Day 2: Bangalore Literature Festival 2015

This post is more than a week overdue. I was to write about the second day of the BLF’15 but got caught up with other writing deadlines.

Today I downloaded my Certificate of Completion for the How writers Write Fiction 2015 conducted by the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. Seven weeks of rigorous work has paid off. This is the first writing course I’ve taken. I had enrolled for IGNOU’s creative writing program a few years ago but never saw it through.

Now to a recap of the second day of the BLF’15. The first talk of the day was by Anuj Dhar who is an expert on Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. He claims (evidence in terms of files that need to be declassified) to have strong reasons to believe that Netaji died in Russia. He wielded the questions with great authority. Wonder what the truth really is.

Tipu Sultan was the hot topic of the next debate. It was well moderated by Maya Mirchandani of NDTV fame. Vikram Sampath, Prof. Hanuru--a historian, and a politician each from BJP and Congress provided both information and entertainment. I felt history is better left to historians; our politicians and their viewpoints definitely sway according to the vote bank.

The next talk (after I ate a pricey Masala dosa) was on short stories. I went to listen because Kulpreet Yadav, the editor of ‘Open Road Review’ was on the panel. ORR is a good blog with excellent content. He came into writing from a defence background.

I listened to a few authors talk about their work (with the moderator talking much more than the panelists). Poile Sengupta was kind enough to caution the audience about Macular Degeneration which she suffers from. How terrible for a reader or writer to have problems with eyesight.

Then I spent three hours listening to the shortlisted candidates who pitched their ideas at the LITMart to publishers. ( I too had been longlisted but didn’t make it to the shortlist.)

Every literary festival I attend, puts me a few steps onward in my writing journey. Loads of resolutions for the NEW YEAR.

A Festival of Literature.

The Bangalore Litfest Day 1.

The theme of the day's talks attacked intolerance in one way or the other. The keynote address by Shashi Deshpade was good despite her scratchy throat rendition.
 Devdutt Patnaik and Mani Rao discussed their renditions of the Gita. I was inspired. Must read it too. Why should one wait for old age? Better to absorb the wisdom when there are years ahead of us.
Upamanyu Chatterjee and Zac O'Yeah entertained the crowd with their witty banter. Chaterjee has written 'English August'. They began by discussing his story in Granta called, "Othello Sucks." This set off a color discrimination debate that received his witty solutions.
Sunil Sethi moderated a good session dealing with the "Confessions of a Biographer" with Jaishree Misra, Manu Pillai and Yatindra Mishra. Sunil's 'Just books' on NDTV was one of my all time favorite TV shows. Sadly he has discontinued it now.
Akar Patel read beautiful essays by Sadat Hasan Manto, the themes of intolerance still very apt in today's scenario. He has a beautiful voice and reads Urdu like it was his mother tongue.
Vasanthi Hariprakash moderated a lively session by the couple Ayushman Khurana and his wife Tahira. The couple have co-authored a book titled, "Cracking the Code" dealing with tips on how to make it in Bollywood. Despite the love for the written word, Bollywood stars draw huge crowds and good applause in Litfests. He remarked he had actually carried the hefty heroine in the climactic race in the movie "Dam laga ke Aisha."
In his other avtars, before becoming an author, he's been a RJ, Roadies winner, drama actor, TV actor, singer and Bollywood star.


Take home: Ayushman suggested that one has to manufacture or conjure a chair when there are none when the music stops in a game of musical chairs.
Create your own opportunities. Reinvent yourself till you fit the groove. Hmm...good advice.

Met a few friends and will meet a few more tomorrow.

Vikram Sampath's stepping down didn't influence the seven participants who boycotted the festival to return.
The venue at Royal orchid was thoroughly windblown. You either chapped in the sun or shivered in the shade. Food was expensive as expected. The love for literature helped one ignore all the discomforts. Hope this festival grows and stays out of 'intolerance and award wapsi' spats in future.

A Notepad when December goes Missing.

I looked at the calendar. Hey, November's been gone for like three days. I pulled off the sheet in the calendar and found that there was no December. Really missing. If I were writing sci-fi, I could have filled this blank period with time travel adventures till the fireworks go off on 31st Dec. Being neither Asimov or adventurous, I pulled down the calendar to stack it with old newspapers.

The months were printed on only one side, the other side was tantalizingly blank. My daughter refused point blank when I suggested she work out some maths problems on the sheets. "I can't. These huge sheets are unwieldy."

I set about doing what I had done all through school and college days-- make 'rough books' from used notebooks with blank pages--and finally made a rather 'rough' looking note pad. It's not unwieldy and she 'thinks' she'll use it.

I'll be happier to scrap this when all the sheets are used. 

My parents cut the sheets into smaller squares held together by clips. To-do lists or note taking during phone calls is never so easier.

Unsure of its acceptance, I hadn’t given my calendar-disguised-as-a-notepad a pretty cover or artwork with sketch pens. 

It’s not my time to write, “This book belongs to Jyothi. Subject:………….,School:……………..” anymore. 

I’d have loved to have a go with the sketch pens and decorate the covers though.

Husqvarna No.5:Journey from Sweden to Mysore

A sip from the cup of tea next to me, the unmistakable taste of cinnamon, cardamom  and clove meets my approving taste buds. 

I became a tea drinker, weaned away from coffee, when we moved to Jaipur and ran out of our filter- coffee powder rations within a week of replenishing it.

All through my childhood leading up to the time I married, I drank milk laced with a little coffee religiously twice a day, disliking all other supplements thoroughly. I was a loyal coffee fan.

My parents still own the coffee seed grinder (now stowed away in their kitchen loft) having switched over to coffee powder from shops or drinking instant coffee when they are bored of drinking tea.

The grinder was fixed like a vice on a low stool in the kitchen and had a lid covering the top to prevent cockroaches from investigating the crushing mechanism. I remember the olive green seeds, each with a cleft in the middle arriving on Sundays when Daddy visited the ‘town’. Robertsonpet was this town that met our needs. I think the seeds sometimes were also bought in Bangalore. The green seeds didn’t have the rich aroma till Mummy roasted them in a black iron pan. The house would fill with the thick smoky smell of coffee. Once cooled these seeds went into an airtight box. The grinder is black, the color of roasted beans. 

When we expected guests we would put seeds into the cup like opening and slowly turn the handle collecting the fresh powder in an orange plastic bowl. Mummy stored some of the powder in a jar for daily use. Neighbors with unexpected guests borrowed coffee powder. Nobody returned the powder, they explained they didn’t have its equivalent and would force us to accept fruit or snacks in return. I loved turning the handle and was proud that we owned something that others seemed to covet and enjoy.

On my last visit home we got it down and took a look inside. Writing a few emails to the company and using the help of search engines resulted in this sketchy history:

It came out  in the late 1800s from the foundry of a company in Sweden called 'Husqvarna' in a small place by the same name. Not much is recorded about the sale of this particular piece.

My grandmother received it from her father in the 1920s when he saw her--his married daughter crushing coffee seeds with a pestle and mortar. My grandmother let my mother, her eldest daughter-in-law have it. It is mine now. I would love to trace its journey someday from Husqvarna to Kannambadi in Mysore, where my great grandfather worked on the construction of the KRS dam.

The grinder 

Husqvarna No.5

Welcome Depression.

It's hard to think of depression and welcome in the same breath or even within the same sentence. But there was a time when the word 'depression' signalled rain and holidays from school. It was the days before the internet. I had no responsibilities except that of being the child I was. My parents looked at the sky or the newspaper and told me, 'Depression over Bay of Bengal'. Hmm...that meant I could wear my favorite red coat and find a place near the window and spend hours watching the sky weep. It wasn't my concern that the clothes had no place to dry. They would hang like huge penants from the roof along corridors, taking in the smells of the house. The garden was hosed down repeatedly, the way you find people in cities today washing their cars, trying to get dust off that had already made its way into their nostrils. Each tree had its unique response to the falling water. Mind you, this was no heavy downpour, but a steady pattering on the wide wet world around me. The plaintain leaves made the most of this; the broad leaves allowed the unseen hand of the magician to drum a melody. Atleast one didn't have to water the garden for a long long time. Grey skies, watered down sunlight, an isolation for a few days from the playground, a good book to read, toys to play with, were never unwelcome.

It's back again. Three days of a steady rain; life under a waterfall. I always wake with a sudden dread that I've left a tap open somewhere. The sound of water through drainpipes that filters in through my dreams makes me see visions of dripping clotheslines on the terrace. Its only when I'm awake, with a cup of tea in my hand, that I dismiss these concerns. 

It's good that the rain is outside of me. The other dreaded D-word which implies the steady rain within the mind is probably similar. A constant wetness that dampens the desire to look at the outside world, preferring the cold slushy depths of sad thoughts.

I'm glad the rain outside doesn't seep through my skin. The clouds will lift. In the meanwhile, two or three days to relish the warmth and comfort of hot food and woollen clothes. 

And then the wash will dry in the sun once again.

The feathered mimic-- The Racket tailed drongo.

Picture credit: Oriental Bird Club database (taken by Nithin Srinivasamurthy).

I recently sighted this bird, Dicrurus paradiseus for the first time on a bird watching expedition in Coorg. I am familiar with his cousin the Fork-tailed drongo, whose tail always reminds me of a curling handlebar moustache.We were lucky to meet this 'policeman' (kothwal) once again on our drive home. He's called that because of the whistling sound he makes. He's locally also known as Bhimraj or Bhringraj.

His two tail (rackets) are described as appearing as if two bumblebees are in his hot pursuit. But it occured to me that it looked more like the thin plaits of a young school girl running to school. :)

I read this description in the wikipedia and was surprised to see why Nature has made him an expert mimic.

"They are conspicuous in the forest habitats often perching in the open and by attracting attention with a wide range of loud calls that include perfect imitations of many other birds. It has been suggested that these imitations may help in the formation of mixed species foraging flocks, a feature seen in forest bird communities where many insect feeders forage together. These drongos will sometimes steal insect prey caught or disturbed by other foragers in the flock. They are diurnal but are active well before dawn and late at dusk."

Travel Article in Deccan Herald 28th Sept 2015.

At last! The travel piece on the lion sighting is online. I've shared the link in the 'Published' page. Somehow the article appears differently in the print and the e-paper. The print version has more pictures. So I'm attaching a scanned copy here.

Sorry for the slant. My printer loves to scan everything like this:)

Green Immersion.

All year long the banyan tree saw its reflection in the little pond. The world beyond was wilderness--at least to us children. You could walk just a little further to reach the Ganesha temple. Usually we walked up a small hillock to reach the temple from inside the colony.
Every year at the appointed time, way past our bed-time, the cries of people and the accompanying drumbeats pulled us outside. The familiar world became new and mysterious in the darkness. 
Our Ganesha idol was carried carefully as we joined the growing crowd behind the huge Ganesha from the temple. We also took soaked beaten rice mixed with curd in a steel box.
Many people offered coconuts and bananas to the Elephant God. The priest chanted his farewell prayers and lifted the fragrant camphor brass lamps in circles to the glowing face of the colorful God.
The big Ganesha splashed  in first and others followed. We then sat on a cold stone bench and ate the beaten rice with curd. We children cried out,"Ganpat bapa Maourya, pudche varshe laukarya", because my father liked Marathi and we didn't know any grand sounding lines in Kannada. We walked home with friends and neighbors to houses strangely empty. In no time the living room chairs and tables would find their places and the memory of the magical space of flowers, rangoli and fragrance  would recede.
Yesterday we watched the traffic jams as devotees burst fire crackers, shouting out from the tractors and pick-up trucks with their decorated huge colored Ganeshas. There are pandals in almost every street corner where they serve the prasad in disposable cups and plates that will litter the roads for months to come. I'm worried like so many others that these painted Gods will contaminate and choke the lakes.
Our plain clay Ganesha was dunked in a bucket. Even as he dissolved instantly, bubbles rose to the surface, giving an impression of a live creature in the water. The muddy water will feed the plants later. There are many like us who resort to this hassle free celebration.
The joy and cheer he brought into our home was unchanged and undiminished by our choice of idol and manner of immersion, and will last for long. 
I wish there is a ban on colored POP idols next year. Maybe, actors and sports persons can start an awareness campaign on the television or billboards months before Ganesh Chathurthi (they are the only people who can convince the masses).
Its really time for green immersions.

Art from the heart.

An inch and a half square when halved, this little piece of paper dangles from a little green wool string .The paper just folds over the string and  two small knots keep the wool from being undone. Hanging delicately from a nail, this is a tiny ‘greeting card’ a child made for her   grandparents long ago. Catching the breeze from the window or the fan it flutters precariously.

The open cupboard has a few wooden shelves. To the edge of one shelf at eye level hangs this little card from a tiny nail, jostling with a small scissors on a neighboring nail. Every time the scissors or the pen stand behind is used, the card falls. Placing the folded piece over the string it is easily re-assembled and hung back on the nail.

A fond look passes over the faces of the two aging recipients of this card. The child who had made it is now a strapping teen. She loves the busy city and all its attractions -the shopping malls, dim sum eat outs, school friends, the internet and her enjoys being always on the move in a ‘happening’ city.

Coming from the hot summer of North India every summer, she marveled at the hessian rope swing tied diligently every year to the mango tree awaiting her family's visit. Padding the coarse rope with soft cushions and blankets she squabbled with her sister for turns on the swing which had a skewed trajectory owing to the upward slant of the extended branch. Delicious mangoes, watermelons and jackfruit were treats. Small cups filled with delicious homemade eats and days spread lazily ahead interspersed with visits to the park or walks in the safe quiet neighborhood. The rains were a huge pleasure as she watched the huge drops beat a noisy rhythm on the tall coconut trees or their mango tree. Sometimes a scramble ensured to save the cushions from getting wet in a sudden downpour.

Every day the walls of the small house and the garden resounded with the sweet voices of the sisters as they played, quarreled and sang songs. Their constant chatter and happy feet filled the house and hearts of their grandparents with joy. Their pretty clothes washed carefully would festoon the clotheslines on the terrace. But how quickly the days would pass!

Unfinished paintings, coloring books, comics, broken crayons and clothes that refused to fit in the bulging suitcases were left behind. These possessions spent the remaining months safely in a box and were joyfully reclaimed like old friends the next summer. Their absence was very much felt but a few phone calls from far away would slowly let them pick up their lives and the grandparents looked forward to the next visit.The little ones too joyfully awaited their next summer visit.

I’m not really for parents going gaga over their children, but the penciled drawing on this small card is really beautiful in a stark simple way.

There is a big sun on the upper left corner and two fat birds opposite it on the rightmost corner. Two stick figures almost holding hands are racing towards a vehicle in a barren terrain to reach what looks like a space ship. Maybe it was intended to be a car or an aeroplane but it looks like no vehicle on earth; all this on an inch and a half square of paper in shaky pencilled lines. The other half of the paper has the dedication -‘To Ajja and Ajji from Saraswathi’ inscribed in a small handwriting.

It cannot beat a store bought card or an electronic one that breaks out into a song or explosion of colour and movement. It hangs there year after year, a little grubby from handling but a sweet expression of affection.

"Miss, Dolly and Hulk"

We treat many of our 'firsts' specially. Here is the first of my writings to win a prize. It is a short story called,"Miss, Dolly and Hulk".

https://www.indiacurrents.com/articles/2015/07/29/August-2015-northern-california-edition

The magazine comes out in both print and e-versions. I have to find a way to get a hard copy in case the link stops working after a few years.

Writing is a lonely pursuit and not all writing goes on to win a prize. Yet, I am able to see now that the reward is in the process and its completion too.
I definitely want to take this pursuit further .
Dr. Kalam said, "Rest? Why do you need rest when you enjoy what you're doing?" in reply to an interviewer's query as to when Dr. Kalam rested from his numerous activities and what he did for relaxation.
I can see how true that is when I write.
I'm sure there are more gems recorded from this great man's life that will serve to inspire many Indians, young and old.

Half-hearted.

I saw a pair of shoes left outside for the garbage lady to clear away. They still have a few months or even years of life left in them.
Okay, the problem is this. The shoe laces have been removed by the miserly owner to be used at a later date with some other pair. How do you expect the person who picks up this pair to spend money on shoelace when they are foraging even food from garbage cans?
People with education can sometimes be as brainless as... brainless can be.
There are a few other highly 'intelligent' people who cut out hooks, zippers, drawstrings from their old clothes before giving the clothes to the needy. Where are the safety pins going to come from, to keep the clothes together, when the recipients are desperately trying to keep body and soul together everyday?
I don't want to nit pick, but these are the people who read and listen to Godly sermons and discourses with great devoutness. But are they really listening?
The shoelace, hooks, zippers and drawstrings cannot hold their aging lives together, prolong their life or be of any use in the next.
All I want to say to these smug beings is this: Look within and listen to your heart. You can fool the world with your sweet words and lies, but you will know how ungenerous you really are!

The win means so much more!

Today, the results of the India Currents Katha: Desi Fiction Contest 2015 are out. I'm thrilled to have won the second place for my short story, "Miss, Dolly, and Hulk". The award means much more than the $200 prize that accompanies a publishing of the story in their August issue.
             After a career  teaching Electronics in three different cities, I was seriously contemplating on a doctorate (on a topic in Medical Electronics I hold dear to my heart), when personal reasons compelled me to quit. And I became a stay-at-home mom.
Not a TV person or one inclined to shopping sprees or chat sessions, it was natural I turned to my old friends, books. The days spooled out endlessly, packed with cooking and housekeeping chores, and I grew possessive about my reading time. I had written from the age of eight and then tapered off at eighteen after I edited the NIE college magazine. I did read sporadically but diverted my energy into bringing up my daughters, studying for my M.Tech and teaching undergraduates. The desire to write just packed up and left.
In November 2013 when my first 'Middle' appeared in the Deccan Herald, it stoked the desire to pour myself in words once again. As I wrote, I continued to read voraciously and realized I had stumbled onto the right track again.
Nothing gives me greater joy than words--the one's I read, and those that I use to shape the lives of my characters.
A niggling self-doubt and despair has been laid to rest with today's win. I've endorsed the writer in me. I can look forward to writing with greater confidence.
But I will continue to jealously guard my writing space and time. So diversions beware!

Banana cake and the baking journey.

Three large ripe bananas hugged each other on my fruit tray; they were firm with small dark spots on the smooth yellow skin. I Googled a recipe for banana cake and came up with one that used oil and only two eggs. An hour later a brown beauty sat sighing softly on the kitchen counter; the house that had darkened in the afternoon, courtesy dark June clouds, suddenly brightened with the aroma of bananas wafting through the rooms. It tasted just as good.

I have a recipe book that I faithfully followed as a young wife; the curly writing of my mother’s hand guided me through recipes for her sponge cake and plum cake, sweet and salt biscuits. She also gifted me her folder of recipes from a baking class her sister went to in Lalbagh and a set of cyclostyled (do kids today even know that this word means?) sheets that she received when her Ladies Club conducted baking classes. She has marked corrections and alternate measures, changed baking timings and made tiny notes, thus ensuring I have recipes that will work.

I baked independently in Germany using the gas cooking range. Thanks to Karin and Barbara, we celebrated Ps first birthday with three German cakes! I still bake the marble cake and apple pie. I’ve never found fresh cherries like those from Barbara’s home, so I’ve never baked a cherry pie again. 

I attended a day’s course on baking at the Volk Hoch Schule and came back with a slice each of some ten exotic German cakes, that I’ve never tried again because they are so complicated. (The class was fun with the instructor inquiring from me if my religion allowed the tasting of cakes with lots of liquor! Black forest cake with its signature Kirch Wasser is unbeatable. I said I didn't mind, of course!)

My OTG is about 17 years old and looks sturdy and capable as ever. My recipe book has collected recipes from dear friends and I’ve gone on to bake many cakes. I still feel the warm glow when I peer into the deep oven and watch a cake rise. Dieting teenagers love cakes and low calories, and somehow before I befriended Google I wasn’t sure how to achieve that.

Today anonymous people share fantastic recipes and when I bit through the raisins and walnuts in the warm slice of banana cake, I sent a ‘thank you’ across the WWW. 

I’ve noted this recipe down in my thick bound notebook with my comments and corrections. Who knows, my children may want to bake someday following a recipe written in my curly hand writing.

This garden rocks! A farewell to its architect.

  Last year, on a hot April afternoon in Chandigarh we bowed our heads to enter a low door. We knew this was a unique creation of Nek Chand but were unprepared for his sheer genius and creativity.  Stretched before us was the splendid Rock Garden.
Creations from waste are tastefully placed in a forty-acre expanse of greenery. Nek Chand passed away yesterday and has left behind a symbol of conservation that shows how broken china, gunny bags ,tires, broken bangles and even human hair from barber shops can be used to create a vast space of recreation and joy to visitors across the world.
My article covering  the visit appeared in the 'Travel' section of the Sunday Herald on 22nd June 2014. You can read it here. http://www.deccanherald.com/content/415068/kingdom-gods.html

I've added a few pictures here from our visit.

Horses 

Broken china to a music band!

The hut where Nek Chand began his creation.

A fort in the Kingdom

Broken bangles to a bevy of beauties!

Look at a gift horse in the mouth!

Gifting Gods

It was a hot Sunday morning in June. Thousands of people had gathered, forming serpentine queues to get a glimpse of the Goddess atop the Chamundi Hill. Loud devotional songs and cautionary announcements to devotees to safeguard their valuables rent the air. People using a ‘special ticket’ were ushered in with lesser delay. Some friends also spoke of using ‘influence’ to obtain a darshan closest to the sanctum sanctorum. But the majority of us felt this would be unfair on the huge crowds waiting patiently in the sun. Maybe we could come back early morning on another day. Before we left we observed how a locked temple door was opened readily for a film star and his bodyguards. It set me thinking about devotion.

Abandoned

Beheaded

I believe that God is everywhere and often find His presence in Nature, in doing my work sincerely and in leading a life following ethical guidelines set by my parents and teachers during my childhood. I’m happy and contented that way. I respect the others who worship and show their faith in ways different from mine, but what shocked me was the abandonment of Gods.

The other day I was walking to the park. At the turning of the road, on the edge of a gutter was a brand-new Ganesha idol with gift wrapping still clinging to it in places. Someone had assuaged their guilt by placing a long stem of Canna flowers against its left shoulder. Inside the park was a two feet idol of Shiva discarded under a rain tree. Subsequent rains beheaded the idol. I’ve observed this elsewhere too: old framed pictures of Gods and Goddesses no longer wanted inside puja rooms are left under trees or inside parks. Maybe the squirrels, mynas and crows do the worshiping. Or a few stary cats and dogs have turned to God.

I remember the old cottage where my grandparents lived. The walls were almost hidden behind calendars dating from many years past. All had giant pictures of Gods. My grandparents were perplexed as to how they could throw these revered objects and hung them on the walls unable to refuse.

Idols of Gods are considered the most appropriate choice when it comes to gifting. But how many of these can you keep and maintain with the respect and devotion they inspire? Fear keeps the recipient from showing disappointment or disregard for the gift, but then there really is no place in his/her home. Some new gifts are re-packaged and parceled off to some other unsuspecting bride or groom or a house owner. They will open their gift and scratch their heads. Like an unwanted foster child it will be sent off to a new home or deserted in some dark park hoping that some needy soul will adopt it and provide the care and adoration the God inspires.

Odd colored polyester blouse pieces of insufficient length, plastic trays and baskets, white metal lamps and artifacts.... I'll take these up on my next post. But you know how we are swamped by these!

Bapuji was born here.

The house where Gandhiji was born

The spot where Gandhiji was born

We visited Porbandar and the house where Gandhiji was born. A very old house purchased by his great grandfather in 1777, it has adjacent to it, the Kirti Mandir, a memorial to Gandhiji. The narrow house and the small rooms housed Bapu for ten years before the family moved to Rajkot, We stood in the study and tried to visualise the great man ( a a playful boy)here. The memorial is huge and is 79 feet tall , the height equal to his lifespan. Encompassing the architecture styles of all religions, this building at the end of a narrow lane was inaugurated in 1950.

We spent a leisurely afternoon exploring the house and viewing the photos in the gallery.

It saddened me to see many small children begging on the streets outside. Didn't Gandhiji say, ""If we are to teach real peace in this world…we shall have to begin with the children"?

We stopped by the 'Bombay behl and sandwich center'. We also bought some snacks for the little beggar girls who had run off to badger other tourists.

We bid goodbye to this port which also boasts of being the home to Lord Krishna's best friend, Sudama (Porbandar is also known as Sudamapuri).

Hot springs of Vashisht and Manikaran.

The Sunday Herald on 5th April carried my travel piece,"Spring surprises",based on the hot springs at Vashisht and Manikaran in Himachal Pradesh. Spread over two-thirds of the sheet , the article was the best birthday gift I have received.

The article.

The steaming hot spring at Manikaran Sahib

Manikaran Sahib

Ram temple at Vashisht.

Vashisht temple.

 The online version has space for only one photo. I decided to post them all here.

Yes, we saw two!

The purpose of our short holiday to Gujarat , squeezed between the end of one academic year (for S), and the start of her bridge course for the next year, leaving us with little choice but to plan a 'vacation' for four days, was to see lions in their natural habitat—the best place for this being the Gir forest in Sasan, Gujarat.

The first safari on the afternoon of 28th Feb on route 4, saw only peacocks and deer in large numbers.

It was only on the next early morning safari of 2nd March on route 6, that we had reason to celebrate. When the safari was almost winding to a disappointing end, around 8.45 a.m., our alert guide pointed Mr. Fearless (the word described this beautiful creature perfectly) to us. Short warning barks of the alert deer resounded as we stood by in respectful silence. I had the camera and was so excited, I pressed the OFF button instead of CAPTURE. But we watched him, a beautiful biscuit colored male of about 10 years, his mane blowing in the wind as he strode towards the other gypsy behind ours (the person there, Mr. Nitin Vyas, luckily got good shots on his camera). 'Our' lion first stopping by a tree to mark it with a jet of urine—dignified in this act as only a lion can be. Soon he ran down the path and reached a small stream where his naturally refrigerated meal was stowed. He settled down to his breakfast and the odor of the unfortunate sambhar reached us. His handsome brother joined him and the bachelor party continued oblivious of the gawking humans. 

How fortunate we were to have shared breathing space for a few minutes with these royal beasts. Our faces said it all! We controlled the desire to whoop and yell to other tourists, “Yes, we saw two!”

First lion (pic by Nitin Vyas)

Second lion (pic by Nitin Vyas)

The hunted.

Chakda - the hybrid vehicle.

 This ubiquitous vehicle is easy to spot or miss in the thronging roads of Rajkot. A cross between a Royal Enfield Bullet motor bike and a cart, this strange contraption spilling over with colorfully dressed villagers and a driver sitting as if astride a stallion, caught my eye.
Soon we saw various avatars carrying school children, gas cylinders, construction material, just anything that needed to be transported. Beautifully painted, with logos and eye catching designs, many had a extended roof which made the little chariot an appealing subject for a picture.They are manufactured around Rajkot  and it is estimated that there is one Chakda for every 80 Gujaratis.
We hitched a ride on one for a couple of kilometers on the way to Dwaraka. The amused driver of the Chakda refused to collect a fare (we had to force him to) and our taxi driver trailed behind, satisfied that he had kept his promise when I had exclaimed at the first sight of the 'funny gaadi' two days back. (He had stopped and talked the driver into letting us hop on!)

Family ride

A Chakda taking a breather!

A journey in a new land and an unforgettable freedom on wheels!

Ghatiya in Sasan Gir.

The taste of food is a strange memory, dependent on mood,hunger and locale. Probably the same food made with culinary expertise backed by degrees and served on fancy crockery in a posh place would taste way poorer.
Near the Gir sanctuary are a few shops selling snacks . We are on a holiday. We are hungry and it is a very hot afternoon. We are skeptical as we open the newspaper packet tied with a string ,still warm from the frying pan. Smaller packets are also untied. A baffling array awaits us. Deep fried Ghatiya, light yellow and warm, to be eaten with the grated gajar ( the larger dark red carrot) and hot green chillies, also deep fried. Our driver watches with amusement, the family 'from South' attacking the snaky yellow strands.
The same day, after a visit to the Devariya Interpretation Centre (lions in captivity), we walk up to the same joint to sit inside and enjoy ghatiya.
The boy takes our order and the man sitting before the huge wok of oil gets to work right away. If you don't worry about the health aspect (for once we didn't), you can lose yourself in the pleasures of an ingenuous snack . It tasted just as good, and now he provided us a jug of sweet chutney to douse the fire of the chillies.
How did people figure out these accompaniments?
We washed it down with hot tea (normal sugar was twice what we had planned to avoid) and paid the fifty rupees. I noted a family enjoying a cousin of ghatiya , Fafda, sheet-like.
Next time, we tell ourselves.

Before

After!

Another taste of India discovered.

Flame of the forest - Kesudo.

We were driving to Sasan Gir from the airport in Rajkot. We were on our way hoping to see lions in their natural habitat. Entering Sasan, it is difficult to miss these Kesudo trees. Red, with hardly any leaves, they are aptly called the 'Flame of the forest'. Especially within the forest, where the predominant colors are brown and yellow, these shocking plumes of red draw your attention. Sasan Gir is the largest dry deciduous forest in Western India. We collected a few fallen flowers and had to contend with the ants who were feasting within and they raced all over us, punishing us for this intrusion. I think the shape of the flower gives the tree its other name- Parrot tree.

 

Under the trees the fallen flowers carpeted the area - an oasis of color in a tiring hot vision of burnt scrub and fallen dried leaves. The flowers are used prepare a traditional Holi color and used to dye fabric.The gum from this tree is known as Bengal Kino and is considered to be a good astringent by druggists. The tannin in the gum makes it popular with leather workers.The driver informed us people  bathe in the water where the flowers have been soaked to cure skin ailments. 

The high point of these travels are the new places we see, the people we meet, the food we taste and the birds and trees we befriend. 

A promise to catch up.

Lots of busy days in Feb.
I am going to be writing in detail of our wonderful visit to the Gir forest last weekend.
Two lions who passed us by , their fearless faces , beautiful biscuit colored coats and rippling muscles are frozen in my memory. One king marked a tree with urine.  I can say sheepishly that only a lion can add grace to this act. Then they set about finishing a huge Sambar deer near a stream.
Then the jugaad vehicle - chakda. Shepherds and their women folk wearing the most beautiful ear pieces.
Dwarka and a boat in the Arabian Sea.
Porbandar and the childhood home of Bapu.
Lots and lots of interesting stuff. Look out for these posts.

In the meanwhile another story, "Don't call the Third Umpire" was published today in Spark
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=8941

Never too late.

Today's Deccan Herald carried a story about a 48 year old beggar enrolled at the Rajasthan University Law college.
A domestic violence case booked against him by his wife saw him thrown out of the village by the landlords and the police case disrupted his M.A Sociology studies.Begging since '92 at the crack of dawn around the temples, he recently passed the entrance exam to study law and now attends classes in his beggar rags hoping to qualify as a lawyer.

The domestic violence case? No details about that.

Here I am looking at the spirit of an aging man - long years spent on the streets ,a police case haunting him,humiliated by begging( his own words in the article),estranged from his wife and 24 yr old son, still wanting to follow his dreams.
I take this as a lesson:
It is never too late to follow one's dreams.
Keep a steady focus no matter what mishaps mar your progress.

Isn't that a nice positive idea to begin one's day with?

White LEDs 'growing' in Lalbagh?

We try to walk inside Lalbagh at least once a week.Invariably ,after we enter the garden ,I find myself alone.My husband's long strides soon take him a good distance away.I can walk briskly too, but I can't keep pace unless I jog along.Anyway, I am tempted by the names of the trees written on the little plaques nailed to the rough barks ,and I stop often to read.Sometimes I will stand awhile under the long limbs of a giant and try to spot the owner of a sweet melody(I can identify quite some birds).

Trees from far away across the world with beautiful names,growing up in healthy greens and browns,filtering the sunlight into shades of mixed green and yellow ,look down kindly as I walk past.I love the feel of the rough bark against my palms.

The walk is also a good time to plan what I want to write that day.

Yesterday I strolled along the walking track that runs around the lake,on the last leg of my morning walk.The water moved like sheets of silver, the peaceful sight ,drawing me closer to the fence.I did not sight the family of ducks bobbing along gently like they usually do.The 7 a.m. sunshine is bright and cozy ,and it feels nice and warm on my face.
Suddenly I observe hundreds of white LEDs (Light emitting diodes) ,or what looks exactly like them (I know them from my days teaching Electronics),growing in clusters on the dry twisted creeper that still nestled against the fence.Catching the rays of the sun the little seeds glowed a pristine white.Nature having bestowed them little wings,they sat patiently on the twisted dead creeper waiting for the breeze that would send them on a journey to serve their next purpose in life.

White LED creeper (my name for this)

I brought home a tiny bunch to share this joy of discovery with you.

I look at it thoughtfully.
A lesson on  how we are meant to lead our lives: patient,purposeful and positive as we wait for the breeze that will carry us away to our final destination.

Art on the streets- Chitra Santhe 2015.

                                        

Art work on the streets and people from all across the city spilling on the roads –the annual ‘Chitra Santhe’.The newspapers and local TV channel spoke of thronging crowds, police bandobast and traffic diversions. We set off at noon and stopped for a few minutes at V.V Puram while hubby shopped for his favorite field beans at the ‘Avarekalu Mela’ at Sajjan Rao circle. We decided to return another day to taste the dishes.

The drive to Kumara Krupa road passed the race course where we observed a rush of people going in to bet on horses. Hubby thought it would be an experience for us to watch horses racing but we parked after great difficulty near the center for astrophysics and walked up to the Chitra Santhe. We passed a parking lot that defied all logic. Two wheelers and autos were parked wheel to wheel tightly with imaginary space for maneuvering and a baffling set of people were waiting to park. The parking fee is well justified, the attendants keep positioning and removing vehicles continuously. Most people were hurriedly walking towards the horse race.

It was a little discouraging at first to see the art lovers in hundreds thronging the streets. But we were caught up in the relaxed mood and viewed whatever we could in the gaps and those above eye level. Animals, women and nature were the common themes, though modern art, warli art, bottle paintings stood out inbetween - a splash of different art. So many artists, so gifted ,so prolific ,that I secretly worried how they were all going to make a living.

Many people were getting their pencil portraits made; the artists’ concentration unruffled, despite the milling talking crowd looking down his shoulders. We didn't enter the very crowded premises of the Chitra Kala Parishat choosing to stroll through the streets taking in art at a slow pace. Couples were buying paintings discussing the place they would hang it back home. The prices we overheard were high, though we ourselves going through tight times never inquired the price anywhere.

Elephants, horses and bullock carts seemed to speed out of canvases kicking up dust. My personal favorites were oils and water colors of temples; old beautiful creations of stone captured with sun and shadow in painstaking detail. A lioness with her cubs at a drinking hole we believed to be a photograph, until we read the caption, ’Oil on canvas’.

Rustic women have more character and are better captured in a painting as also the desert musicians of Rajasthan. Hubby liked a picture of three rustic teenage boys balancing on a cycle in a dusty landscape.

Invested here many techniques we are not aware of but it was plain to our layman eyes that responds to beauty created by a human being. We could see the struggling talent, the long hours spent painstakingly before a canvas, unsold rectangles of color, unsung heroes of an ‘arty world’. Lining the pavements, festooned on fences, arranged in gutters, viewing the creations at the fair was a beautiful experience.

Ice cream, groundnuts, puffed rice vendors weaved through the crowds while a young teacher of sculpture at the CKP (Chitra Kala Parishat), draped in a rustic looking sari, barefoot, picked trash calmly off the roads throwing it over her shoulder to fall into a conical bamboo basket the women of the hills strap to their backs. She was 'harvesting the crop of Bangalore',she said in the next day's newspaper.Trash! no escape from it.

People with expensive cameras constantly captured scenes and paintings. Others did so with their phones. Children ogled at the paintings with more generous appreciation, enjoying their day out with their relaxed parents.

We walked back to the car eating a bowl of fresh cubes of cucumber coated lightly with a paste of fresh coriander, green chilies, lemon juice and salt.

Many were balancing the framed canvases covered with newspaper and placing them in their cars. Maybe the next year, we too will make a purchase ; but today we return with a  takeaway - respect for the artist and a mind soothed by the creativity of another that we can little imitate. (Also a recipe for making a spicy cucumber salad !)