or at least what seems like it. I think his name was Kalia. Whatever. End of Day one.
The next day I spent lazing around, while I arrogantly proclaimed to the world that I was writing my SOPs. Observation: I never knew that roti could be made of corn flour. But yes, I am introduced to Makki di roti and sarson da sag. I hope I got it right this time. Sometime in the evening we decide to surprise everyone by preparing Litti.
I am interrupted by two big surprises of my own. Tilak Bhaiyya, the very cute driver, and Tanima’s Dad unanimously think that it’s a shame I’ve never had sugar cane before. Two separate loads of sugarcane have been arranged, again for my benefit, Tilak Bhaiyya, having gone the extra mile, stealing it from a factory for me. Unfortunately my teeth are not the material Vicco Vajradanthi advertisements are made of and two inches of the cane can uproot most of them. Uncle threatens that if I don’t finish it, I will have to take the rest of them with me to Saudi. I nervously chop onions for the Litti. We end up making something that is definitely not Litti but tastes fantabulous never the same. End of Day two.
Uncle has to leave to Hyderabad for a conference. After we drop him off at the Air Port, we head for the Air India office at Connought Place to confirm my international ticket.
During my 21 years of being an NRI and nearly 15 years of being a fully conscious NRI, Air India has taken an incredible amount of trouble to establish that they are the worst means of International aviation available. And yet again, they dramatically exceed my expectations. They achieve amazing new levels of incompetence and inconvenience. Besides ordering me to translate my Visa which was already in English to English, they treat Tanima’s Mother with not even a pretense at basic courtesy. Also, the guy at the counter was suspiciously aware of the number of the stall at Sarojini market where I could get it done. And the cost (300 bucks). Infuriated at this turn of events, we approached one of his superiors who informed us that the translation was required because Saudis look at the moon and we follow the sun. The next half an hour the two of us spent in giving a lecture on reading English and assimilating it. Seeing that I was not the average dumb teenager traveling alone, AI finally had to give up. Ta da! (symbols clanging, angels singing, trumpets in the sky)
What followed was a whirlwind tour of the underground market, Janpath and numerous other markets where we purchased a range of junk jewellery, bags and trinkets at bargain prizes. The problem with bargains is that you end up buying much more than you intend to and then later, you are forced to buy clothes at not-such-a-bargain prices to go with the accessories.
I have formally declared myself madly in love with the Delhi Metro. It looks like a slice of Australia in India, great staff, great rates, great look, great services- forcing Indians to treat their public transport with respect. No paan spitting or littering here, this is truly a holy place. Kudos to Mr. Sashidharan and his team for completing it in time and to the Indian junta for keeping it spanking clean.
On the way back to Rohtak, we get stuck in a three hour long traffic jam. Punjabi shaadi. Hmmm. End of day three.
National Bandh. Damn! What do we do now? Gullu, I and Pranjal settle down to make Cheenu didi’s favourite snack- blueberry muffins. Gullu exerts all her mental and physical prowess to get the can of blueberries to open. I keep my hands in the dough and swirl it around coz I am sure opening the tin is beyond my intellect, or my strength. The dough is cold and after five minutes I cannot feel my fingers. Hardly are the muffins in the oven, Tanima ushers us out to see an Indus Valley Civilization excavation site.
We spend two hours in the Honda Civic, getting to a remote village, on the outskirts of the technically defined outskirts of Rohtak. Two young men in pronounced neon jackets-one yellow, the other orange-take us to a small house, by the side of which runs a wall with cow dung cakes plastered all over. This semi-plateau like structure juts over a vast planar area where rows and rows of dung cakes have been neatly arranged. Where the vertical surface of the plateau met the surface below was a trench, one foot wide and maybe two feet deep. Our guide explained to us that certain statues and artifacts had been found in that trench. "What kind of artifacts?" He had no idea. "Which period?" He opined that it was at least a hundred years old. Most important question: "Can we see them?" No, they didn’t keep them (obviously! Duh!) the museum people came and took them away. "Which museum?" Rohtak University. "OOOOOH!" Pranjal and Gullu look at me, the perfect picture of dismay. I can’t stop laughing. They think I have gone mad. "We should have gone to Kurukshetra," "Akshardam Temple", they lament. I on the other hand, wouldn’t have traded this experience for the world.
When we used to travel with my Dad, which we have done quite extensively, we always took a tour bus, stopped at landmarks, took a snap posed in front of them, and moved on. Back then, the whole idea of anthropocentric tourism, cultural tourism, eco-tourism, all these GenY concepts had not developed. I had seen lots of things before my time, I had many snaps to show, I knew lots of useless trivia…..but what I wanted, what I craved for, were the fragments of experience that piece the snapshots together, the moments that are bigger than the snapshots and the memories that live after the snapshots are forgotten. And I thank Tanima’s family for giving these to me. Later in the evening, I attended my first North Indian wedding. It was just the four of us kids. We made a buzz for the food stalls where we spared no one. Chats, flavoured milk, sweets, served in amusing little pots, all generously doused in ghee. Once Tanima showed me a container that could hold nearly four kgs of ghee. She informed me that it didn’t last a month in their house. The upper fourth of the can was suspiciously empty. It was the ghee used since the two of us had arrived and I could begin to feel it accumulate on my hips already. Woe is me!
When it was time for me to leave, Madhulika Auntie showered me, for that is what she did, with goodies. Of the many beautiful trinkets that she set aside for me, one is particularly close to my heart. It is a brown book made of handmade paper and cardboard. The cover has a crinkly old leather sort of effect and the two lapels are held together by a brown rod that you can slide through the hinges. Auntie liked the way I wrote and told me to write in that book.
When I got back to Saudi Arabia, I couldn’t wait to start. I sat down with the front page facing me, reliving all my memories of Rohtak, and strangely, I could not write anything. I struggled with the many fragments of thought creating havoc in my mind and finally understood their import. I just drew a rainbow.
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