Getaway...

We had been to Hampi and loved every minute of it. The ruins of the capital city of Vijayanagar empire were awe-inspiring despite the dust, heat and callous fellow visitors. Shall write about it soon.

stray observation of the day

You will always find one abandonned chappal on the roads...never a pair!

stray wisdom of the moment

The only brands you need to wear are the ones on your clothes.

pelicans

This prompted Ro to visit the Madiwala Lake last Saturday afternoon. The 114.16 hectare lake, with a wetland area of 24.74 acres, was built nearly 300 years ago. It is said to have been built overnight (don’t ask me how!) and it got its name (which means washerman) from the washermen folks who lived around it. The water was supposed to have been so clean that people would travel several miles to take drinking water from it. Not any more.

The many varieties of fish, the rose garden and the nursery have long since disappeared. Replaced not surprisingly by a slum on the habitable bank, contributing to human waste contamination of the lake water. The forest department has done precious little except to put up a very badly maintained children’s park and deploying a apathetic gatekeeper whose main concern is to collect Rs. 3/- per ‘entry’.

But we saw the spot-billed pelicans. This more than made up our day which was otherwise ordinary. Not in hundreds though, as the news article promised but may be a few dozens of them. With most of them dozing on the trees at the island, only a handful of them played up to the crowd and displayed their skills at take off and landing. This island is their home in the lake for the two months that they decide to spend here.

Pelicans are strange birds. They lay 3 eggs at a time and only one survives long enough to reach adulthood. The weakest ‘chick’ is done in early by the stronger ones. Of the remaining two, one slays the other so that only one survives at the end. So no need of ‘hum do hamare do’ there, was Ro’s comment. Wise eh?

I am not a picky reader. I usually read whatever lands on my lap. This means I read a lot of forgettable stuff that no one in her/his sane mind would ever want to get close to. Stuff that by the end of the book you would hope to forget how you started reading it.

Idling through Landmark@Forum I had picked up a few books for Ro. I have read and liked Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. So The Conch Bearer was a natural choice. Fact that the paper back print was large and was on discount made it an obvious choice.

It all started with helping Ro to read the book. It wasn’t long till I got hooked and waited impatiently for him to sleep so that I could race through the book myself. Even bribed him to carry it as my flight read. He is still reading and hates being told the story and insists on discovering it all by himself.

So his journey is still on. But mine was magical, as the book took me to my Kolkata, traversing through the cold dingy lanes to the warmth of the human heart. I became once more a twelve year old fighting to keep the innocence of believing in my heart as the world around caved in. For Anand, the protagonist, the path and the guide appeared as divine intervention. For me, neither the path nor the guide has ever come to rescue. Or maybe, I never believed enough.

Sphotik

Sphotik is six. A precocious six with dollops of still-remaining innocence. Sphotik lives with his mother. He loves his school and has few friends but not too many. His mother works in an office. She had taken him there a few times. She tells him she would be home with him if they had enough money for everything. Sphotik wants to see his mother home. He doesn’t like that she works so hard and at times comes home late. He tells her when he grows up he will take care of her and she doesn’t have to work at all when she is old. His mother doesn’t reply, just smiles and kisses him on the head.

Sphotik loves his mother. He has loved her for as long as he can remember. But he wonders why she looks sad even when she smiles at him. He has seen her cry when she thought he wasn’t looking. There really isn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for her. He just wants to see her happy. He tries to be good and tries to do everything she asks him to do. He loves watching Cartoon Network. He wishes that his mother lets him watch TV more often. He doesn’t know why she has been so sad lately. He has even stopped watching TV on Sunday mornings.

She plays with him, tells him stories, helps with his homework and makes yummy sandwiches for lunch that his friends love so much. But Sphotik knows she is sad. He had asked again and she had shaken her head and smiled. But Sphotik knows. She didn’t have her dinner last night. He knew when he opened the refrigerator in the morning to get his candy. He has also seen her standing in the puja room and there were tears rolling down her cheeks. He so wanted to hug her and tell her that everything will be all right. But he just prayed to God, please make my mother happy. He even wrote a note for his mother and drew a big heart. She hugged him tight and cried when he gave it to her. He doesn’t understand these adult things. He wrote it to make her smile. He hopes she loves him.

perks

I have always been bitten by the travel bug. Nothing energizes me more than a journey. Sometimes to the familiar and at times to the new. A large part of my agreeing to switch job was the promise of travel. So here I am once again in the planter's paradise called Chikmagalur. My organization runs a vocational training college for the economically depressed locals. I am here to review their progress. The work is incidental and the beautiful locale is for free. Couldn't have asked for more, could I have?

Oh...the broast chicken dinner at the 1865 Kadur Club was close to heritage.

Sitting at the airport waiting for boarding call makes me anxious. Its the usual motley crew of blank faces, impatient faces....faces that betray every human emotion.

indecoffellionnov :)

4 individuals (one behind the camera!)

4 professions

4 organizations

4 languages

3 religions

1 bond

Déjà....what?

It’s his birthday. She picks up the cellphone to wish him. The phone shows ‘no network’. She gets up and tries the landline. It’s dead. She dresses and walks to the public phone booth at the end of the street. That’s dead too. Her cellphone is still showing ‘no network’. That's odd, she thinks. What’s happening today? She drives to office. As she greets the front desk girl, she tells her with a big smile, “Guess what? I am jobless. All phone lines are down today!” What? By now her worry has given into panic. She walks to her desk and picks up the phone. What if the front desk girl is wrong. Dead. Her cellphone’s dead too! She rushes out. Without giving in to logic, she tries every phone on the block. People stared at her as she ran from public booths to shops and even to other offices, trying frantically to call him. She starts yelling. “I have to make a call. Can anyone help me?” The traffic sergeant walks over and tells her politely, “Lady, calm down. All phone lines are down today”. But she is past caring. What am I going to do now? I promised to call him on his birthday. He will never forgive me. She starts to cry.

Right at that moment her cellphone beeps. It’s a miracle!

“Happy Birthday darling!”

“Huh??” his sleepy voice responds. “Are you ok? My birthday isn’t until tomorrow…”

take a break...

Who: Alice, Clyde, Auvese and I

When: Saturday (11/17/07)

Where: Devarayanadurga

Route: Bangalore - Dobbspet - Devarayanadurga

Distance: 70 km from Bangalore

Best Part: Rocks with good views

Description: This is on NH4, the main highway northwest for Pune. At about 51 Km, just past a bridge after the town of Dobspet, a sign on the right indicates the road to the Devarayanadurga. It passes through farm fields, through the town of Urdigere (about 16 kilometers). There is a left detour which takes us through the jungle to the Hill. There are two temples, one is Bhoga Narasimha, which is at the foothill this is a temple with a kalyani. Then there is a road which takes us to another point at a higher altitude to the Yoga Narasimha temple. This is an old structure but well maintained. Climb further up from the temple to the rocks to get a breathtaking view. The wind at the peak is imposing but cool...there are lots of monkeys...good place for rock climbers. There is also a police signalling center. This is only place where we can get mobile signal (all carriers) to make any calls to Bangalore.

Stopovers: Dobbspet and Namada chilume

Fuel Stations: Dobbspet

Tips: Watchout for the water hole on the way to the temple, the settings for this place is awesome. There is also Namada chilume (water springs out of barren rock) which is a beautiful place.

My new office has a breath-taking view of the Cubbon Park and the Vidan Soudha...

diwali

my wow moments...

I have never been particularly religious. Brought up in an environment where rituals weren’t enforced, I am a believer but not overtly so. To date, I know only two prayers by heart. The Gayatri Mantra, taught by my grandfather when I started speaking and the Lord’s Prayer, that I learnt in my catholic grade school. And I usually recite both at one go.

My grandfather followed a ritualistic regime while allowing us to have sacred personal beliefs. His house had a prayer room on the top floor where there was space for all the 33 million Hindu Gods (exposed to non-discrimination of Gods, it still astonishes me to discover the various hindu religious sects and sub sects). The rituals were simple and non-obligatory for his family members. He read the Gita every evening wearing his un-dyed raw-silk dhoti and ‘angavastra’ after a fresh shower, sitting cross-legged on his woven prayer mat, with incense stick burning along with oil lamps. Awed by the setting as much as by him, we made it a point to be a part of the experience during vacation time. The evening prayers ended with a song praising all the Gods and distribution of ‘prasad’, which consisted of savouries prepared by my grandmother. Sitting on a jute mat, looking at the shifting shadows from the flickering flames and listening to my grandfather’s voice filling the room, was my earliest experience of wow (wonderment of world).

The other time, has been in a partially dilapidated St. Mary’s church in Bandel, West Bengal constructed by the Portugese in 1660, one evening many decades ago. In no other place of worship have I found the feeling of peace and poignancy in equal measures that will stun you to silence and urge you to scream in jubilation all at the same time. I hear they have repaired the building and even offer package tours for visitors, after being accepted by the Vatican as a Minor Basilica.

Another such experience was in a two centuries old Shiv temple in Buri Jageshwar, Kumaon, Uttaranchal. We had visited this hilly hamlet of 20 odd families for my field dissertation during my final university year. The temple is on the fir enclosed bank of a rivulet called Dudh Ganga, named so since the stream cuts through a narrow valley of quartz stones, which gives the clear water the illusion of a flowing river of milk. The first day when we entered the granite curved temple in the bone-freezing early hours of dawn, we were surprised that there were no hawkers selling the usual ‘dali’ of flowers, sweets and incense sticks offered to the Gods. Later we were told that the deity accepts no offerings. Specially flowers. The village had a complete ban on picking flowers including the ones blooming on the roadside. The puja rituals did not include any offering of flowers. The only expectation was that one sits through the prayers. Sitting in silence on the lonely, cold stone outside the sanctum sanctorum, I have never felt so connected to the world.

But all the Diwali hoopla on media and in my present surrounding, leaves me rather cold and distant.

Ro@School

It was Parent’s Day at Ro’s school today. Through my school days, these were the most dreaded days as the teachers were usually full of praises for the high graders and for those parents whose children were doomed for mediocrity, there was always earnest sympathy.

But this time, as a parent, things are surprisingly different. The children, all forty of them in Standard 2, performed in various dances ranging from a popular Kannada song to a filmy Qawali. Ro was a part of the goanese song “Galiyan sanchi”. The best part was that the children enjoyed performing and was without a shade of nervousness of being on stage. Their smiles overshadowed the oft missed steps and mis-formed lines.

Most of all, there was no pressure to perform. Some may say it’s a bad idea since pressure goads the child to do better, but I would rather have a happy child enjoying himself than a super-smart wizkid. Thank you.

what's in a name?

A well meaning friend has warned me against using real names in virtual space. It was a very reasonable piece of advice. In the current world of Orkut-stalking and identity theft, it makes so much sense to be anonymous.

I remember when I came across the word for the first time. I was about five. During Pujo in my grandparent’s house in Kalyani. Kalyani then was a well known university town. Though the university still remains, the socio-demographic character of the town has gone through a makeover and the town has lost some of its former glory. Back then, you can imagine that the town had a favorable ratio of pseudo-intellectuals with the demography ruled by either students or retired pensioners. Now, both these groups were the flag bearers of moral, intellectual and cultural values that ‘bengaleeism’ is all about. So you could see its impressions all over town. Not surprisingly when my uncle, then a university undergrad, had formed a students’ association he chose to call it “Anonymous”. I believe it had a lot to do with escaping from libel suits cause they were notorious in a robinhoodish way. Their productive work was limited to the celebration of Durga Pujo through public fundraising. The rest of the year, the club members whiled away their time sitting around a bedraggled tea stall debating various issues from across the world and drinking endless cups of tea on credit. One thing you have to give to a bengalee is that he has an opinion on everything under the universe and that no two bengalees worth his fish fries would hold the same opinion. However, the jewel in the otherwise tarnished crown for this Club was the Durga Pujo which the members celebrated in a befitting manner making up for all the angst they have cause their families and neighbours around the year. It was there, while visiting the ‘pandal’ that I came across the word ‘anonymous’ for the pujo pandal was known as “Anonymous er Pujo”. When I asked my uncle’s friend Ajitkaku what it means, being a stanch communist, he told me it means ‘the nameless crowd who struggles to survive’. This absolutely didn’t make any sense to me for as far as I were concerned, everyone I knew, struggling or otherwise, had a legitimate name, including my uncle’s dog Kalia.

It was much later in school that I understood the true meaning but the thought of being ‘the nameless one’ always made me uncomfortable. To the extent that I have put my name in bold even on secret ballot and on unreciprocated love notes in college and university. The narcissist in me wants the world to know what I think and feel. Pardon me, therefore, anonymous I shall never be...

all apologies

The grave peril in life is the guilt trap. First, we are born guilty. Then as life progresses, we fall into a pattern of guilt traps each bigger and more profound than the other. It’s like those open manholes on the roads of a monsoon drenched Calcutta. They would leave them open with a bamboo pole and a red flag to warn off careless pedestrians, who have to wade through often waist deep water to get to where they have to. You could watch the water needlessly gushing towards the man holes. Protesting loudly but whipped by gradient, they struggle to be free, to be once again, the light hearted drops in a cloud. But then there was never any escape. Parents and family. Then friends. Then lovers and spouses. Then children. Then some more friends. Like a never ending vortex of guilty you end up like the muddy gushy water, scared and ready to get into the nearest black hole. Guilty for not able to love. Guilty for not caring enough. Guilty for being too strong. Guilty for being too weak. Guilty for holding on. Guilty for letting go. Guilty for lies you told to protect. Guilty for honesty you showed. Guilty for baring your soul. Guilty for not doing the baring in the manner expected of you. The world is a Court of Immaculate Justice and you are pronounced GUILTY ON ALL COUNTS!

I salute...

the auto rickshaw drivers in Chennai. Unlike their country cousins in Bangalore, they never refuse to go anywhere. They shake their heads and smile at you disarmingly and then quote a price. An unbelievable price. But by this time you are so charmed by his civility that you almost give in. But then the bell rings. You look at him questioningly only to find him still smiling at you most politely. You try to tell him how incredible his price is only to have him explain how he has been waiting to ferry you all his life and how his entire life's karma depends on you agreeing to pay his price for the ride. By this time the brotherhood of auto-drivers gather to convince you that you alone can grant him moksha. Tempted to play God, you give in. The ride ends with you shelling out his fantastic fare and he dropping you a block away from your destination saying he doesn't want you to pay extra for going to the bylane instead of the main road.

who? me?

For a dyslectic to get tagged for a Writing Meme is almost an honour. Let me begin by a humble ‘thank you’. Shreyasi, my friend, sees a lot more in people like me than she ought to.

Yes, I write from the heart, cause I don’t know where else to write from. Since my brain is impaired enough for me to never have scored even a modest C+ in Spelling. (I took a few hard knocks to get even ‘grammer’ right.) And this never amused my mother. Though the kind Mrs. Johnson, my elementary school teacher, had explained that dyslexia isn’t life threatening, to my mother I was as good as a cripple. And to add to her bouquet of misery, my hand writing continues to pain her. So while my brother’s grades and his school note books were displayed with pride at dinner parties at home, I was warned never ever to bring a guest near my study table.

So, if you want beauty read Sheyasi, if you want logic and common sense read Niladri, if you want to marry the two read Shefaly. Instead, if you are looking for impulsive, artless expressions that aren’t contained by english grammar, then maybe…

When to write?

At all time. Never let go of a passing thought as too trivial or too random or too scant. Hook the thought and write it out.

What to write?

Everything. Life is a celebration and at times of the bizarre kind. Aren’t we lucky we are able to express it in words and in thoughts? It could be the amazement of an unexpected sunset or could be the humdrum of an ordinary life. There is always something to write about in the exotic and the dreary.

Where to write?

Anywhere. Office when the boss isn’t around, home when the folks are busy with TV, airport when flights are delayed, coffee shop when there’s no company, internet cafe with the next guy surfing porn. Doesn’t matter.

How to write?

With a pen and a paper or as I prefer the word processor (note: my dyslexia can create havoc minus Spellcheck). It is usually just the thought and you. Don’t focus on words as much as the expression. Does it say what you feel? Even if it digresses from Wren and Martin stipulations? Is it honest?

Who to write for?

Yourself. If you want to write for an audience join a talk show.

Who gets tagged?

Rambler, a fellow impulsive blog writer, whose prose are honest expressions of being.

Dusty, for his dollops of good humour.

Rustyneurons, writes wonderfully…but currently in hiding for some reason.

Renovatio, for I am sure he wouldn’t write for the meme.

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking

Relax, they say. Take it easy.

Are you kidding me?

I have been on this treadmill of life since I know. Running and running and going no where.

It’s like that escalator in a fancy mall. Keeps going up only to fold and come down again, doesn’t matter if someone’s riding it or not. No one has asked it to stop. After a point it really doesn’t matter cause it’s much more comfortable to keep moving than standing still and getting people to suddenly notice it. ‘Why did it stop?’ they ask. The poor escalator, mortified with all the attention, keeps praying, ‘Lord, just let me move. Anything to not let the world look at me with ridicule and pity. I was born to keep running. Don’t get me to stop!’.