The madness called FOOTBALL

As I walked in, there were 2-3 seated in front of the idiot box. Someone saw the look of curiosity on my face and said “South Africa vs. Mexico”, as a matter of fact. I said ‘OH!”, stopped for a second and realized it was the WORLD CUP! But then, I was indifferent. Despite being an Indian, I did not follow cricket, much less football. Clearly I was not a sports buff.

There were things in the room that interested me much more than a game of football, and that was dinner and brownies for dessert. Much later as I was enjoying the dinner in the garden outside, I jumped to the sound of shrieks. I rushed in as the replay was being telecast. Mexico had scored a goal in the 79th minute, bringing the score 1-1. By then, everyone’s attention was on the match. The game ended in a draw, much to the dismay of the RSA enthusiasts within the room. And……..I was drawn into the madness. I realized my interest level really depends on the situation and the people I am with. I remember watching cricket (yes, cricket) in the late 80s sitting alongside my uncles, understanding nothing of the game. Yet, I would clap and cheer when a run was scored, irrespective of which team it was. The last few overs were always exciting.

Coming back to football, or soccer (I will never know the difference), I might not watch all the matches. But I might actually surprise myself by following it all through the finals :-)

A MuSiCal gaLoRe

The stage was set for the evening. It was 7 pm, and the night sky was bright. A carpet, in classic Afghan style, was laid out in the garden and the gentle breeze complimented the mood.

It was an evening filled with melody. The performers were teachers from the Afghanistan National Institute of Music. As their hands played magic on the rabab, violin, sarod and the tabla in turns, I sat there mesmerized. For a good two hours, I forgot I was in Afghanistan, I forgot I had a report to submit the next day, I forgot I had month end reports to run. I only wanted to seize in the moment, and that is precisely what I did. I sat glued to my seat, not getting up for a bite of the ‘vegetarian’ goodies that were specially ordered. I felt like a true ‘rasika’, despite having no knowledge of the raga (melody) or the tala (rhythm). But I was a rasika in all earnestness, and knew to appreciate the music. Witnessing the performance reminded me of the days in Chennai when I used to frequent the sabhas with my parents as a kid, where music and dance artists never failed to take the stage by storm. And similar to past experience, my eyes were brimming with tears due of the sheer aura of the performance.

It was all I needed at the end of a long day. The perfect massage for a tired mind.

House 62 Lane 5 WAK

We stretched it much, but it looked like it was the end of the story for me in that house. The house - Asha’s house as it was called (the landlady that I was!), where I lived close to 3 years and which brings memories of the best times in Kabul.

Many movie nights, musical evenings and Bollywood bashes were held in the house. The first and best friends I made in Kabul were there to celebrate Diwali in the house in 2007, and we did a repeat in 2008. I experienced the worst winters of 2006 and 2007 experimenting and struggling with radiators, diesel and sawdust bukharis. I saw the power situation get better. I was most times the housemate ‘in absentia’, spending more time out than in the house. I was known as the non-resident housemate! I lived through as housemates moved in and moved out, the house was constantly in a state of transition. The turnover of housemates became quite high at one point in time, until the fag end where the house started to feel empty.

I miss Nagaraju being the perfect host as I hosted my parties, Shakti at his Thursday evening best, Kalyani’s and Amit’s sharp wit, Sukumar’s quiet self, laughing with HNJ over Bade Chote and his advice on how to make sooji ka halwa (he taught me that I could make it with atta and still call it ‘sooji’ ka halwa) and Navin Talkies! Zulmai (or Z as he was fashionably called), baba and khala too became part of the household. Z enjoyed cooking for the evening parties, and khala was always happy getting a share of the dessert the next morning. Baba was a silent spectator, never saying much. The only time I ever remember him passing a comment was when he kept saying ‘nafar ke bolo asta bisyar chai kordum’ (meaning the person upstairs drinks lots of tea). Baba was the most hardworking in the house, never sitting idle for a moment. He reminded me of the story of the genie who always kept demanding for work from his master!

For the most part of my stay in the house, I was the only woman. I enjoyed privileges and got away with my small circle of friends visiting the place often. The times I spent the evenings at home, my friends were always there. They were no longer guests. They came, chatted with the housemates, cooked in the kitchen, and made themselves comfortable. The culinary skills of my friends were commendable, and as a result, my culinary sense improved. They goofed up sometimes making a mess of the kitchen, much to my annoyance. They occasionally camped overnight, we made dhoodh patti chai at odd times, argued over which movie to watch, threw tantrums, discussed holidays, shared pictures………and sometimes we just stayed glued to our laptops - skyping, googling, facebooking. We gained and lost friends, but the gains were far greater than the losses.

The only good side of moving out was relief from lease renewal negotiations with our property owner, 'the man with the golden tooth'! So the date was set, and I moved bag and baggage into the new house 3 lanes away on March 20. It was a repeat of August 2007, with me absolutely hating it initially. The new house felt so cold and empty. It was a nice, compact and cozy house, no doubt. But I hated the change. I welcomed the joining of Z, albeit part time. I miss the old home and definitely the garden. The garden in the new house is a bonsai version of the old one. And all I can see are depressing-looking hescos around.

It has been two weeks since the move, I still cannot find many of my things. I am trying to settle in…

Walking through the sands of time...

I stood in the middle of the vast ground as the chariots whizzed past in great speed spewing dust. The gladiators stood tall and strong in their bare chests, and in canvas loincloth and sandals, ready for assault. The swords and the daggers gleamed in the sunlight. As the weapons clashed and brutality ensued, I was glad I lived in this epoch of civilization. The scene was the Roman chariot race at the hippodrome in Jerash. The warriors in traditional garb entertained with mock fights. The chariot race was interesting and seemed straight out of the movie Ben Hur, although nowhere as spectacular. 



Rewind to the beginning of the day. My driver received me at the airport and our first stop   was at the currency exchange. I got 212 Jordanian dinars in return for 100 dollars, and was told it was a good deal. Jordanian Dinars - JD for short. It sounded more like the name of a pipe-smoking heavy gold chain-clad villain from a Tamil movie! The car headed towards Jerash, the ruins of the Greco Roman city of Gerasa. A sleepless night at the airport coupled with the harsh sun did not make it easy. I was in a zombie state, and literally had to drag myself around. Jerash was beautiful no doubt, but it was so Greco-Roman that I had seen in parts of Egypt and Turkey not too long back. So it was bit of an overkill. I still walked the length and breadth of Jerash, and the guide had a story to tell of every pillar and every block of stone. He narrated vivid stories about the Colonnaded street, the hippodrome, oval plaza, macellum, tetrapylon, nymphaeum, Temples of Artemis and Zeus and many other significant landmarks, the names that I had difficulty even registering.

Sapped of energy by the end of the chariot race, I was relieved to sit in the cool interiors of a hotel for a good spread of vegetarian mezze. Soon after, we drove to Ajlun. I spent the afternoon taking a relaxed walk in and around the famed 12^th century Ajlun castle that was built to defend against the crusaders. By the time I was done, the sun was emitting a warm glow. Until sunset, I sat on the parapet sipping on sweet Jordanian tea enjoying the panoramic view of the Jordan valley. Heading back to the hotel, my driver asked my plans for dinner. Having had enough of the mutabels, falafels and hummus for the day, my choice was going to be either curd rice or the newly discovered K challenge! So off I went shopping at a super market where fat glowing aubergines caught my eye instantly. For a moment, I wished I was not a tourist but a resident, so I could cook up a nice meal with fried aubergines. 

The next day I drove to the city of mosaics, Madaba. It was a charming little town, with a couple of cafes and trinket shops dotting the streets. I visited the Greek Orthodox Church to spend some quiet time. The church had a huge floor map made of mosaic of the Holy Land. The local museum too housed interesting pieces of mosaic art. Mababa was covered in less than 3 hours and before bidding goodbye I had bargained for myself an intricate piece of mosaic art.  Mt. Nebo, one of the holy places in Jordan, was next on the route. Moses is believed to have died and buried here. My next destination was the famed Dead Sea. The sky was turning gloomy, that meant no tan! But then it also meant that green waters of the Dead Sea would not be seen. Just like everyone else, I was fascinated by the Dead Sea. I took a step cautiously into the water, it felt heavy and slimy. Aqua phobia made a comeback, despite the knowledge that one cannot drown in the Dead sea, atleast not close to the shore!  My immediate reaction was to get out of the water. But how could I, having come all the way here, deprive myself of the experience of floating in the dead sea? It would be such a shame. I kept telling myself I will do it. And eventually I did. What an amazing feeling it was! I could actually float without going under. After getting pictures taken to prove the fact, I was relieved to get out of the water. It is believed that the Dead Sea minerals have therapeutic properties. So I smeared black slick mud all over my body and face, and sat there while it dried to a cake. But I was not the only one. Tourists were comparing themselves to others, there appeared to be competition over who was blackish as opposed to being grayish or brownish, it depended on where you picked your mud. It was a skillful task really. While all along, I was cracking up with laughter. Everyone looked like a 'rakshasi', particularly the kind I am familiar with from Hindu mythological stories. We were only missing the accessories! One of my pictures in that avatar may well cast away the evil eye! After picking up some pricey mask products of Dead Sea minerals (which were otherwise available for free at the Dead sea!), we drove to Petra on the King’s highway for the night halt at the Movenpick Nabatean castle. 

I started excitedly the next morning to Petra city, one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It was for a very good reason, as I discovered during the day. The rose red city was carved of stone over 2000 years back and was the capital of the Nabateans. With a lively Bedouin guide for company, the ‘famous’ walk began. The best and picturesque part of the walk was through the long narrow gorge (the Siq) leading up to El Khazneh (the Treasury). The chasm’s high rising steep sides provided the shade from the sun’s rays. Numerous horse-driven chariots rattled away in its cobbled alley; the sound of it was the perfect acoustic combination ever heard. As I got closer to the end of the Siq, it opened up dramatically to the sight of the treasury. I gawked long and hard at the colossal pink facade. standing there for  a good 15 minutes. Yet, this was just the  beginning. 

Continuing the journey with the sun beating down mercilessly, I passed from one landmark to another, climbing over rocks and getting my clothes muddy. I got to a pony stand, and was told there was still a lot of walking and climbing to be done to get to the monastery. The tour had begun at 8 am and it was already 1 pm, so I decided to hire a mule. However, that meant tough business and there was no way to get a mule without negotiating a reasonable bakshish upfront, apart from the charges. With the deal concluded, the mule was mine for an hour. But the creature was a bit bizarre, not walking in a straight line and bumping into tourists all the time. As it climbed the steps, it was hell bent on walking along the edges threatening to throw me off. It was either adventurous or plain suicidal, or perhaps had a vision problem. I was relieved to get off halfway to cover the remaining distance by foot. The guide said it was a few minutes’ walk, but those few minutes never seemed to end. After what seemed longer than 15 minutes, the monastery was finally in sight. After refreshing at a pretty little café that also doubled up as a souvenir store, I walked further to the end of the world - that's what the signboard indicated. With good pictures and 850 steps back, the tour was over. It was quite a feat walking 7 hours at a stretch in the sweltering heat with little breaks and no food. 

Just as I thought the day was over, numerous sign boards advertised ‘Petra by night’. It sounded mystical and the insatiable tourist in me hurriedly got tickets. My feet were screaming for a massage after the grueling walk and as time neared for the show, my conviction got weaker. A hot water massage did the trick, and there I was again in the same place but in a different environment altogether. Three hundred plus tourists had gathered for the show. As we entered the site, the chill wind permeated the skin. A few minutes later, my cheeks and nose went numb. Undeterred, I walked from the entrance, through the siq to the treasury. It was a clear night and a billion stars shined brightly in the sky. The entire path was lit up on both sides with warm yellow light. At some places, the light bounced off the smooth cobbled stones. For such a large group, it was surprisingly quiet except for the sound of gravel crunching beneath the shoes. We walked leisurely, enjoying the beauty of the place and the stillness of the night. At the signature location of Petra, we sat down on neatly laid out mats. Amusingly, it reminded me of the ‘pandhi sapadu’ in traditional South Indian weddings. Hot sweet tea was served. It was much needed to warm up. There were lights all over giving a wonderful glow to the place. And then the show began. A Bedouin began stringing on the Trababa, accompanied with his singing. It was the turn of the flautist next to mesmerize the crowd. After a short skit, they left us to take pictures and have conversations with the Nabatean spirits! I proceeded back to the entrance clicking away to glory cursing myself for not carrying a tripod along! It was close to 11 pm when I got to the hotel and I was still feeling cold. I treated myself to a hot chocolate at the Al Hakimah bar before retiring for the night. 

The next day, breakfast was leisurely and long drawn. I roamed the corridors of the hotel enjoying its interiors before driving to Wadi Rum. At Wadi Rum, the ruggedness of a jeep replaced the comfort of an Altima for a 3-hour tour of the spectacular desert landscape. The sandstone mountains, the desert sand in shades of red, the dunes, and the canyons had me craving for more. It was adventurous to traverse a few canyons, and walk over rock bridges. However,  nothing beat the experience of sitting patiently on a high rock overlooking the desert while watching the sun go down for the day. I wished I could have sat there longer through the night.  I had not planned to camp overnight so grudgingly had to leave. As we drove, darkness gradually enveloped the Martian landscape. The faint lines of a railway track disappeared into the darkness somewhere in the distance. We hit the road and changed vehicles one more time, and began the drive back to Amman. This time we took the Desert Highway. I closed my eyes recollecting scenes from earlier in the day, while I listened to the music track from 'What's your Raashee?'. I dozed off half way through the journey. Obviously my battery died sooner than the laptop's battery. The 3-hour drive passed quickly. I cannot remember much of reaching Amman except crawling out of the car and crawling into bed for a good night’s sleep.

I woke up to a bright day, feeling fresh and energetic. There was still the city tour to be done. I checked out of the hotel and first visited the citadel and the Umayyad palace. It was a hot day and I was already in no mood for any further sightseeing. I was half-baked in Jordan, and was headed to hotter Chennai.  Nevertheless, after spending an hour, we drove around aimlessly to get a flavor of the city. My driver’s patience was a blessing, and in the city he turned a guide. We started in downtown (ironically called the poor city), going towards 1st, 2nd, 3rd and all the way up to the 7th circle. We passed the Abdoun bridge, the Abdoun circle and hung around a bit in Abdoun area. The opulence of the area was striking. The houses - I would call them mansions - were exclusive and extravagant. With that, I was done. With no time to stop for lunch, I picked up a quick snack and proceeded to Queen Alia airport. As I queued up at the check in counter, my skin could still sense the heat from the scorching sun and the chillness from the desert. I could hear horses and chariots in my mind, and taste the dust on my tongue. In less than a week, I journeyed 2000 years back into the land of the Nabateans. And what a wonderful journey it was.

Je t’aime Paris

Paris - the city of love, fashion and exquisite food, and the famous Moulin Rouge. Here I was, standing outside Charles De Gaulle Airport. I wondered if I could find any seductive dancers from the Moulin rouge. It was one of those trips where I was on my own with nothing planned, I was going to experience the city on my own terms. I made a few enquiries at the airport, picked up a couple of brochures and soon was on the bus to Porte Maillot. Thereafter I took a taxi to the Radisson Blu boutique hotel in Boulogne, Billancourt. Around 7ish in the evening, I was craving for some desi serving, so I sprinted to a nearby Indian restaurant.

 I was up early the next morning. I checked off my photography gear - camera, tripod and remote, travel and metro maps before embarking on the short trip to explore Paris. The question was where to start? I didn’t want to miss out on any of the important landmarks. I made some quick jottings on the travel map, walked to the Porte Saint Cloud metro and took the train to Trocadero. As I exited the metro station, I noticed that the sky was slightly overcast. But thankfully it was not raining. I stood there for a while and looked around wondering if I make a mistake? Trocadero was marked as the metro nearest to the Eiffel Tower, but I caught no sight of it. Finally, I asked a passerby, who looking a little baffled, pointed his finger behind the big building in front of me. Voila, there it was majestically scraping the grey skyline! I thanked my impromptu guide profusely, grinned at my own stupidity and joined the rest of the camera-laden tourists. The camera remote was a good buy. Although, due to the curious looks, I admit to feeling a little conscious using it. I was looking into the camera with no one behind the tripod, it did seem a little ghostly.

I walked, narrowing the distance between the ET and me. The intention was to buy a ticket for the ride up the Tower, but it would have taken me atleast 2 hours to get close to any of the four elevators with those long queues. I did a quick reshuffle of my plan and proceeded towards Arc De Triomphe. The weather was just the way I liked with the sky overcast and the drizzle infrequent. I took a turn on Avenue Kleber, walking on a practically empty road, admiring the beautiful buildings. I reached Place de l'Etoile , a large road junction in Paris and the meeting point of twelve avenues. The Arc De Triomphe stands majestically at the center of this place. The monument was photographed in every possible angle. Thereafter I turned into Avenue Champs Elysees. My eyes instantly widened in wonderment, this avenue was a stark contrast to Avenue Kleber and was the liveliest I had ever seen. The avenue stretched as far as the eye could see, the walkways were super wide, tourists walked leisurely along or sat sipping on their colas and coffees, while the numerous top brand stores stylishly flashed their neon signs. I lost myself in the hustle and bustle thoroughly enjoying myself. I so wished for the company of my best friend - my sister.

I had clocked four hours of walking and was totally famished. I treated myself to an extra cheeseburger at McDonalds. Bon appétit, I said to myself. That’s the only other French term I knew apart from merci! The guy at the billing counter had a tough time figuring out how much to bill me for my ‘vegetarian’ burger that was of course not on the menu. Smiling, I picked up my half-finished coke and continued my walk. I felt like a kid, getting all excited at the colors and lights. I window-shopped and lost time, but was in no hurry to get the next attraction. As it got darker and gloomier, I eventually took the metro to the Louvre. I did a real quick tour without skipping any of the floors and said hello to Mona Lisa. She smiled back at me. Out of the Louvre, I lost sense of direction and ended up walking all the way up to the Concorde, so had a take the metro again to the Notre Dame cathedral in the fourth arrondissement. By then, it was completely dark and the city glistened like a jewel with all the lights. I stopped briefly by the Seine to take pictures of the passing cruises. Coming face to face with the Notre Dame cathedral, the beauty of the imposing structure against the dark backdrop struck me. I stayed inside until the evening mass was over and sat for an hour outside admiring the cathedral’s night illumination. Heading towards the ET again, I realized I was running against time and avoided looking at the inviting signs to the popular dinner cruises on the Seine.

Even at 9 pm, the queues were just as long, but I joined the shortest one that led to the east tower. I bought a ticket to the top floor, by then it was beginning to get cold. I spent the Cinderella hour taking in the breathtaking bird’s eye view of the city by night. Coming down little past 12 midnight, I was totally exhausted and chilled to the bone. It was a painful drag to the metro. I was a little nervous initially, but the station was still crowded and I got to the hotel about 1 am. Bliss is what I sensed as my head touched the pillow. The Moulin Rouge dancers performed in my dream.

It was a brief but memorable experience in the city. A second trip is definitely on the cards to see the grandeur beyond Paris.

Go Goa...

I don’t dig for beaches and in that sense it was an unlikely holiday destination. But the promise of the monsoon rains and the offer at the Taj were enough of a lure for me to drag my parents and head to Goa. It was a not a typical ‘Goan’ holiday - with no beach activities, no visits to century-old churches and no shopping at the colorful markets of Panjim. I slept, ate, watched TV and wrote, following the same cycle every single day. The monsoon did not let me down, as was evident from the frequent darkening skies and heavy downpour. The Fort Aguada resort, where I stayed, is located in Bardez, North Goa with beautiful views of the Portuguese fortress and the beach. The rains combined with the swaying coconut palms and the tall waves were a sight to behold all through.

With nothing much to do one evening, I decided to take a long walk along the shore. But the sea was pretty rough and the monstrous waves seemed to devour the shore. So I instead walked down to the fort to take photo shots of the hazy horizon and the waters beneath. The fort had high walls and extended into the sea. The waves were lashing mercilessly against the outer wall and spraying water on the inside of the fort in full force. With pictures taken in every possible angle, I returned back to the hotel satisfied. One more day of lazing around saw the end of my holiday. Time to head to the Vasco Da Gama station to catch the 2:30 pm train to Chennai! It was a visually enriching 75 minutes drive passing small settlements and backwaters, with the rain coming down in torrents yet again.

Very soon after we settled down in the train, it entered the Western Ghats, I realized that holidaying in Goa is not just about the place, but also about the journey. A good 4 hours of the journey until darkness fell, the sights were captivating. The dense damp vegetation and the innumerable streams led me to fantasize that I was inside a rain forest. The mist hung heavily in the air, and there were also the lush green agricultural fields to add color to the landscape. As if green was not enough, the water in the puddles were dark rust in color, thanks to the mineral rich soil. The train weaved in and out of tunnels, and the constant drizzle was absolutely refreshing. It was as though there was one big canvas and nature was filling it up with sights and colors. The humble Indian Railways train does take on a dreamy look in that weather!

As darkness fell, I settled down to pen down my beautiful experience. This train journey was one of my most memorable that I had ever undertaken in India. Talk of holidaying in Goa, one should undoubtedly travel along the Konkan coast for the unmatched experience.

The story of Mr. Hop

Once upon a time in Kabul there lived a bunch of Indians in a house. The house was a big one and had a nice garden. In the garden grew big roses and tiny petunia. There was a nice green lawn that had come up after great efforts were made by the cook and gardner called Z. Every morning two persons in the house would go for a walk around the house. Round and round they would go like horses going around in a circle. One was called Amitabh Bacchan because he was tall and bossy and the other was called tak tak as she did things like that-u know-tak tak:-))

One morning AB while walking uttered a cry and stopped in a corner. Something caused him distress. He was sad. He called to tak tak - it was a sparrow in oil. Tak tak did'nt understand and shouted from across - what, what?. AB said that a sparrow has fallen into the oil container kept near the generator and was all oiled up and sitting - all stuck together like someone has glued it up! It could not move. Well, that was the end of morning walk! AB and TT went to the sparrow and looked at it carefully, it was alive but could'nt move. It was a baby sparrow-a fledgling! Now what was to be done? AB said it had to be given a bath with soap and water. TT said it had to be wiped with cotton to remove the oil and then given a bath. Mr Hop listened to the discussion about him, blinked his beady eyes and executed short hops. He certainly didnt like the idea of a cold bath! Brrrr... he thought!

TT went up to discuss the matter with showpari-her roommate. Show pari is the queen of fairies. She was sleeping. TT woke her up and told her all about Mr Hop. SP yawned and said she was scared to touch Mr Hop as he was so small and she was scared she may hurt him. So she suggested that TT wake up Z and ask him to bathe Hop. So AB and TT knocked on Z's door and woke him up. He heard the story of poor Mr Hop and came in to the garden to catch him. Mr Hop hopped round and round a rose bush and tried to avoid being caught. Finally Z picked him up and put him in a blue tub. TT cleaned him with cotton gently. Then Z gave him a bath with soap and water-once and then twice-as there was so much oil on him. Slowly and gently he washed him and removed the stupid black oil from over his neck, head, feathers and tail. Then TT stroked him dry and held him with cotton as he was shivering. Mr Hop had never had a bath with soap and water and he did not like it at all. The soap had got into his eyes and they were stinging. He was hungry and he missed his mom. So he was sad and wet and scared. But slowly as the sun smiled at him and dried his feathers he stopped shivering. Then, TT put him on the grass near a rose bush so that he would be nearer his home.

AB and TT left him there and left to get ready. After two hours when TT was leaving the house to go to office she checked if everything was ok with Hop. He was standing in the sun and when he saw her he hopped hopped away wildly and fluttered a little spreading his wings. TT smiled as that meant he was dry and happy. She told Qala to look after him. Qala rushed to him with some bread and water and promised to care of Hop.

We hope Mr. Hop will get dry and become big and strong and grow up to be a smart sparrow who will not fall into oil again!

Story courtesy - Ms. K, my roommate

Romancing the rain

As the sky looms like a dark veil
I look up expectantly, craning my neck
I hear the familiar thundering sound
And then the first drop of rain falls to the ground

In the cold drizzle before the downpour
Strolling on the sidewalks unhurriedly
I soak in everything that is so lovely
And so eager for the rain

I sit by the window, flipping pages from my book

The rain is coming down in heavy torrents
My eyes keep glancing over the window sill
To where the rain falls, that is where I want to be

Its past dusk, with no sign of electricity

Wickers burn bright in oil lamps

Forming shadows on the walls

Seated huddled around a hurricane lamp

Eerie stories are discussed animatedly

The night envelopes, and I crawl into my bed

Frogs and crickets croak loudly
While the rain pours unabated
Soon, I am blissfully asleep
For it was the sweetest lullaby

Dawn breaks, with the rain venting its fury still
I walk on rain soaked roads along the beach
The wind threatens to blow away my umbrella
I step on the sand barefoot, gazing at the waves
It is a sight to behold - the sea so furious yet so beautiful

Life seems to have come to a standstill
As if in sheer reverence to the rain
I want to do nothing but laze, so
I curl up inside a blanket with my favorite book
Only to slip into a slumber yet again

The rain takes pity in due course
And tapers down to a light drizzle
The paper boats are ready in plenty
And as I let them in slowly
Some sail down to unknown destinations
While some keep going in circles in water puddles

I smile recollecting all the beautiful memories…….
The excitement when the radio announces school holiday
The refreshing feeling of getting drenched to the bone
The unmistakable smell of damp earth after the rain
The joy of shaking off the rain drops from the trees

Rain brings countless emotions
Bliss, excitement, peace, melancholy
It brings out the child in you, without doubt
Am I left with a choice?

NaRgiS

Its not long since I have met her

But how well I have come to know her

She can weave magic with her words

And bring things to life with her art

There is such passion in her creation

Sometimes it reflects the pain within

She has a strong personality, no doubt

But also an inner self so true to her name.....Nargis

Wish I could share her burden

Wish I could say some soothing words

But words seem to fail me

How inadequate I felt...

I wish her well for the future

With all blessings showered

For she is indeed to me

A very special friend.

Barq aayaa?

I was eyeing the clock intently, it was almost 10 pm. Two more minutes, and the power would be gone. I refreshed my yahoo mail one last time for the day, after 10 I will not have a choice but to hit the bed. It was Zulmai’s day off and I felt too lazy to go out in the cold to start the generator. 10:02…..10:04……10:06……the power stayed on and I thanked my lucky stars. I was sure now that it will be 11 before the power would go. If only all days were that predictable!

October began and the power situation started deteriorating in Kabul. I would count the number of hours we had city power, as opposed to how many hours we did not have. It was still manageable till we started feeling the cold. There was a predictable pattern initially – power from 6-10 pm – period. Then the supply became a little erratic. Power would come on late at 7, but would stay on until 11. Sometimes came at 3, still stayed on till 10. Even sometimes, stayed on through the entire night – that was a real luxury. But that meant we go without power the whole of next day. Despite the crazy schedules, I still thought I had a reasonable assessment of when we will have power. How little I knew!

It had become like a mini project with regular discussions about how to address this problem. All possible solutions under the sun were thrown on the table (rather carpet?), but we seemed to be heading nowhere. I missed most of the discussions – albeit unintentional – as I always came home late. Amidst so many projects, why the progress of the power project evinced much interest among office staff? Now it dawned on me.

I never imagined I would struggle for something that is taken for granted back home. It was so irritating to schedule all tasks around availability of power – from showering to dining to watching TV. There were days I would be so irritated, I would feel like banging my head on the wall. Why did I have to leave my cozy one room accommodation? But then I knew very well why. If there is anything that makes all this bearable, it's the housemates. We have our exciting days. One weekend we decided - to hell with the power - and ran the generator for 4 hours just to watch 2 movies. Many other weekends we sat around a hurricane lamp and chatted into the wee hours of the night. 

As I get ready to go on leave next week, the different options are still echoing around the house. Rent or buy a bigger gen? Stay or move? Whatever, I can put all this behind me for an other month, and come prepared to face it in January. Hopefully there will be a solution by then….Insha Allah!

Miss you grandpa...

It was little past 5 in the evening and Radio Ceylon was rolling out old Tamil melodies. My grandma was busy in the kitchen and there was my grandpa chic and ready – clad in a white dhoti and T-shirt, hair neatly combed on an almost bald head and carrying his usual manja pai (typical yellow cloth bag that was common in most Tambram homes in those days). He was ready long before 5 and I sensed his impatience. But soon I was ready too in a frill frock and curly hair plaited on two sides. Grandpa took my hand in his and we were out the door. This was 1984, soon after his retirement, and the routine pretty much remained unchanged till he left us for heavenly abode in 2004.

 I always spent a big part of my summer vacation at my grandpa’s in Bombay. This included daily evening outings for which there was a set pattern with just a slight variation in the routes. That particular evening in 1984 was no different. It began with a quick darshan at the mountain goddess temple opposite our apartment building. Then I tagged along while he shopped for vegetables at Koliwada. We also stopped by Mehta’s for medicines. Then softly he asked if it was time to pay a visit to our regular panipuriwala. The answer was always a yes. After all, that’s the reason I was out. A small crowd had already gathered, and we waited patiently for our turn. After stuffing myself with two platefuls, I smiled gleefully to indicate I was done. Next halt was at the sugarcane juice stall. The place was run by a Maharashtrian who owned vast sugarcane fields in his village. He served the best sugarcane juice in Sion, or so he claimed. After gulping down a glassful, which was no mean measure by any standard, we headed home. But not before a visit to the adjacent Vittal mandir. I was brought up a pious kid! We passed the bhelpuri wala on the way, but that will have to wait for another day. Talking of panipuri, I have to mention that my first visit to the stall was when I was perhaps seven and for many years since then, I never had panipuri at any other place in Bombay. Amazingly, the taste stayed the same.

On some days, we took a long walk from Sion to Matunga, making pit stops at the Matunga circle ice cream parlor and the secondhand bookstore for some Amar Chitra Katha titles. On our return, we would either take the bus or the train. If it was the train, we never missed relishing the famous vada pav outside Sion station. Okay, now that is a lot of snacking! At 60 plus, my grandpa did have a good appetite for roadside snacks although the excuse was always that he had to give me company. Many a times we bought platform tickets and sat at the station aimlessly watching trains pass by. Not to mention our weekend trips along the entire stretch of the Central, Western or Harbor line of the Bombay suburban. Such is my love for trains, and such was his affection for me. I just had to say it, and he would do it.

Turning the clock back a few more years to when I used to spend a good part of the year in Bombay, I looked forward to Fridays eagerly. Coming back from office, he would be loaded with jasmine flowers. It was the traditional Friday ritual. He made garlands and offered it to the Gods and got ready to chant the Vishnu Sahasranamam (a Sanskrit hymn). While he chanted the verses, I sat on his lap patiently. Having pleased the Gods, there was no escaping the chukku chakkarai (a medicinal concoction of jaggery and dry ginger). Come 1984, my sister had priority to his lap. The evening market routine remained the same as she grew up, except that we were two of us tagging along. He would show us off to his friends, there was no doubting the pride in his eyes.

As I grew older, I helped him with some errands. It was with great excitement that I traveled alone for the first time to Kurla to book train tickets, which by the way is only two train stops away from Sion. I would call from a public call office once I reached and would call again before leaving – he was paranoid letting me go anywhere alone. I wrote out forms for him, there was a lot of form-filling to be done at the bank, post office, railway station, etc. those days. There was no online business.

Grandpa & grandma in 1948

Talking of grandpa, it is an insult if I do not recount our post dinner story sessions. The story sessions would drag on for more than an hour, and he would tell me every single story he knew, but I never seemed to say enough. Most were cock and bull stories, literally. I would lie by his side, with my head placed on his round belly, while he simultaneously patted me to sleep. He would often entertain everyone in the house with hilarious stories of mischief and fantasy growing up in his hometown Naranammalpuram. His most favorite was about how Mohini pisasu followed him in the dark because she liked handsome boys (my grandpa was apparently named Sundara Krishnan for a reason)! His friend Sesha was a key character in all his personal stories. I still don’t know if Sesha really existed, or if he was just an imaginary character. We would be rolling in laughter unable to control our tears hearing the stories. My grandpa was a master storyteller! To this day, I am glad that my dad once recorded the entire session on to an audio cassette which remains one of my treasured possessions. He is the only one in my life to whom I have written a letter every month, because he did the same. On the dot every month, a letter would arrive in his neat handwriting. I even have 1-2 letters saved.

He was a really social person; he would stop and greet everyone from the gurkha to the ghaiwali to the society president. He was the kindest soul, incapable of uttering an unkind word. My mom was the apple of his eye, but the only time I ever remember he lost his cool with her was when she scolded me! He was great help to my grandma around the house and was a wonderful cook. During the traditional festivals, the special sweets and savories (halwa, mysurpa, murukku, cheedai and the like) were always made by him. He took care of himself well getting his daily dose of long walks, and never skipped the weekly oil bath. To me, he was perfection personified. To him, I always remained a kid. During walks, he insisted on holding my hand even after I was well past my teens, and I would indulge him. I will not forget how excited he was to be the pillion rider while I drove him around in my scooter in Madras. He enjoyed life, and it was such a delight being around him.

Post his retirement, he yearned to settle in Madras. Unfortunately, that never happened. He had always enjoyed good health and never once visited a doctor except for his cataract operation. It was all too sudden that he got sick and everything was over in a matter of days. For weeks and months after, I was angry and could not digest it. I kept wondering if only I had visited him when he turned 80, if only he had held on for a day more so I could have brought him to Madras, if only he had recovered. So many ifs and buts. When I visited him in the hospital, he never as much opened his eyes to acknowledge my presence, which pained me a great deal. But as I held his hands, I was sure he knew I was there. There was a spiritual connection. He was in a coma but appeared to be blissfully asleep. Praise is to God he did not suffer.

I still make trips to Bombay and frequent all my favorite spots. But there is an emptiness and it is not the same without him. I miss you greatly grandpa….

Bravo Base Bravo Base

It took time for it to sink in that this was a call sign I had to respond to during my time in Kabul. There were times when I felt weird carrying the heavy walkie talkie around. Using it in public places undoubtedly attracted unabashed stares from people that made me feel as if I were giving instructions to blow off a bomb!

This was part of the ‘settling in’ process, which was sooner that expected, thanks to my colleagues in Kabul who were more than helpful. The excitement of working in Afghanistan, having to adjust to many things new, the opportunity to travel, the average Afghan’s love for everything Indian (including the dubbed version of ‘Saas bhi…’ and other Ekta Kapoor TV soaps!) definitely helped. The security issue that was a major decision factor eventually had to become part of life. Remembering the days when security advisories and news of bomb blasts circulated over email, I feel quite amused by my reaction “I can’t be bothered about that, got to do my grocery shopping!” – not quite literally though. All along when I was frequenting my favorite Kabul restaurant on TTK Road, I never imagined that I will live in the ‘real’ Kabul one day!

As time passed, the urge to gatecrash every party in town slowly faded away. I found myself spending more time pursuing my hobbies of pottery painting, reading and blogging, catching up with friends, and of course preparing for the next holiday! A chance to visit the provinces is something I always look forward to for the sheer beauty of the landscape.

There are things I still miss about Chennai – the nightly chat and giggle sessions with my sister, a movie at Sathyams, shopping at Spencers, Globus, or even on the pavements, relishing chaat at Gangotree’s and lot more. But Kabul does have nice restaurants of varied fare, which is a blessing. And I do manage to shop occasionally at Chikan Street for gifts.

The toughest thing for me to handle is the homesickness and here I must sincerely thank my many friends in the Chennai office for providing ‘logistics’ support and acting as a link between my home and me. The last year in Kabul has been very fruitful with a holistic learning experience. As I continue my stint here, I pray His grace remains.

A winter holiday to Kalinga

It seemed almost unreal that we were aboard the train to Orissa after all the confusion about deciding on a holiday destination. A pleasant train journey marked the beginning of a wonderful trip. We reached Balasore sleepy eyed on a cold morning, and were ready to go but not before a refreshing chai at the railway tea stall. A couple of inquiries landed us in a decent hotel in a bustling market area by a 10 min rikshaw ride. Food was our major concern, but a marwari basa nearby proved to be a blessing.

After lunch, a ride by the trekker (jeep) took us to Chandipur beach. The sight of the trekker reminded of the our own MTC buses, the locals were hanging from all sides. Reaching the beach, the sight really had us stumped. Twice a day, its waters recede a good 5-km offshore and proceeds rhythmically back by evening, giving water lovers the ultimate pleasure of walking into its shallow depths. There was thin film of water beneath our feet and lumps of sand were set in a wave-like pattern. Given my mom’s paranoia for water, I and my sister managed only 2 kms into the sea. It was getting dark fast and eerie thoughts of water gushing in from the sea was enough to hasten us back to the shore.

Next morning, we took a passenger train to Bhadrak, which got its name from the Bhadrakali temple situated little away from the town. It was an hour’s ride by auto on muddy and bumpy roads, through villages lined with mud houses and curious onlookers. The shrine was serene, untouched by modern civilization.

We share a passion for the Indian Railways within the family. So coming back to the station, it was not surprising that we spent the next 3 hrs on the platform (literally!) enjoying the passing trains, before we left for the temple city of Bhubaneswar. The train was late by an hour and we reached there in the stillness of the night (read 11:30 PM). A rikshaw-puller helped us get accommodated at a hotel in a nearby shopping area.Our first day in the city, we visited the temples of Lingaraj, Mukteswara, Baital Deul and Raj Rani. The temples at Orissa are based on the Indo-Aryan style of temple architecture, with the Lingaraj temple being the quintessence of Orissan architecture - the beauty of it unparalleled! But with all due respect to the temple, the visit would have been more enjoyable if not for the annoying guides.

The second day was marked by visits to Dhaulagiri, Udayagiri, Khandagiri and Pipli. Dhauli is famous for the Ashokan rock-edicts and Shanti Stupa (peace pagoda). Udayagiri and Khandagiri hills are Jain centers and the rock-cut architecture is worth seeing. Pipli is known for its appliqué work and vibrantly colored cloth lanterns.

The next day we visited the sulphur hot springs in Atri and thanks to my friend, had the pleasure of spending an evening by the side of Mahanadi river. The sunset was a spectacular sight and I was lucky to capture the moment on film. A visit to Bhubaneswar is not complete without a trip to Nandankanan zoo, famed for its white tiger population , along the rippling waters of the Kanjia Lake. We enjoyed the simple pleasures of boating, toy train ride and cable-car ride.

Reaching Konark the next day, we spent a full day marveling at the architectural beauty of the magnificent Sun Temple. Puri, the site of renowned Rathyatra festival, was our next halt. It looks a quaint old town, but the scene changes as we reach Badadanda road, with a plethora of shops lined up on either side of the road and hawkers selling their wares. Puri is also famous for pattachitras (palm leaf paintings), horn work and wood carvings.

After a good darshan at Lord Jagannath temple, we took a passenger train to Balugoan, one of the nearest points to Chilika lake. Chilika is the largest salt water lake in Asia and attracts migrating birds in winter. We stayed in a small hotel overlooking the lake, paying a ‘premium’ for stay in the 1st floor. But here again, the sunrise merited it. We touched upon bird island and Kalijai island during our four hour boat ride. The boat ride was a pleasurable experience where a music troupe retold local folklore.

With our holiday concluded, we returned to Bhubaneswar to take the train back to Chennai. Regretfully, we were not able to visit Taptapani hot springs, Gopalpur-on-sea, Koraput and few other places, but there is always next time!

Solace in tears

Sitting on the brink of my eyelids
The tears threaten to fall
I struggle to hold them back in vain
But they softly roll down my cheeks

There seems gratification
Even in the throbbing
It’s something that I do not understand
Never did, never will

The pillow provides the solace
As though it were my only friend
I bury my face into it
There is no stopping after that

Every bead has a story to tell
Of my love, of my pain…
I smile through the tears despite
As peace envelopes my heart...

On a Mithila trail

Many curious eyebrows were raised when I decided to holiday in Bihar, of all places. I am sure it would not have been my choice either if it was not a place of historical and archeological importance. Fortunately I have my friend living in Patna, erstwhile Pataliputra. I have traveled very less in the north so my joy knew no bounds and I really looked forward to experiencing the bitter cold in December (a luxury for a Chennaite like me!)

And so I, my sister, dad and mom started off on a long train journey with the weather just perfect for a holiday. My friend arrived just a bit late to receive us giving us the opportunity to bask in the winter sun. But we were only too glad to bundle up inside a car and get into the comfort of a home very soon. The aroma of fresh tea filled the air, which we were to learn later was the effort of his cook, Abu - a naïve young Bihari boy of 18 whose world seemed to revolve almost entirely around the kitchen. During our 10 day stay, he made sure that we were more than well fed, albeit his customary menu consisting of dal, chawal, alu and papad. He had become an entertainer of sorts with his funny replies, and his typical response ‘hum alu cheel rahe hain’ when questioned about what he was doing, whatever time of the day be it.
The next day dawned bright and sunny and it was nice of my friend to take off from office. With a chauffeur-driven office car at our disposal and goodies packed for us to eat, we headed to Rajgir, famous for its hot water springs. Though the place was laid out very conveniently for the visitors, it was too crowded for our liking. We then planned to take the winch to the peace pagoda on top of the hill but lost all enthusiasm seeing the queue. Finally we ditched the idea and drove to Nalanda.

I have read about Nalanda University in history books but was not prepared for what I saw. The area it covered, the structure, the technical aspects, the tone of the rocks, the warmth of the surface, the ruinous state in which it now stood - resulted in a surge of emotions in me. We just stood there not saying a word and somehow the concept of a holiday seemed to change. Given an opportunity, I could just sit there the whole day gazing at the colossal structure. I was even beginning to envy the flower vendors! Closing my eyes, I conjured up images of scholars walking all around me carrying manuscripts. I know I sound crazy but how great to be able to be transported to that time zone for some time (although I would be such a misfit)………….sigh! So much for wishful thinking. Forced back to reality, we headed back to Patna.

The next day, we traveled to Gaya. After visiting the renowned Vishnupad temple, we walked down to the ghats where the Falguni river flowed. The water barely reached up to the ankles, nevertheless it was cool walking on the water feeling the soft sand under the feet. With nothing more to do there, we proceeded to Boudh Gaya. This is the place where Lord Buddha is believed to have attained enlightenment seated under the Bodhi tree. It was my first visit to a Buddhist temple and I felt mesmerized gazing at the imposing idol of the Buddha inside. The silence maintained inside the sanctum was amazing. The temple had Buddhist relics and prayer flags all around, and holy script written in Bhutanese. It was interesting to see the architecture of the gopurams. Satisfied spiritually, we headed back home for a piping hot dinner before we wound up for the night.

We pretty much stuck to the city the next day allowing my friend to visit office for a few hours! Lunch was followed by a cozy afternoon nap. Soon after tea, we were raring to go. We touched upon Golghar first - a huge dome-shaped granary. A spiral staircase ran along the dome reaching the top. For the first time I felt uncomfortable amidst crowds, Patna is not a place to be roaming around even in broad daylight. People make you feel as though you are an alien from outer space by staring unabashedly. I was relieved to get out from there and we went to a Gurudwara. First timers again, we were told that this Gurudwara was special. The tenth and last Guru of the Sikhs was born here in Patna Sahib. One of the volunteers took us around explaining the history of the place. After the prayers, all devotees were given a hot sweet dish, the taste of which still lingers in my memory. As Abu had gone to his native, we had dinner at a South Indian restaurant and retired early for the night.

We had one last place in our agenda to be seen - Vaishali. We started late afternoon the next day on a nice long drive with lush greenery following on both sides. At one point, we deviated onto a mud track and drove on reaching Vaishali, in the middle on nowhere. It was past 5 PM already and the weather was cold. There was steady breeze and the mist hung heavily in the air. But what struck me immediately was the serene atmosphere, so much so that a calmness seemed to envelop me. The white structure of the peace pagoda stood majestically against the perfect backdrop of the darkening sky. We took our own sweet time going around the pagoda and the experience was blissful. As darkness fell, we left the place.

Our holiday was coming close to an end but not before spending two days in Jamshedpur. I have a friend, Sainik who stays there with his wife and I also persuaded Arun into joining us. Jamshedpur is named after Jamshedji Tata, the business icon who was instrumental in setting up Tata Steel industry here. It is interesting to note that half the population of this town will have atleast one family member working in Tata. A visit to Dimna lake followed by a visit to the botanical garden summed up our sightseeing. It was an emotional and memorable moment for my dad when we stopped by Madrasi Sammelani for South Indian delicacies, a place that my dad used to frequent during his work tenure with TTK in 1969!

As all good things come to an end, so did our holiday. We never realized how the days had flown past so swiftly and it was now time for us to take the evening train back to Chennai.