Surprises steeped in music....

After Amit Chaudhari’s St. Cyril Road and other Poems, Naipaul’s India, almost all of Rohinton Mistry’s fiction and many friends waxing eloquent about Bombay’s virtues and sins, I found my way there. To watch Knopfler’s brilliance. I managed only a glimpse – the Gateway of India, the lovely Victorian buildings in Churchgate, the quaint (!? yes, I’m still talking about Bombay) stores in Colaba, a ride in a local train which I caught running (and scared myself silly) and apricot sheesha at Mocha in Bandra. I regretted having to leave so quickly so much. I would have loved to explore the city.

One day.

On the dock....

Minimalism, I like. Opulence, I don’t. I try not having these black-and-white opinions. But, I really can’t remember one thing that is opulent that I like / liked. I watched Sanjay Leela Bansali’s Black a week ago and that’s what stood out. The stark, photography. And, did that make it severe or austere? No. Not one bit. It was stylish. And classy. His use of light, shadows, silhouettes, objects, sound is quite stunning. Not a trace of the garish opulence that characterised his earlier movies, Devdas and Hum dil de chuke sanam. An overdose of colours, shimmer and dazzle they were. And, typical sob stories, making a bad thing worse than worse. This is not to say that I dislike colour. I love colour. Especially how it was used in M.F. Hussain’s Meenaxi. Brilliant, flowing into the screen and vibrant. And, tasteful. Black, in my opinion, is a harbinger of good things to come.

C(r)aving for more….

This time, it was a rendezvous with history. The Frau and I went on a rather touristy trip. To Aurangabad, Ajanta, Ellora and Daulatabad.

We disembarked (I like the word; it sounds regal.) in Aurangabad, on a cold and dark morning while the city was still curled up beneath warm blankets and unaware of the sun’s coming. Setting up base there, we freshened up, ate some stony idlis and clambered onto a bus that promised to take us to Ajanta. It’s close to a hundred kilometres away from Aurangabad and took us three hours to get there after stopping to bite into guavas and watch some smiling children run around in the morning sun. Some Chinese tourists with their tiny, gloved hands and heads covered with sun hats provided ample entertainment – scurrying, ant-like movements, posing for pictures with the guava-seller and jabbering nineteen to the dozen in what I thought was an ant-like tongue. Very, very ant-like.

The Buddhist caves at Ajanta were everything that I expected and more. The frescoes on the walls of four of the caves are detailed and painted in lovely earth colours, predominantly ochre and lapis lazuli. Large parts of them have peeled away or faded with time, inclement weather and the apathy of tourists. But, it seems like the Archaeological Survey of India have woken up. We saw quite a few people working on chemical restoration of the paintings. Vigilant caretakers warn visitors not to take photographs with the flash switched on as they damage the paintings. We explored all the caves with a guide book in hand which attempted to explain archaeological findings and their significance. Capturing those moments of history on camera sometimes seems futile. But, somehow, the trigger happy (or, click happy) tourist with the camera in you takes over in those moments of realization anyway. The beautifully sculpted Buddha in almost all the caves leaves one feeling calmer, somehow. The chaityas and the viharas are better than any I have ever seen before, at other places. Having spent almost an entire day there, we took a bus back to base camp. Tired, but curious about the city, we wandered back into it after some awkward questions to a confused auto driver about the posh parts of the city. Having gotten there, we realized that we were in a city that is trying to emulate its more illustrious neighbours and not doing a bad job of it at all. The city, however, sleeps early and we found ourselves the subjects of much attention for being the few people (read women) outside the confines of their homes at that time of the night. It was only 9:30. Sigh.

Early the next day, we found our way back to the bus station and jerked our way to Ellora, the less noisy and prettier companion of the caves at Ajanta (in my opinion). These caves are unique in that they are a conglomerate of the Buddhist, Hindu and Jain schools. They live in harmony, oblivious to the fanatics that scream their purported faiths to the world. The first few are of the Buddhist faith. They are similar to the ones at Ajanta. Two of them have three floors and long galleries, with walls and pillars covered with carvings. There were a few Buddhist monks in maroon robes, shining pates and calm smiles that were visiting these caves – a pilgrimage for them. At the main chaitya, they squatted and began to chant, their voices resonating in the cavernous expanse of the caves. I spent some time in there too, in quiet meditation and walked out feeling feather light. The next set of caves were the Hindu ones and are by far the most beautiful sculptures I have ever seen. Fables about the legendary mythological characters from an era long gone by adorned the walls and the pillars. The main cave with an intricately carved gopuram that rises up against the skies, is a prelude, of sorts, to the magnificence of the temple believed to have been Kailash, the abode of Lord Shiva and his consort. The long, echoing halls, pillars, engraved walls and ceilings and the ever watchful Nandi are a part of the spirit of the cave temple. The remaining caves containing images of the others of the heavenly realms – from the elephant-headed Ganapati and the avatars of Vishnu to the delicate grace of Lakshmi and Saraswati have been skillfully captured. Following these are the Jain caves. Fewer in number and somewhat ostentatious in their sculpture, these caves are the lesser of the lot at Ellora.

We debated whether to follow the cave trail to Pitalkhora which was quite a distance a away. The lack of time and transportation won out and we decided to drop it from our itinerary. Our hunger satisfied and thirst quenched with fresh grapes, we walked a kilometer or so the Ghrineshwar temple, one of the jyotirlingas in Maharashtra. It is a nice enough temple, except for the milling crowds. But, that comes with the territory, I guess. So, I’m not complaining.

Ghrineshwar to Daulatabad, it was. Daulatabad is where Tughlaq wanted to relocate his capital to, as the story of yore goes. I watched a lovely play a couple of years ago called Tughlaq. Ever since, I’ve wanted to read up more on the man and his dubious distinctions. And, being at Daulatabad seemed apt. Among the forts I’ve seen, the one here is in better shape than most. The Chand Minar rises into the sky and is visible from quite a distance in the hilly terrain. We trudged along, climbing steep steps and marveling at what was once a moat. Some of the canons of the time have been well preserved and are exhibited – shining brass, glinting in the rays of the sun in the western sky. We overheard a maulvi narrating to his companions in a lilting, poetical tongue, the exploits of Aurangzeb. We also bought a few old brass and copper coins from the pre-independence and the post-independence periods that were being sold outside the fort.

We squeezed into a six-seater, a quaint and utilitarian, but, rather polluting vehicle oft seen on the roads in this part of the country and jolted back to Aurangabad, drained and hungry. The rest of the evening, we spent in Aurangabad. We found our way to Pan Chakki, a water mill, an innovation of the seventeenth century. The water mill generates energy from water that flows through earthen pipes from a water source more than six kilometers away! Just outside of Pan Chakki, we stopped for a bit at the tiny shops that sold exquisitely carved animals in miniature. The Frau bought an elephant, and I, a tortoise. Very pretty, indeed. To Bibi ka Maqbara we went from there. It was styled to be a replica of the Taj Mahal, albeit, a poorer version. It has none of the grandeur that is associated with the Taj. However, outlined in the twilight, with the call of the muezzin for prayers in the background, it does impress.

We had some hours to kill before the departure of the bus. So, we strayed back into the commercial area of the city and into a coffee shop. I was in a crazy mood and launched into a conversation with The Frau in an English accent. I asked the eager-to-please waiter for some cohld cohffee with a stiff upper lip and a propah smile and nod of head. Startled and a little scared, he bowed, and went off with a slightly glazed look in his eye. The Frau had a tremendously hard time trying to control her laughter. :) She promised to kill me and hoped that I’d burn in hell. After that, we squatted under a tree and waited with increasing impatience for the bus that would deposit us back to where we came from. Some of the madness of the evening spilt into the night with me trying some hip-hop and entertaining the amused creatures of the night – some people waiting for the bus, a dog and a chaiwala attempting to out sing me. The Frau was mighty embarrassed, I think. Spent and happy, we returned.

Green and blue….

And, why do you leave those fingerprints on the wall? Everyday, I wake up to them. And, want desperately to wipe them away. To at least draw those snaking lines again. Differently. But, they cling tenaciously to what remains of the wall. Never fading. Not even metamorphosing. While the old paint peels away and the bricks begin to crumble. Leaving red powder on the ground. Interspersed with white. The white of the yesterday's whitewash.

I'm such a liar.

What of the fingerprints? I put them there. They're mine. I love them. More and more each day. I also lied about their constancy. They ache to change. To renew themselves and to trace the paths carved. Sometimes by the curious, meandering rivulets and sometimes by the mighty seas.

Epilogue….

Moods and colours, smells and clothes, hours and starlight change with the seasons. Reminiscent of the changing tenors of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. No? And, this wintry December brought many, many delights.

( Read more... )

Dancing queen....

the quivering green sun cavorts
under the canopy of yore
in the waterways
twirling, pirouetting, bowing
Schwangesang.

100 ps, it said, on the yellow ticket that would take me to Mattancherry, a little island, a 40 minute ride from Ernakulam’s main boat jetty. And, out came a 100 rupee note, with almost no hesitation. And, the clerk(?) at the counter gave me a tired look that said, “Where do these tourists have their brains?”, but, politely asked me for change, instead. I looked at him and the ticket, puzzled. A few tense moments later, some childhood mathematical unit conversions whispered from a dark corner of my head and I said, incredulously, “1 rupee?” And, he nodded his patient, sparsely grey-haired head and I rummaged around for a coin, gave it to him and walked to where the ferry was docked, in a mixture of shock and awe.

( Read more... )

Of smiles and things....

Isn’t it just lovely to smile? Especially when you have no clue why. All morning, I have been doing just that! Smiling…. at my sleek silver-and-black monitor and my orange-cream biscuit, at noses and fingers, at water coolers and posters, at random people and things. And, it’s such fun watching the bewildered expression on their faces. The people’s, that is. We have security cameras in here. I just smiled at the camera too. It’s like a little rascal inside is trying his hand at puppetry.... pulling the strings of the muscles that make me smile. A little tug here, a little tug there, here a tug, there a tug, everywhere a tug tug....

*smiling*

Re-inventing the wheel and its many monikers....

How did the Ferris wheel get translated into 'giant wheel' in the Indian tongue? Or was it the other way round? Hmm? But, that would mean Mr. Giant and not Mr. Ferris invented the thingumajig. No? But, that isn't even true. Or, perhaps, it's really Jai Ant wheel.... where Ant is a country (You know, like Jai Hind?) Or, Jaya NT wheel.... a whole new operating system (with which you get a truckload of shoes, many anti-defection laws, and water absolutely free).

Oh, I went on a call-it-what-you-will wheel ride yesterday! :) Whee!

Crayon capers....

Crayons really have a way of breathing life into colours. More so than colour pencils and sketch pens, I think. I especially like the Faber Castell crayons – the yellow crayons, the red crayons, the blue crayons, the green crayons, the purple crayons and the white crayons. I even like the word ‘crayon’. I like the way it sounds – like a royal word: to be respected and bowed down to. No?

I spent a lovely afternoon colouring a rainbow, a hut, a flower, the earth, the sea, an elephant and nothing in particular with The Spirit behind the Tale’s five-year-old daughter. She neatly folded the papers (posters, she called them) and put them into her little pink-and-white bag and went off to the park with her friends to show off her artistic skills. And, now, the little lady wants me to go and colour with her everyday. I wish I could!

Was?

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? So, hello and all that.

The Paranoid Princess finally visited me after promising to at least a few eleven hundred times this last year. And, it was a baleful of laughter, midnight singing of Christmas carols (out of season, as usual), talking nineteen to the dozen, shisha, walking till our toes ached, conversations in Deutsch, shopping, devouring all and sundry and then some. I hope that we all live in the same time and light zone for the rest of our lives.

Winding through....

I just returned from an as-delightful-as-always train journey.

Trains are rather pretty, wouldn’t you say? When it rains and the red mud holds all the water in, it forms a lovely shade of red – the colour of most trains I’ve seen. So, so pretty.

And, what of its charms, you ask? The sensations: the gentle rocking of the multitudes to the lullaby of the rolling wheels on the old, old tracks, the caressing breeze while running through fields of paddy, maize and sugarcane. The bagful of sounds: the hoofs of a merry horse cantering along, or the sudden clanging of iron against iron while on a bridge, or the thunderous roar of a manacled giant while in the confines of a tunnel or the soft kitten-like purring while nearing stations where it pauses to catch a breath. The palette of colours: the colour-of-the-sky trains that seem to be rather matter-of-fact and the suave and sophisticated counterpart of the rustic, and vibrant clay-red trains – both living in the shade of the other, in perfect harmony and beatitude.

Incidentally, I’m reading Branch Line to Eternity by Bill Aitken – about the many delights of steam engines, now, a forgotten relic of a wonderful era.

Something I wrote a long time ago while on a train….

Hide, sun....

Fields of white satin
Dotted with canals
Like cygnets in blue ballet
Billowing gently in thick winds
Ever changing form
Touched by a magic wand
Weaving a fairytale anew
Of a moment etched in azure skies
A renaissance.

Traipsing about
In unclaimed lands
Occasionally bursting forth
In a flurry of freshness
Caressing my parched throat
Smile.
For, a rainbow hides
In the clouds.

The nature of nature....

And while the winds rock the worn boat violently in the green waters, the fiery sun comes up and sends it a bunch of rays and smiles. Perhaps, a votive offering, once professed to the earth.

Elemental accord. Perfect accord. To the tunes of the angels’ harps.

In balance, as always.

Blip(on the radar)....

So, I got tired of work and everything else. What was I doing inside while the monsoon was painting beautiful pictures outside?

( Read more... )

Ahead of my time....

I’ve decided. I’m going back to school. I don’t care what biological, non-ethical innovation / invention that might involve.

So, fare ye well, world that I knew after my first fifteen years of my life. It was nice knowing you. Mostly. For the other part, oh, well. It might have been nice knowing you.

Stifle....

Work consumes. Or at least, something that disguises itself in the form of work. Or something like that. I’m not one to complain, usually. All complaining does is, make one feel worse. So, I usually grin and say it’s quite all right. But, sigh. It makes me feel so claustrophobic. I hardly have any time for my kids at Akanksha, hardly have any time to pursue any kind of art / culture, hardly any time to breathe. And, that’s why the stifling feeling.

On the bright side, last night, after work, I went to a meeting where people from all the Bombay and Pune centres of Akanksha came together. It was so, so, so, so beautiful. There are such lovely people in this world. Really.

And, after that, some red wine, shisha, jazz, soft orange lights from the flame of the lamps all around, cozy divaans, the moonlight filtering in from the skies above peeking through the gaps in the trees. Oh. So perfect.

I’m smiling again now. :)

Round, like a circle in a spiral....

The winds have blown a year away. I push the stray wisps of my hair away from my eyes, and, look with a mixture of awe and surprise and gasp at the tremendous change it has wrought. And, while I wasn’t looking, much I learnt, much I loved, much I pondered, much I lived.

I’ve been here a year, today.

Over the hills and far away....

From my bedroom’s little window
I peeked at life
from under the covers
of my soft white blanket.
A full life it was
within my window’s frame.
Every now and again though,
I bent over the sill and almost fell out
for shocked was I at the world
outside the rectangle I knew so well.

Beyond the viewfinder
I did go, to embrace new
lands: bright and green
with fun and laughter and no fetter.
Among meadows sprinkled with glistening dew
and bells a-tinkling, I skipped in glee.
Living in duality:
industrious like the proverbial ant
and dancing without a care like the proverbial cricket
I have lived, this year gone by.

A potpourri, it has been –

~ from no curfew hours, treks into the middle of nowhere, midnight walks, and independence to missing mom, dad and nani, missing my favourite(st) people, and missing Bangalore’s many delights.

~ from backpacking whenever I felt footloose and fancy-free, pizza and coffee and kulfi whenever inclination demanded, waiting eagerly to take the first train home and enjoying myself thoroughly while I was there to waiting in long queues to pay the electricity and phone bills, waking early on cold Sunday mornings so the maid can clean up (and doing the cleaning ourselves when she didn’t turn up), not eating mom’s delicious saaru and wanting desperately to go home.

~ from devouring the books in my quaint, little neighbourhood bookstore, teaching and playing with my lovely kids at Akanksha, going for lovely western classical music concerts, and meeting and learning much from students and tourists from other lands to hardly any theatre, no weekend classes at Max Müller, and no Premier Bookshop and Select Bookshop.

~ from late-into-the-night conversations with The Frau(my roommate), spending time with so many new, beautiful people, and learning so much about relationships at work and outside, to missing spending time with my friends back home, a couple of disturbing experiences with a couple of people, and not so much Scrabble, tea and conversation.

~ from continually comparing this city’s smallness and narrowness to expansive (in heart and mind) Bangalore to growing to like and respect its history and culture, and falling in love with the many beautiful places in this region (the Sahayadris) – rare visual treats they are.

A catharsis it has been. An evolution it has been. Complete.

Music of the sages....

There is something about classical music. Chitti Babu on the veena from the world of Karnatic music, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan on the sarod from the Hindustani music elite, Mendelssohn on the violin, Schubert and his lieder (German, for songs) and a contemporary Richard Clayderman on the piano – all virtuosos beyond compare. I can think of nothing better than an evening filled with music from the likes of these, soft orange lights, coffee, and a book.

I went for a veena recital last evening. Veenai Jayanthi was the artiste. She was accompanied by an extremely talented percussion duo – mridangam player and a ghatam player – a woman, apparently the only woman ghatam player. The three of them took the audience on a journey that was breathtakingly beautiful, playful, quick, passionate and magical. Her rendition of the varnam, along with her aalaapana heaped on the audience, generous helpings of magnificence. The main piece was a lovely coming together of the three of them. She played her part, bringing out every little nuance of the raga (a Mohanam piece), like she was teasing it out of its diffidence. She, then, handed it over to the percussionists. It was like they were having a conversation – the beats, in the guise of each other’s ideas, bounced to and fro – from mridangam to ghatam and back. It was like they were challenging each other with their ideas. After almost fifteen minutes of this volley, they finished it off together, as if to say, that they had reached an agreement – a consensus – all in a fantastic crescendo. This was acknowledged with thunderous applause and much appreciation. She finished the concert with Bihaag - heart-rending, delicate and perfect.

*Applause*. My gracious thanks for making my evening – it will keep me on a high for a long, long time.

I miss my veena. Lots. :(

Date:	2004-07-08 16:44
Subject:
Security:	Public
Mood:	relieved

A tribute to bus drivers....

Thank God for bus drivers. I don’t know what I would I do without them! I wouldn’t earn my money and hence wouldn’t be able to afford my exorbitant house rent and food and hence would have to live on the roads or the pavements becoming a part of the growing community of the homeless and hence have to scrounge for food and hence have to await the charity of some rich kid (whose monetary status isn’t inextricably linked to bus drivers as mine is) and whew! This is frightening!

We had to move to a brand, new workplace a couple of months back – a miserable 22 km. from The Barrack(my flat). This involved abandoning my horse and having to move onto more evolved forms of transport, namely, the bus. And, also having to relinquish my position as my horse’s jockey and move onto being a passenger on a bus of sleeping or sleepy-eyed people. Sigh.

But, I was talking about my gratefulness to the drivers of these buses who ferry me to and from The No Name (my workplace) every day. Here’s the reason: my sense of direction. It will go down in the annals of history as the worst possible case. I go to the same place every single day and am still as clueless as I was on the first day about the way there. Let me go there by myself, and I’d be hopelessly lost. Take me on a road parallel to the one I usually take, and I’m looking to see if I’m in another town. It’s hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. So. Imagine what I’d do without the bus driver. Life without bus drivers is unthinkable. So. Thank you, bus driver(s).

How do I manage otherwise, do you ask? With huge signboards, kindly people who direct me to where I have to go and The Frau (my roommate) whose sense of direction more than makes up for mine.

It will be better one day. It will, it will. Yeah, right!

My hall of mirrors….

Here’s an introduction to a few of my favourite(st) people…. kindred spirits.

( Read more... )

On the road....

Just when last week was dragging its heavy feet along and an overpowering tedium was taking over, a bright idea of taking off someplace on a bike hit me. Some googling decided the destination – Bedse caves, off the Mumbai-Pune highway, close to 70 km. from Pune.

6 o’clock in the morning – we (my roommate and I) hit the old Mumbai-Pune highway – backpacks, sandwiches layered generously with butter, oranges, water, a map, helmets, rain gear, all. We missed a few turns, thanks to signboards that were splattered with mud and placed quite inconspicuously. But, we managed to get halfway there following instinct and the position of the sun. Thereon, a slight drizzle kept us company all the way to Kamshet – a town along the highway. Our helmets looked like we had mud wrestled or something – thanks to the rain and the mud and dust from the passing lorries. We stopped to ask for directions to the bypass that would lead us to the caves. A kindly villager, with paan-stained teeth, gave us directions to the bypass which led to a small stretch of ghat(?) section called Baur Ghat. A short climb later, hungry and soaked, we stopped to devour the sandwiches.

From there, we rode into the Kurunj village. Some more friendly villagers directed us to the Bedse village about 2.5 km. from there. The road(?) was a kaccha one and needed some skillful navigation. About 1 km. into that road, we decided to stop and park near a villager’s house and hike the remaining distance. After explaining ourselves in some broken Marathi and asking for more directions, we started hiking towards the base of the hill atop which, were the caves. I must digress here to talk about the villagers’ charming, old-world way of giving directions. I remember talking about it in an earlier post too. He turns around and tells us to take the right at the coconut tree and then to follow the road until we come to a bunch of school kids running around (to indicate that the school was nearby) and park there. Us, in our urbane way, would’ve said, “Ride along about 400 metres and take the turning that you see. From there, ride an additional kilometer till you find parking space” or variations thereof. Sigh. Anyway, a short hike uphill and we were at the caves. Another place that escaped unscathed from humanity and its spoils. Its beauty – intricate carvings of horses, bulls, flowers, wheels and women, peepal-shaped archways stone rooms, perennial supply of water, a huge and awe-inspiring Buddhist stupa and a lone villager who explained the history of the caves to us. There is no information apart from the usual Archaeological Survey of India board proclaiming pompously that it was a national heritage monument and damaging it would be a punishable offense. Yeah, right?! Maybe if they had taken the time to give visitors a little background, they might get the visitors to respect the monument and leave it untouched! Oh, well! A minor annoyance, that.

We hiked back downhill and rode through three other villages – Kadhde, Yelse and Pawnanagar, where we stopped for some hot and tasty vada pav. We saw the Pawna dam from a distance and decided that it was time to retrace our footsteps, rather, our tyretracks. :) So, we rode back through the villages, wound our way down the Baur Ghat and went back to Kamshet. There, we made our customary stop for chai and got back onto the highway, and, rode into civilisation after an immensely satisfying day.