Read more here: https://mysabbaticalchronicles.blogspot.com/2019/05/premisse.html
My Recent Reflections
Not so recent anymore, its more of a collection of thoughts and experiences; some that have disturbed me, some that have left me pondering, some that have left me speechless, some that provided entertainment and some that have annoyed me... all to the point where I had an overwhelming desire to share them...
Thursday, May 23, 2019
A New Attempt
Read more here: https://mysabbaticalchronicles.blogspot.com/2019/05/premisse.html
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Sunday, July 01, 2012
14th..but the first I ever wrote..Rishikesh
http://112.196.11.34/dailypost/Details.aspx?id=39955&boxid=56882&uid=&dat=2012-07-01
Friday, March 16, 2012
A Child Again..
It is so reminiscent of colder winters in my hometown Shillong, that it is not difficult to forget that the last the same scenario would have happened there would have been at least ten years, ago when I was studying for my board exams..
Time sure files; now, I am a married woman, living in a dusty yet relatively nice locality of Gurgaon, where my parents have come to visit. It is at times like this that both my mom as well as I forget that I am no longer that carefree girl in her teens, struggling to keep her personal complexes hidden, relatively reserved except for some friends, who were (an still are) in awe of my supposedly strict parent.
When I got married, it was an arranged love affair with a non-Bengali boy from Himachal Pradesh - I did not expect much change. (Boy was I wrong!). After all, I was still my parents’ daughter, and would be coming home, whenever holidays were available, although henceforth with company in tow. And as I had already been out of home for years then, being away from home was nothing to be scared of. However, at the time of the traditional ‘vidaai’, the environment had become saturated with sadness, nostalgia and poignancy. Tears, previously hidden or non-existent, flowed freely; I felt as if I was being separated from my family forever, and thrust into an unfamiliar set of related people, where the only familiar person was my now lifelong companion.
Almost three years to my marriage now, I can safely say that now there is no poignant sadness attached to my addition to another family. I am happy to declare myself a part of two families, both to equally cherish, although truth be told, I am obviously partial to one.
Every winter, my parents come visit, and I have a gala time, pampered by them, and behaving like a thoroughly spoilt little girl, relegating all responsibilities to their able hands (well of course, except the job part). The relationship between my parents and my husband is also informal and he is very much their Hindi-speaking second son. My mum sometimes tells me that she forgets that I am married – a relatively inconsequential sentence that inexplicably gladdens me. Perhaps, because it means that I have not changed with the bonds of matrimony.
Said to be a duskier reflection of my mum, I share many loves with her – despite generally being held as a daddy’s daughter. The discussions comparing Georgette Heyer’s novels, (would I have entered that charming Victorian world of Georgette Heyer had it not been for my mum’s love of books?), the surreal rhythms of ‘ae-dil-e-nadaan’ – the beautiful song by Lata Mangeshkar, or the movies ‘chupke chupke’ , golmaal, ‘masoom’, some of the Bengali songs she constantly hums (I never tell her that I like them), our mutual yearning for the seas, or travel in general - these bonds of mother-daughter, though not seemingly deep and touching, are these that will never fade, no matter where we are, or how old we become.
With my dad, it is more about bank accounts, investments, home loan, laptop problems, and internet issues. Sometimes, he calls up just to ask about some tickets that I had booked for them, the constant wanderers that my parents are. Or, for the password of the internet banking account that I had set up for him. It is a different love, and yet curiously similar - if without an external sentimentality, but with an implicit comfort.
I still call my mum up and tell to switch on her TV watch as that favourite movie of hers (Abhimaan), or some new film I think she may like, is being aired. I still pester her and ask her for that simple recipe for egg curry or Daal or something similar, ones that she has repeated many times before. She pretends to get annoyed, then patiently repeats them all over again, complaining that this time I should jot it down somewhere. Later she never forgets to ask me how it went.
But, when she’s here with me, I just love not having to be the one worrying about the meal planning – I unabashedly hand over the onus to her. She capably and effortlessly decides the same, taking into account mine as well as everyone else's favourites and directs the help accordingly, and simultaneously preparing savoury dishes of her own. It is a heavenly feeling having her around; again being the young careless girl, with a mother always around to take care of her. Ohh to be back to those days again! That being no longer possible, I am content with these pockets of our time together here, sharing and squabbling over books to be taken, or she forcing me to eat properly (and more) or just basking in the sun with sliced oranges and mustard oil.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
9th..Jog Falls
The Stream Quartet of Jog Falls
The Jog Falls, located in the Shimoga district of Karnataka, is created by the Sharavathi River falling in a
direct un-cascaded plunge into the depths of a pool far below. One of the highest waterfalls in Asia, this
tourist attraction is an ideal place to visit for a day of adventure and tranquility.
One of the major plus points of the place as a tourist spot is its topography – the way the hill or plateau
with the viewpoint, which is actually spread across a relatively large area and also contains a few
restaurants, guest houses, rest rooms, is exactly opposite to the hill below which the fall plunges. Thus,
for a visitor, there is a hundred and eighty degree viewfinder for the entire panorama of the picturesque
scenery. Almost anywhere one stands on the wide spacious area atop the hill’s breadth, the view is
majestic - four major drops of water (named Raja, Roarer, Rocket and Rani respectively) descending from
a height of approximately two hundred and fifty metres.
One can grasp the height of the falls only after realizing that the tiny drops of colour that can be seen far
below, among the green, blue and brown of nature, are actually people who had climbed down. The best
part of Jog Falls is that unlike other such high descending falls which are in too much of a dangerous
terrain for tourists to casually trek down to its pool, here, the path to the bottom is trek-able. The initial
few meters or so are properly cemented and with railings; however after a while, though the trail is fairly
well-trodden, it is not ‘pakka’, and one has to be careful while treading the sometimes loose stones.
As I climbed down, the perspective of the waterfall(s) changed- its size seemed to amplify, the sounds
becomes louder, and the walk becomes tougher, climbing between boulders and stones, some naturally
arranged in steps, some maneuvered to be so. The trip downwards can usually be covered in about thirty
to forty minutes, with short periods of rest at the many makeshift shops selling lime juice, soft drinks and
chips.
Despite the terrain, it is exciting to descend into the mini valley and the pool, as if descending into
nature’s lap. The feeling on reaching the rocky bottom of the hill, just next to the gigantic drop of the four
vertical rivers, is breathtaking. The sound is overpowering – one can hardly hear each other over the
angry thunders of the cascading waters, and no matter where one is on that uneven mixture of water pool
and rocks, one is sprinkled, sometimes showered by the drops of the water blown away from the
waterfalls by the breezes. All the exhaustion of the downwards climb vanishes in a twinkle. The
indomitable resonance of this beautiful endless white body of water, its sheer supremacy over its
surroundings, tempts one to just sit there forever. Relishing the coolness of the spray of water with the
wind, sitting under the numerous assorted shades beneath huge boulders and soaking ones feet in the
coolness of the water, is so refreshing.
The nearest distance one can go towards the fall bottom depends on the season and the volume of water;
sometimes, warning signs are placed when the volume of the waterfalls is dangerously high and the rocks
slippery and wet.
It is the climb back which is the most challenging task of all; what a climb! The small refreshment stalls
at intermittent heights felt like five star lounges and a real godsend for travelers. The feeling that one gets
after finishing the climb is deep relief mixed with the pure satisfaction of having experiencing this
gorgeous waterfalls and the gorge below, not just by sight, but by touch too.
Monday, August 22, 2011
The 7th & 8th (Jagannath temple and Murudeshwar)
http://112.196.11.34/dailypost/Details.aspx?id=2579&boxid=58322&uid=&dat=2011-08-21
Jagannath Temple: Until I find the published post:
The Holy Trinity of Puri
The Jagannath Temple in Puri is perhaps one of the holiest places in Eastern India. One of the
dhams of the ‘Chardham’, the shrine of the temple encloses the trio of deities, Balabhadra,
Subhadra and Jagannath. The temple is ancient; legend has it that and at some point in the distant
past, it had been covered by sand, and had fallen into oblivion. After several years, it was re-
discovered, because of the golden ‘Shikhara’ jutting out of the sand. The temple is huge and
beautifully designed. One can imagine the age of the temple by looking at the intricate engraved
figures on all the walls of the main shrine. It is situated central among many other temples, all
within a single perimeter.
Due to commercialization of the place, and the immense crowds, to reach the sanctum (where the
original idols are placed and worshipped) for darshan, one has to hire a local pundit, ‘Panda’.
They start approaching you the moment you set foot in Puri, starting from the railway station, all
the way to the hotel. Even if you don’t hire one and arrive at the temple yourself without a
Panda, you will eventually find yourself obliged to hire one, just so that you can be guided
through the labyrinths of the temple; spaces halls and corridors, and also through the swarming
crowds. When you finally do reach the holy shrine, you are granted just a moment’s glimpse of
the holy gods, above and past the bowed heads of people already standing there in prayer.
I was fortunate to have entered temple premises when it was somewhat less crowded, perhaps as
it was just nearing the time of closure for the morning. So, the few who were present were able
to pray and worship in peace, without being nudged, shoved or pushed from all directions. Even
the inner sanctum where the deities are enshrined could be beheld in peace – a powerful aura
pervades within this sacred abode. Perhaps it is due to atmosphere around – the slight chanting,
the scent of incense sticks, the idols projected as the centre of spiritual power, the dim light,
people bowing in reverence, people prostrating on the floor, the ancient smoothened rock tiles,
the darkened walls, the coolness of the temple interiors, all come together to bring about a certain
indescribable sense of contentment. I cannot explain that momentary bliss.
The other temples contain the shrines of other divinities, who are equally revered. The entire
temple compound is expansive; the Jagannath temple forming the epicenter of this huge
enclosure of holiness. People sitting in prayer, some in meditation, Pandas guiding their clients
around; religion is a busy activity.
The Jagannath temple is protesting against the years of neglect and use; the walls are crumbling
at some places, while at others, the delicate carvings are getting eroded. The carved walls are
being restored by some masons working at one façade of the temple and an enforcing structure
has been built on another side to support the weakening beams of the aging temple. Outside the
temple, it is a busy marketplace, filled with an assorted variety of shops – small and big, selling
sweets or souvenirs, flowers or clothes.
Weaving through the intricate streets, perhaps in a rickshaw, one can reach back to the sea side
of Puri, where religion merges with the deep blue waters of the Bay of Bengal. And yet, after
visiting the hallowed portals of the Jagannath temple, for quite some time, the spiritual state of
mind lingers, as if the holy trinity had created a lasting impression in one’s soul.
Murudeshwar:
The sheer scene of the place is dramatic.. the massive statue of the benign Shiva towering
over all, the azure blue of the Arabian sea in so many directions around, the pyramidal
rise of the Gopura in front of the temple… one cannot help be mesmerized by the first
glance
This is Murudeshwara, which is itself another name for the Lord Shiva, Home to one of
the oldest Lord Shiva temples in the region… almost 500 years? Old...built on the
coastline of Karnataka; this beach town has been a place of religion and worship for
many years, for the local Kannadiga people. People flock in crowds, daily to give their
offerings to the divine lord.
When approaching this coastal pilgrimage destination, one is greeted by the beach on
both sides – and the silvery statue of Shiva ahead... looming, growing the closer one
gets.
The temple is built on a narrow peninsula type of land, which grows into a slight hill at
the absolute corner nearest to the sea. This hill, called Kanduka Giri, is where the ancient
temple resides, flanked by the tall 243 feet Gopuram in front, and the 123 ft Shiva statue
at the other side, farther way. The Gopuram, with 21 floors inside is equipped with a lift
too, which visitors can use to go to the 21 st floor for a nominal fee. Imagine the view from
the top!
Though the temple itself is old, the entire campus, with the beautifully maintained grassy
slopes, the tall beautifully engraved Gopura façade, and the Shiva structure has been
donated and maintained by a philanthropist Mr. R N Shetty. The temple’s inner sanctum
is still preserved however in its true form – the old stones, the dark interiors and the holy
God.
The left boundary of the Gopuram grounds has a railing to fence the area from the
sloping ground further, which finally meets the sea waters. Not too far away, on the left,
one can see the sandy beach, with a few fishermen’s boas here and there – the green
coconut trees and palms providing a green lush background to this panorama…. At the
backside of the Gopuram, some steps to the left at a higher level is the actual temple,
which too overlooks the sea. The golden façade of the temple is beautifully carved
figures and characters from Hindu mythology. Entering the cool interiors of the temple,
one cannot help but feel at peace.
The central piece of attraction however is the Shiva statue – slated to be one of the tallest
in the world, it is spectacular – the entire figure of the Lord Shiva in meditation is of a
silver texture, with the exception of the golden snake entwined on his neck. Which is of a
golden colour. Climbing 2 flights of steps, between lush green slopes, a gigantic Nandi
Bull and more statues, one feels like a midget in front of the statue; there is a cavern at
the bottom, where statues depicting the story of Murudeshwara, have been placed. The
best part of the statue for me was the semicircular balcony sort of structure which was
build around the statue, for the sides facing the sea. The view from these areas is
magnificent –, pink flowers on some bushes in the immediate vicinity, followed by the
green of the slopes immediately below, which had the entire backdrop of the sandy
beach, the clear blue sky and, the shiny glimmer from the sea waves. The sea breeze was
even stronger at that height…
This place is doubly popular because of its beautiful beaches too = on both sides of the
temple grounds, the Arabian Sea is at its best, flowing gently into the land, which is soon
covered by the green carpet of coastal vegetation – far away, another hill can be seen on
the background. The beach to the left is more popular, crowded with people, some boats,
and a few restaurants overlooking the sea on a mini 4 storied lighthouse shaped structure.
A little further down the road in the same direction one enters, are a couple of hotels,
which cater to people who come here for religious or holiday purposes. Medium
budgeted, this is the ideal destination for a complete family, where the elders can enjoy
the company of God, while the youngsters can enjoy playing in the sea, while everyone
else can enjoy the complete picture of the blue Arabian Sea, the green palms, the clear
skies the sea breeze, and of course the divine presence.
Thursday, August 04, 2011
The 5th & 6th - same day, different publications..(Tryst with a Devta & Advanced Studies)
The ‘Jattar’ is a sacred religious Hindu tradition in Himachal Pradesh, during which a deity, locally
called ‘devta’, travels on a journey from his abode to a devotee’s house, where he has been invited and
blesses his devotees. This tradition goes back hundreds of years – it is believed that the Gods promised
their followers their protection, and through the Jattar they fortify the sense of security. Devotees usually
call for a Jattar as a result of the fulfillment of their ‘mannat’ (vow). However, if there is any birth or
death in the family of the inviting devotee within the last eleven days before the planned Jattar, the devta
declines the invitation. There is a lot of mystique around this revered ritual, as it involves the
manifestation of the god in one of his worshippers.
I had been in one of the devotees’ house during the Jattar of the Dev Badeogi (Dronacharya) devta in the
village Panetu near Tattapani for which the afore-mentioned God is the ‘Sthan/Gram devta’. The Dev
Badeogi devta’s Jattar occurs twice in a year, the first, called ‘Laual’, occurs during early summer when
the devta graces the people of the area near Tattapani and Shaaog and the second, called ‘Pratha’, in
September when he travels to Thali near Sunni.
On the appointed day, the devta and his ‘kaardhaar’ (devotees who take care of the various rituals of the
Jattar) arrived at the house in the evening, with the approaching dusk. As the procession approached the
house, all the villagers, with their heads covered by 'dupattas', caps or handkerchiefs, assembled to see
their holy god and offer their prayers. For the people of Himachal, it is imperative to have their heads
covered in the presence of Gods. There was an air of anticipation in the air, which increased with the loud
and rhythmic beats of the ‘dhol’ and ‘nagada’ (local percussion instruments), and the thickening air due
to the smoke and aroma of the burning incense, all of which accompanied the devta’s convoy.
The devta is accompanied by a group of about ‘kardhaar’ as he passes through the various houses and
areas. A few of these people are priests who dedicate their entire life to serving the deity; others renounce
their domestic lives temporarily for these thirty days when the devta is out of his abode, his shrine. Some
of these people are young men, who play the musical instruments while some are responsible for the
‘vahan’ (the vehicle of the God). This is in the form of a Palanquin or ‘palki’, which houses the actual
shrine of the Dev Badeogi.
The shrine is made of ‘Ashthadhaatu’ (an alloy of eight metals) with the benign face of the multiple-
garlanded deity on the different phases of the shrine. Shielding the face of the devta is a miniature
umbrella made of gold. Four smaller golden umbrellas are placed a little lower to protect the many faces
of the devta. At the bottom of the palki, several coloured cloths are tied with their loose ends flowing
below, lending a very vivid look. Accompanying this ensemble is a large umbrella, called the ‘Chhattar’
which is made of a rough textured cloth and supported by dull yellowish metallic thick strings and a
pointed cone at a top, which are actually made of gold. The Chhattar, is the shield against evil, and during
all ceremonies, it is rotated continuously to fend off any evil energy that may be present. The young
members are responsible for this unceasing circular motion, and usually replace each other after long
periods of constant rotation. A couple of other people carry an earthen pot inside which incense is kept
burning during all times of the Jattar.
When the devta’s troupe reached the threshold of the premises, the beats rose to a crescendo, the
‘Chhattar’ was rotated even faster. A priest, clad in white dhoti and kurta, a “tika” (vertical mark) of
vermillion on his forehead, who had been calm till the previous moment, started to shake, his whole body
in a frenzy. His hands flailed of their own accord, his eyes rolled in all directions without control and due
to his seemingly uncontrollable movements, his cap fell and his long oiled tresses curls swung in
abandon. It is believed that the moment the priest’s head becomes bare; the devta enters the priest’s
bodily form. This is the ‘Khel’, when the devta addresses his followers in tangible appearance.
A plate with rice grains, corn and incense was placed before the priest; his hands moved and picked some
rice grains and scattered them in all directions. He spoke to the head of the inviting family, in the local old
‘Pahari Hindi’ dialect, regarding the origin of life, gods, death, strength, and about protection of his
followers from evil. As the family members bowed their heads in reverence, suddenly, the shaking ceased
abruptly, the deafening beats lowered in intensity and the priest came out of the trance, completely
normal. Though somewhat skeptical of the authenticity of this entire scene, I found difficult to envisage
the motivation behind this act, if it was an act, given the complete faith that seemed to pervade all the
involved people.
Before the devta can be seated, another ritual had to be completed – that of the sacrifice of a goat. This act
works like a final acceptance of the invitation. So, in the midst of the unceasing thumps on the drums, the
goat, which had been fed generously for the last couple of days, was beheaded with a single swift motion
of a knife by one of the kardhaar.
With the exception of the head which now belonged to the priest, the remnants of the goat were cooked in
a separate fire outside, eaten by some of the kardhaar. The family head then led the devta and his priests
towards the temporary ‘pandal’ constructed for the devta. Since the God does not enter the house, neither
will he be seated on the ground, an elevated platform was created with wooden planks placed on bricks,
and covered by mats. The head of the sacrificed goat is kept below the platform, next to the earthen vessel
with the burning incense, creating an aura of indescribable power which seemed to awe all present.
After some time, when every arrangement had been settled, the priests performed the evening Aarti – the
ceremony where the devta was greeted with the purifying flames of the ‘diya’ (earthen oil lamp) and the
intoxicating fumes of incense. At the same time, a small brass bell was also rung continuously, while all
assembled sang the bhajan ‘Om Jai Jagdish hare’. After the subsequent puja, ‘Dhaam’ (food cooked in
huge quantities and served to guests for an occasion) was served to all the villagers and invited guests.
The cooking arrangements had been made on a slope outside, where, beneath the shelter of a tarpaulin
sheet, traditional Pahari dishes were being cooked in big brass vessels kept on wooden fires. The
adjoining plain area of the slope was also covered from the top and three sides, with the ground carpeted
with jute mats. People sat along in rows, while hot food was brought in fresh from the makeshift kitchen
and served in paper plates on the ground in front of them. After all the guests and family had completed
their meal, the hosts organized the sleeping arrangements for the kardhaar. The priests always slept at the
side of the devta, whereas others were scattered between the house and the ‘pandal’.
The final ritual of the evening is the ‘Bhel’; this is tantamount to the lullabies sung before sleep. After
calm had settled in the night, the musicians started playing a specific rhythm and melody, different from
the evening. The major part of the music was played by the nagada, (local elongated version of the
trumpet) which added a unique quality to the loud chorus of the drumbeats, finally reaching a climax after
half an hour or so. It was surreal – the small gathering amongst the mountains, the crickets giving the
background score, the hypnotizing sounds of the instruments; thus ended the evening.
The morning rituals consisted of ‘Snan’ (bathing ceremonies) which were the exclusive rights of the
priests only, where the devta and the complete palanquin bathed figuratively, actually dabbed with a wet
cloth, and then the garlands and the colorful cloths are arranged. It is only after this ceremony that the
priests had breakfast, a significant part of which, the hundred odd ‘bhaturu’ (local version of bread), was
prepared by the ladies (of the house and neighbours) in the interior kitchen. The rest of the meal,
consisting of potato curry and “suji ka halwa” (semolina cooked with ghee, sugar and dry fruits) was
prepared in the temporary external kitchen outside.
The next tradition of the Jattar was the ‘Naachna’ or the dance, where the devta is said to dance in joy
and celebration. It started with the gradual playing of the percussions in a slow tempo. Four of the
kardhaar gently lifted the palanquin, all in unison, and started moving in simple coordinated steps – a
couple of steps forward, a couple backward. Despite the weight on their shoulders they moved in perfect
harmony and even switched places with others without breaking the pace. The untiring steps, along with
the beats, soon took on the quality of a trance as it continued on and on for about thirty minutes. It is
believed that this particular ritual happens only if the devta wishes it; otherwise it may so happen that the
palanquin becomes inexplicably heavy that it cannot be lifted at all, let alone moved with.
The main event of the Jattar is considered to be the ‘Jhaada’ which occurred after the dance. When the
priests and the devta were reseated at the platform, again, with the background music of the percussions
and the fumes of the incense, one of the priests fell into the possessed-like spell as the devta seemed to
occupy his physical body. The music stopped as soon as he started chanting some phrases and scattered
rice grains in all directions. At this time, the family members sat in front of the raised pedestal, and one
by one, each person moved to face the devta, gave him ‘dakshina’ (offerings given to one venerated), as
he uttered some words about their protection and security, blessed them and gave some grains as Prasad.
A few members even asked specific questions regarding the family future, to which he gave some
responses which may or may not have optimistic
Sometime after all the people had finished asking their questions, the priest’s frenzy gradually ebbed; he
became completely normal the moment one of the other priests placed his fallen cap back on his head.
After some time, it was time for yet another rite; the ‘Pooda’, which is done for agricultural well being of
the family. For this, two priests, along with the family and onlookers, walked to the fields (which were
divested of any crops at that time) with the ubiquitous beats of the drums. One of the priests wore a white
dhoti below a bare chest, looking formidable, not because of his built but due to a miniature axe hanging
from a belt on his waist. That axe is the ‘Raksha Kavach’ of the devta, or the shield for protection. As
everyone sat down on the uneven ground, both the priests went into the now-familiar trance, their eyes
piercing into the onlookers, but not really seeing them. The actions of both were uncannily similar.
Standing, they started chanting, to call the spirit of the devta to their physical bodies. As the spirit of the
devta manifested, they seemed to gain more strength and their movements became even more random.
This time, there was a certain sense of anger in the behavior of the two possessed priests. Their hands
found a plate which contained grains, roti, and halwa and scattered all there was into the parched earth.
They uttered some indecipherable chants, in loud thunderous voices. Through these actions, the devta is
believed to bless the earth to turn in fertile. With the receding of the percussion’s volume and tempo, and
the re-placing of their respective caps, they priests came back from surrealistic state and sat down quietly,
ending this visit from the devta too.
In the course of the afternoon and evening, the devta danced twice more, once before the lunch Dhaam
and finally before leaving. This dance can only be performed an odd number of times, so the family had
decided on three. With the approach of the darkening evening, it was time for the devta to depart; another
new family to bless and celebrate with. As the final 'naach' occurred, all the four handles were held by the
family members, while the ladies of the house tied small silver chhattars to the handles and also tied more
colourful cloth, called ‘purojini’ to the palanquin. As the Jattar to this family successfully ended,
everyone to their ‘Sthan devta’. Before the procession left for another house, one of the priests again
scattered the rice grains offered in a brass plate, as a final blessing to.
The authenticity of this revered ritual of manifestation can always be doubted by cynics. However, when
one remembers that the villagers of these mountains are god-fearing, it is difficult to imagine that the
priests would engineer all the trances for their own gain at the risk of inviting the wrath of the gods. For
the locals, the Jattar transcends the conventional concept of a god and his/her worship, and strengthens
their faith in their devta.
2. http://112.196.11.34/dailypost/Details.aspx?id=1341&boxid=28984&uid=&dat=2011-07-31
A Date with the 19th Century
Even the path to the entrance of the Institute of Advanced Studies is beautiful - the curved roads rising in
a gentle slope, with the stone walled boundary on the left and graceful pines on the right hiding the
majestic view of the mountains beyond. My experience of visiting this erstwhile Viceroy's lodge was even
better due to the misty weather and the scattered fog which played around at the whims of the winds.
Originally built as a residence for the viceroy Lord Dufferin (late 1800s), this little piece of history is one
of the lesser known attractions of Shimla. More than a hundred years old, this magnificent structure is
now a place of research and education of subjects like Humanities and Social Sciences. Fortunately, a
small part of it has been kept open to tourists and history lovers so that they can get a whiff, look and feel
of the late nineteenth century.
Entry into these permitted rooms is only in the company of guides who give tours of the interiors at
regular intervals. As I entered the building, I felt like I had been transported into another era; along with
the guide, the beautiful varnished wooden architecture, the heavy curtains, the Victorian style of furniture,
seemed to narrate stories of the past. Despite the length of time that had passed, the interiors are
remarkably well preserved; the polished wooden wall paneling, the meeting rooms (in one of which the
famous Simla Conference of 1945 was held), the paintings, the banister leading to the second floor –
everything seemed to be unchanged with the years. All these silent spectators of history seemed to awe
visitors into hushed whispers, as if not wanting to disturb their dignity and memories.
As the guide walked us through the last hundred or so years of this mansion’s existence, I was charmed
by the black and white photographs of English families; the women decked up in their flowing gowns and
hats, while the men stood tall and proud - remnants of the British rule of India. When the nation was torn
in the throes of the fight for independence, this tranquil place must probably have been a welcome retreat
for the many officers that resided here during those turbulent times. When the tour ended and I walked
out the door, I felt as if I was returning from another world and another time.
The area outside, with its extensive lawns, well maintained gardens built on multiple levels, old fountains
with the typically European structures, gives one the ideal setting to get away from the crowds, and spend
a quiet time in the heart of the beautiful erstwhile summer capital. Benches are scattered across the
grounds; for active visitors, there are a lot of paths through which one can walk across the various levels
of the gardens.
Once called the Viceregal lodge, the mansion was built on one of the high peaks called the Observatory
hill, it provides a splendid view of the Himachal mountains below the western sky. The best time to visit
is evening (as I had unknowingly done) when one can feast one’s eyes on a resplendent sunset amidst the
clouds and faraway hills. As the evening progressed, the clouds floated above the valleys to finally rise to
the sky, while the golden sun descended to the horizon.
The charmingly quiet surroundings, coupled with the lovely weather of Shimla, the slight chill in the air,
the fiery orange sky, made this short trip one of unbridled pleasure, away from the jarring sounds of car
horns, shops and the twenty-first century – a perfect date with history.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The 4th one - this time in a new publication:) - The Daily Post (Cherrapunjee)
and had cooked her up and had served her as lunch to the very person who had born her. Another version says that the widow found the fingers and toes of the child in the 'kwai' (local betel leaf) box and deduced the rest. The story goes that the mother was so shattered, she could not want her own life to continue. So, she jumped off the cliff, and the falls formed after in the very place she ended her existence.”
Monday, May 16, 2011
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The Second one...Summit of the Gods
Himachal Pradesh is the land of inaccessible religious shrines or temples; a fact confirmed when I
visited one of the highest temples in the interiors of the state, Dev Badeogi, trekking from a village
near Sunni, amidst the tall mountains of the beautiful northern state.
The old temple may not be famous, but it is one of the very few which enshrine Dronacharya, of
the Mahabharatha epic. It can be reached only by foot, trekking through several hamlets along the
mountain slopes. We were going to trek to it from a village called Panetu.
From Sunni, Panetu is ?? kilometers far, ?? metres higher, but it takes about ?? hours by car. Sunni
itself can be driven to from Shimla easily, amidst a picturesque road, which also boasts of two
temples; one consists of a lone tiny room, which is believed to contain a natural Shiva Lingam, and
the second is called “Athara Bate Bees” (Eighteen out of twenty) - a temple constructed in the
memory of a tragic bus accident which left eighteen out of twenty passengers dead
A little before Sunni, amongst the many mountain peaks, I was pointed to a tiny speck in one of
the summits, barely visible in the distance. This speck was the destination we were headed for; I
could imagine people even living in that height; let alone pray.
After a place called Tattpani, a little further form Sunni, we crossed a signboard indicating another
road which led to a shrine called “Shiva gufa” or Lord Shiva’s caves. I couldn’t go there this time,
and so was left wondering about the history of the shrine amongst the foothills.
We reached Panetu, where we rested the night in one of the accompanying friend’s relative’s
house.
The next morning, we were ready to conquer the heights. There is no “road” leading to the peak or
the temple, except a trodden path etched out by the frequent use of villagers. The morning sun rays
were intense, even as we started to walk towards our faraway destination. The path initially rises
gradually, but it soon transforms into a steep rocky narrow path, which requires careful treading, as
sometimes, the rocks are loose and there are chances of losing one’s foothold. Initially we crossed
a few houses, (since the paths naturally lead to houses), where the kindly residents looked at us
with curious glances, always offering water or refreshments and a place to rest. Due to our
unfamiliar faces, they all could clearly understand our aim and also could relate to our tired red
faces. From the few conversations had, the hike to the DB was not easy, not even for the locals. It
proved even more difficult for us as we were unused to such climbs,
We stopped frequently, resting below whatever little shade that could be found below overhanging
boulders or overgrown shrubbery, there being no tall trees on the mountain. Each step soon
became an effort, and although we seemed no closer to the temple, it did become tangible after a
while – no longer just a flag. The structure was soon visible, on exactly the tip of the summit, yet
far far away. We reached the top of one mountain, with a majestic panorama around us, only to
see that was far more to climb.
Fortunately from this point forward, the path is cemented, so atleast there was no need to be
cautious while plodding on. After about 2 hours of trekking, sunburnt by the seemingly
concentrated sunrays, we reached the foothills of the mandir. We had arrived but not yet reached -
the final path were about 30 steep steps to the actual temple. The gods demanded absolute
devotion, nothing less and so it is exactly at the summit - not near, not in the vicinity but the
zenith.
At the foothill, where we stopped to freshen up before paying our homage, there is a small village -
colourful houses with brightly painted roofs, stray cows strolling around, a few children playing on
a small green field, by which was a small pond. It looked an idyllic sight. A tap’s cool water
refreshed our tired and sore feet, as our uncontrollable thirst. The final steps were taken barefoot; I
felt a sense of exhilaration as I stepped on the threshold of the elusive temple that had demands so
much from its devotees.
The temple is not the traditional concept of a Hindu shrine – there are not many idols, no loud
clanging of bells, no thronging of crowds, no buying and selling of “Prasad”, no small shops
selling small picture frames of gods. There is none of it; it is an ancient and small wooden
structure, recently been reinforced with concrete and tiles. Around this covered section is an open
balcony on all four sides, fenced with railing for protection from a fall below. The covered
enclosure had a low door, painted and engraved which remains closed for the better part of the
year. It opens only on occasions such as “Sankranti” - it is here that the actual shrine exists.
Having visited the place on the day of Diwali, we were lucky to have a glimpse inside. The shrine
is actually not an idol, but a set of stones, believed to be holy and found in a holy place. I am not
quite so sure about the history behind it.
There were hardly ten-fifteen people present, all tired from the physical exertion of the climb,
waiting for the priests. Soon, the priests of the temple came, opened the “dwars”, burned incense,
and a small yagya with ghee and a little wood, a little distance outside the opened doors. It was
difficult for them to get the holy fire burning, given the extremely windy scene. The devotees
offered their prayers - some brought rice grains, some money and some just agarbatti. What struck
me the most was the silence around - everyone almost whispered, not wanting to break the
tranquility or disturb the symphony of the winds.
The view from the top, all around the balcony is incredible. Sunni can be seen far far below, Sutlej
a sinewy vein moving across the valley, the adjacent and faraway mountains merging with the
skies at a distance. The source of our journey was obscured by so many intermediate hills. I felt
incredible peace - this is how religion should be, personal and away from mobs, with the absence
of sounds encouraging one to look within. The proximity of nature liberates one - harmony with
self is inevitable; to come so far with so less support, can only bring one nearer to a higher power,
be it within ourselves or external. My thoughts revolved around this as we scrambled down,
exhaustion creeping into my exhausted body.
As we completed the seemingly endless descent to Panetu, despite being exhausted beyond
imagination, I felt exhilarated. Not religious by nature, I could not place the reason for such
feelings, but I could not deny them either. After the physically demanding journey upwards, on
standing in the temple on top of the world, I had felt an unknown inexplicable power - of faith
couple with untainted nature. That experience cannot be described; is has become a cherished part
of my memories.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
My First Article in Print:) -Rohtang
Having had the good fortune of being born and brought up in one of the most beautiful and picturesque
hill stations in the world (Shillong), other hill stations have never appealed to me. Whenever I had the
occasion to travel to such places, I found myself disappointed, unable to find anything extraordinary or
different from my home town. Nor surprisingly, it is always the sea which attracts my restless soul –
the waves, the beaches and the evening breezes always reviving my spirits. However, Rohtang was the
single exception to this generalization, which I realized when I visited the place with my parents and
brother during a trip to Himachal Pradesh.
The Rohtang trip began with a bright and sunny summer morning in Manali, which we left soon, to
reach calmer, greener surroundings. Far away, the mountain peaks seemed to entice us - the silvery
white strands of snow contrasting with the barren brown of the multitudinous rocky summits, vying
with each other for attention.
As we left the flat roads and ascended along a meandering road, the magnificent scenery opened itself
to our eager eyes. All around, the greenery could not be lusher, the air could not be fresher and we
could not be happier. The road was built in gentle steps instead of steep gradients, due to which the
uphill ride on the mountain(s) did not feel precarious. Majestic pine and fir trees added to the beauty;
standing tall, proud of the splendor they represented. Manali now was a small settlement in the valley
below, surrounded by the protecting peaks.
As we climbed higher, the foliage thinned, the lushness depleted; barren minor cliffs became more
prominent. The clouds played hide and seek with the sun as well as the mountains, sometimes
shadowing the sunshine while sometimes concealing the peaks. Even more often, the clouds drifted
below, hiding the green valleys, making us feel like we were flying over earth. It was only the
momentary glimpses of the green earth between the clouds which suspended our illusions.
The slight chill in the air increased as we went higher. Initially, we had crossed several roadside shops
which hired out fur overcoats and boots to tourists travelling to Rohtang but we had stoutly refused,
deeming the single layer of warm clothing we had on to be sufficient. How wrong we were soon
proved!
The road below was a thin strand entwining the mountain sides between green carpets, stretching a
long way down. Our driver announced a break in the journey - a place called Marhi.
Marhi is the last point up to which travel is allowed post the Indian summer. It is a tiny settlement,
mostly small restaurants which sold the usual chips, biscuits and beverages and meals. There was a
small Buddhist temple on a hill; it seemed so appropriate to the surroundings – a tiny place to place
your faith in, perhaps here prayers were actually heard and answered.
A hot cup of tea later, we were refreshed and back on the roads. It being the best season to visit
Rohtang and Leh, the narrow road was full. At one point, we had to stop because of a block ahead due
to road restoration. We stepped out to stretch our legs. The view was exquisite - a small winding road,
with a deep but gradually sloped descent on our left and a rocky incline on our right. The green slopes
were sprinkled with tiny colourful flowers growing in patches - vivid hues divert attention from the
invariable green, blue, white and brown...
After a while or so, the block was resolved and we resumed our passage. Marhi had now become
another speck, far below in the panorama. The pines had almost vanished, replaced by a layer of only
grass interspersed by barren rocky terrain. A little farther from the road, grazing yaks could be seen,
calm and imposing in their grandeur. Soon, we could see several tents nearby to the road, more yaks,
some mules and definitely more people. This was the final tourist point – one could take horse/mule
rides, drive snowmobiles on a small snow slope or do amateur skiing here. At our driver’s suggestion,
we drove on. The sky was overcast - it started drizzling a little. After a few minutes, we had to stop
because the road had been dug for repair, making it into a muddy swamp. We had reached the end of
our journey…
The moment we opened the doors and stepped into the grassy slopes, the biting cold hit us like a wall.
The winds blew powerfully yet lovingly, its howling sounds devouring every other sound. We could
barely hold on to our jackets and shawls but I hardly noticed - awed by the landscape around me. The
icy summits which had grown since morning, the absence of human touches, the overcast sky and the
wild gusts of winds which threatened to pull us away from the ground – they all made the experience
surreal. What I loved the most was the absence of sounds, other than of the gale which virtually muted
everything else.
Another incredible scene was that of a flock of sheep nonchalantly grazing nearby, apparently unfazed
by the winds – they seemed so oblivious to their surroundings. Further down, the slope finally reached
the edge, ending into an abyss of nothingness - a straight fall into the rocky plains below. Across this
chasm were more mountains, with vegetation decreasing with distance, up to a point when the
remaining visible slopes did not have green at all, just abundant brown.
Masked by the darkening clouds, the higher peaks were not part of this perfect painting. Luckily, the
clouds shifted sporadically, revealing the white and brown summits – close yet not close enough. White
veins slashed across of the surfaces of all these mountains; flowing water frozen till the next summer.
A thin thread of a different colour winded its way across the slopes of the first mountain across; the
continuity of the road which eventually led to the actual pass and Leh.
Near us, a lone person with a flask in his hand offered us tea which we gratefully accepted. Sipping
steaming tea on a chilly mountain slope, warming our freezing hands with the hot glass, all the while
gazing at the almost unreal scenery – I felt on top of the world.
Due to the slight showers, the temperature had decreased even further. Cold and shivering, yet
unwilling to leave these violent yet serene cosmic elements, we lingered on, braving the weather.
Finally, we reluctantly returned to the car, glad of the comparative warmth inside.
We drove back and stopped at the crowded tourist point. Declining the mule rides, we walked across to
the place where there was a path of mud-stained snow - the first snow I had seen and touched. I did not
find anything remarkable in that place; perhaps I would have enjoyed if I had tried offered snowmobile
and ski rides. Nearby, there stood a miniature version of a Buddhist stupa, where there were hundreds
of ribbons/threads tied on strings across – it somehow looked so neglected.
The descent to Manali took a longer time, the weather having turned morose with fog reducing
visibility. We too were somewhat silent; I guess the solemn Himalayan peaks had cast their spell.
The trip had come to an end, but the memories would be cherished forever – the images of Rohtang and
the emotions they invoked in me at that time, remind me that there is, indeed, heaven on earth…
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
If Only...
His image will trouble me for days to come; a senior citizen, well above the age of sixty, selling children’s toys - rather whistles, blowing one continuously, without rest, wandering in the busy streets of Connaught place on a sultry April evening. I cannot forget his face, the high-powered spectacles accentuating the despair in his eyes, as he moved from street to street, persistently playing the whistles, as much as his laboured breathing would allow.
His attire seemed to me of the kind that employees in government service have worn for ages - khaki trousers, a checked formal shirt, plain black shoes; maybe testaments of a retired job.
His right knee seemed to have a problem – he sort of limped pronouncedly each step he took. From the moment I saw him, while waiting for a friend at the exit of the metro station, my heart went out to him. I could not (and still cannot) fathom the reason why, a citizen at that age, needed to work at all, (let alone so hard) that too selling trivialities on the streets, drifting from person to person, in the hope of success.
Pausing in front of parents with children, trying to woo their attention with the incessant shrill sounds emanating from the efforts of his wearied lungs - I wonder if he sold any that evening. He was in my sight for barely a minute, as he crossed the road, limping as he was, yet proudly continuing to advertise his ware. However, the sight affected me profoundly to subdue my spirits that evening.
As my friend arrived and we walked along the Connaught place verandah, my mind whirled with helplessness and pity; consciously my eyes searched for the old man. Soon we crossed him again; he was kneeling against a pillar, still playing the whistle, probably resting his exhausted body.
I am not the kind of person who can easily be charitable to strangers; maybe others in my place and state of mind would have definitely approached the tired elderly figure and alleviated his misery in some way – by offering him money or buying his whistles or something else. I did not. I have never done it, I do not know how to - maybe I am very self-conscious. Now I console myself, that had I been alone, I would have approached him. The consolation gives some respite, yet the fact remains that I did not do anything at all. Regret and a tinge of guilt prick me sometimes.
Maybe there was a valid reason he was doing what he was doing, maybe it was for that single evening, maybe he was working instead of his son for that day, maybe… maybe… at this point of time, I can only assume, and console myself.
Unfortunately, the fact remains – people of that age still do need to work in
Questions hit me - what desperation could lead to such a tiring situation at such an age?
Isn’t there a family who should be looking after him; a son, daughter, niece or nephew?
What desperate situation has he come across?
Why is the system oblivious of his state?
The entire evening, these questions and those few glimpses of him hovered in my head; I could not enjoy the evening guiltlessly.
As we sat to have dinner at this Chinese restaurant, I could not help but feel the elevated air of indulgences; around me, prosperity thrived. A group of colleagues had come in to celebrate a birthday, a family and acquaintances had this big celebration, drinks were flowing, and people were relaxed, some after a hard day of work in front of a computer maybe, some elsewhere. However, would it even compare with the depth of labour that the elderly man was going through every evening, for a long time perhaps?
Life seemed unfair, unjustified in the discrimination there was amongst the populace. Where two to three thousand rupees was just another dinner at a restaurant, it could easily be a week’s earnings for a vendor on the street, a month’s salary for a factory worker, a year’s fees for a child going to school; so much more than a starter, the main course and dessert.
We rarely think of that when we furnish our credit card to settle the bill. When I say we, I mean the new generation of corporate professionals, engineers, managers, amongst others.
I know that most of us do not always splurge so much on expensive restaurants but our standard of living itself has transformed so much, that we tend to spend more. From school times, when the pocket money of fifty rupees per month was enough for chocolates and ice-creams, to college times, when the monthly thousand was sufficient for the spicy roadside chaat and the canteen paranthas (all the more relished because of their being the substitute for the tasteless hostel food) – our tastes have so changed.
The salaries which initially seemed exorbitant and much more than what we could possibly spend in a month, we now consider as paltry; the expenses touching the roof, and the savings touching the floor. This is the power of changing lifestyles; the pair of shoes that I wore for the better part of four Allahabad winters was not Reebok or Adidas (I do not ever remember if there was a brand attached to it), it felt just fine to my hurrying feet. Now, buying shoes implies rounds of all the shopping malls, entering every footwear shop, and trials of endless variations of the same shoes, just with supposed better quality, a big brand name and at least an extra fifteen hundred rupees price. Ironically, now there are lesser opportunities to run, let alone hurry (what with a car), but of course, the shoes have to be branded. My parents flinched when I told them the ticket prices of that movie we watched at PVR the other weekend; after having saved and managed for so many years to provide us the best, spending a thousand rupees on just a movie show was unimaginable to them. We do not think twice. Probably, that attitude is a natural consequence of a comparatively higher salary.
Guilt lingers in my mind, my inaction has troubled my conscience; but that single old man is not the only image
pricking my mind..
The world is unequal; where
Due to the Commonwealth games, the entire city seems to be in a permanent sort of construction frenzy; all around Delhi, the beatification is happening at an unbelievable speed. Handcrafted signposts along entire streets, landscaped gardens, proper direction boards everywhere – they are good developments, but what about the kids who stay in the tents nearby these under-construction streets (offspring of the workers)? Don’t they deserve a better childhood, learning in school and three healthy meals a day? Don’t the workers have a right to decent quarters to stay? Aren’t these issues more relevant than beautifying the streets, or constructing a stadium?
I am not very much into politics, but I do know it is a corrupt system out there. I cannot even begin to imagine the numbers, when I think about the corruption and the profits that so many people have made, courtesy the Commonwealth Games. From a general perspective, we are all part of a corrupt system; rules are for everyone else. You are caught talking on the phone, while driving - you rather pay a bribe to the traffic police officer rather than get a proper legal ticket. You are waiting in a line outside a crowded temple, which opens for only fifteen minutes each morning, noon and evening, you prefer to pay a bribe to go by the backdoor and throng among similar sinners, for a darshan. You board a train without a reservation, then pay the train official extra money (translate to bribe) for a berth (no receipt received mind you). Your pension is not being processed in time, you pay a bribe to the proper government officer and all your papers (which previously seemed to have been incomplete), now magically become complete and the pension is finally received.
Then we complain that this system is corrupt - it is all an endless vicious cycle. No doubt, the government is to blame for this endless give and take, but we too have fostered it by agreeing to abide by the illegal system. Unfortunately, corruption is so deeply ingrained in all the services that a common man’s life becomes a struggle, if one refuses to bribe. In the everyday stream of life, we do not think twice before paying a traffic official a few hundred rupees to avoid a larger penalty or impoundment. Government incomes being so famously low, one might not even consider the act as illegal; some might even liken it to forced charity.
Except, actions do have consequences - every action does. Who knows? Because of that single apparently innocent crime, something wrong is happening to someone who does not deserve it - someone who worked (and still has to work) hard for his daily living - an honest living, still cannot seem to make ends meet. His current life is a hollow existence, limping across streets, even though the worn out body can hardly support it, attempting to sell tiny toys to children (rather their parents).
To this day, I ponder about the old man and the whistles, I wonder if his wandering hopelessly and desperately paid off at all…
I hope to God it did - knowing it for a certainty would help rid me of that subconscious feeling of culpability.
But, I will never know. Perhaps, that is the price I pay for my passiveness.