Afghanistan Demystified – All Things Beautiful

10 years of working on Afghanistan and almost 8 years of living in Kabul! ‘How was it?’ It’s a question I am often asked, sometimes with awe but more often with apprehension. It’s a question that brings myriad thoughts and emotions to my mind, as well as a glowing sense of pride and satisfaction. I cannot point to just one aspect that made this journey wonderful, so where do I begin?
     

Afghanistan was an enigma, a distant place somewhere beyond the mountains, and knowledge of it was restricted to what little I had read in school books and newspaper articles. I remember reading the Kabuliwala (an original Bengali short story by the Nobel Prize recipient Rabindranath Tagore), and watching on television the unfortunate bombing of the Buddha statue in Bamyan. When the opportunity of an assignment in Kabul came knocking, the desire to do something different sparked in me. It was a line of profession for which I had neither aspired nor trained for. I was content living and working in my hometown Chennai. But the chance to experience a new culture, to learn new skills, and visit home every 2 months was a lure. So, I found myself sitting in an interview where I was asked questions about the public sector. My answers were mostly in the negative (using the Indian ‘nod’ as many of my colleagues say), but I impressed upon my interviewers that I would learn. Passion is not something I lacked, and maybe it showed. Thus, I made the move from a seemingly normal city to a fragile state in July 2006. In all those years in Chennai when I used to frequent the restaurant ‘Kabul’, I had the remotest idea that one day I will go to live in the REAL Kabul!

I owe my beautiful, and almost poetic existence in Kabul to many - my colleagues, friends, housemates, clients, and to the drivers, facilities and security staff in the office. This is not a token acknowledgement, those who have lived in Kabul know too well it is that spectrum of support system absolutely needed to survive there. The settling in process took no time at all as I had help to carry out the tiniest of tasks, such as even changing a light bulb. I empathized with those who did these tasks as there was no expectation in return except for a genuine tashakor (`thank you` in Dari, the local language). Small change was purely voluntary if one could spare it. Talking of thank you, one of the distinct things about Afghanistan is its way of greeting. It goes on for a full two minutes, exaggerations aside, starting off with salam (greetings), chitor asti? (how are you?), and sehat khoob as? (is your health ok?), before continuing in a long but endearing flurry of niceties that end up completely losing you. In all those years, I never figured out entirely what they said. But I was polite, I smiled and returned the greetings. Another linguistic and cultural peculiarity that stood out was the liberal usage of the term ‘jaan’ (meaning `dear`). The first time a colleague addressed me as ‘Asha jaan’, I cringed. For an Indian, it has a different connotation, being a term of affection reserved only for a romantic partner. But I came to appreciate that Afghans use the term for everything that is cherished. It became part of my vocabulary too. 

I arrived in Kabul at a time when the security situation was, relatively speaking, not bad; I drove around in a soft skin vehicle, shopped at the local grocery store, went to the Butcher street for fresh vegetables, enjoyed Friday dosa brunch at Delhi Durbar, had a long list of go-to restaurants and frequently walked the length of Chikan Street shop-hopping for shawls, rugs and trinkets. Le Bistro sold beautiful paintings, but I found them atrociously expensive. The small shop across the restaurant had a few, painted by the owner.  They were not great, but good enough for a souvenir. I took a taxi once, just once. Interestingly almost every taxi in the city was a Toyota Camry; it influenced my decision not to go for it when I did buy a car after leaving Kabul. The Camry had lost its charm. The shar-e-naw market, a must visit, was deceptive in its appearance. It surprised me with the merchandise it offered especially the shoes that were worthy of a ramp walk! I replenished my stock of dry fruits from a regular store, and while the shopkeeper weighed and packed them, I wouldn’t stop popping the long green kishmish into my mouth. I also did the obvious – read and watched ‘The Kite Runner’; and became a proud owner of the book ‘Afghanistan over a Cup of Tea’ by Nancy Dupree, and hand woven kilims, carpets and donkey sacks! Carpet buying was an enlightening experience, I had not realized I could sound knowledgeable by discussing the knots in a carpet. 

I enjoyed short walks up the small hill close to my home in Wazir Akbar Khan neighborhood. I frequented the UN guest house, a favorite hangout for its pool and squash court, and more so for its Wednesday salsa nights. A one-off day trip to Qargha lake combined a tour of Babur gardens and a sneak peek of the Kabul golf course. I visited a gurudwara too in faraway Karte Parwan area. I wished to witness the legendary Buzkashi (the Afghan national sport, like polo – but using a goat or calf carcass instead of a ball!), but never got a chance.  I recommend with caution the Mandawi market – the largest wholesale market in town that combines cacophony and chaos effortlessly. Disorder is the order of the day in this place and  it takes talent to maneuver around. There is nothing that cannot be found here – spices, copper vessels, clothing, and the ubiquitous Afghan elderly gentleman in his characteristic turban and beard. On the innumerable trips I made across the city, I watched with curiosity the street side shops by the Kabul river and the flock of pigeons by Shah-du-Shamshira mosque, but failed miserably in my attempts to get a good picture from the moving car; it was a no-go zone on foot. Even in the days of flexible movement, attending weddings locally was not allowed. When a colleague got engaged, special permission was granted to attend the celebrations. I was thrilled to be part of the ceremony, sitting with the women folk on one side of the venue, while the men sat on the other side. Interestingly, each side had its own dances. Contrary to popular notion, I saw that Afghans loved their dance and music, if Attan – the national dance of Afghanistan accompanied by the drum - is one example to go by.

Many middle aged Kabulians remembered my city as Madras, the old name for Chennai. More than once I was asked if I had met the famous Amitabh Bachchan (popular Indian actor) or some random actor from the 80s, and I speculated if Bollywood was frozen in the 80s and 90s in their minds. No wonder Ariana cinema mostly showed movies from this time, many unheard of. That many Bollywood actors (particularly the Khans) could trace their ancestry to Afghanistan was a revelation to me. The dynamic younger generation was eager to demonstrate its English and Urdu skills, thanks to which I never picked up Dari (one of the two official languages and a variety of Persian) beyond the basics. I must speak of the country’s hospitality; no Afghanistan story is complete without it. Always overwhelmed by the quantity of food served, I wondered if my Afghan hosts expected me to eat all of it.  But amid all the kebabs and meat offerings, there was a generous vegetarian spread that I came to relish. The Kabuli pulav, eggplant dish and the bolani remain favorites. Seasonal fruits are something to die for; I have seen boxes and boxes of fruits checked in on flights out of Kabul. Somehow the honeydew melon never tastes the same anywhere else. The nation swears allegiance to green tea that is equaled only in its royal accompaniment of dry fruits. I was convinced that green tea is a magic potion, how else to explain for very few overweight people in a largely meat eating population! Too bad I never developed a taste for it. The food culture clarified why Afghans did not understand the concept of vegetarianism, and I convinced no one with my explanation.

In 2006, I remember Kabul was pockmarked with some badly bombed buildings, but despite its dilapidated condition the Darul Aman palace’s erstwhile grandeur was apparent. Outside of Kabul, the landscape is a magical creation of valleys, streams and rugged mountains that left me in awe. It will be a vain attempt to try to describe the breathtaking beauty. I got thrice lucky with Bamyan, traveling to where the imposing Buddha statue once stood and the brilliant blue waters of the tranquil Band-e-Amir lake glitter. A stunning aerial view from behind the ‘statue’ is totally worth the trek up the mountain. I also trekked up a cliff to see the ruins of Shahr-e-Zohak and its mud-brick towers. I had my first experience of flying in a 16-seater aircraft, landing on a narrow strip of land that was the runway. Staying at the basic ‘Roof of Bamiyan’ hotel on one trip, an early morning breakfast on the roof with the valley and the mountains in view, and the chill April winds caressing the skin was nothing less than a 5-star experience. Coming back from my last trip to Bamyan, I packed and went to the makeshift airport, sat there fidgeting for a few hours, only to be told to return as the flight from Kabul didn’t make its journey due to bad weather – this happened for 3 days in a row! Road travel was not an option, and I could have been stranded there for days. By the 3^rd day, I was on the verge of literally crawling up the walls of my hotel room, if it were not for the long evening walks in the valley that kept me sane.

I traveled to Mazar-e-Sharif twice. A road trip in 2007 took me through the Salang tunnel, and I stopped by in Tajqorghan to buy enormous pomegranates – they were a beautiful crimson red. While on a field visit, I excitedly walked the road/rail bridge that connects Uzbekistan across the Amu Darya river, and visited Mazar’s famous Blue Mosque. I also made short trips to the provinces of Parwan, Kapisa and Panjshir, but Herat and Badakshan remained elusive. It was a different group of colleagues on every trip and we always had a great time bonding. Driving through the rustic countryside always promised random sights of the kuchis (nomads), people on donkeys and occasionally, discarded machine tanks. Living and traveling in Afghanistan demystified the place for me.

Ten years is a long time to summarize in words; there are still many details that merit mention. The warm Afghan nan straight out of the tandoor from the street corner bread shops - they were priced dirt cheap! On a winter evening, they would quickly vanish in the car even before I got home. Congregating at the Indian restaurant Anar for cricket matches. Early morning city tour sitting in a bullet proof SUV, although a rarity. Boys playing cricket or football, or flying kites in the city. Getting used to the walkie-talkie radio and it’s call sign. Carrying my shawl everywhere, even in warm-warmer-hot Chennai, having got so used to it. The view of the distant snow peaks from a sunny Kabul and the colorful blooming roses. Gawking wide-eyed at the fruits growing in the office garden, all at hand’s reach but never having the heart to pluck any. Fairy tale winter experiences – witnessing the first spell of snow, sauntering around office in heavy snow taking pictures and breaking off icicles for no reason. Shopping at the Galleria, Istalif and Zardozi. My hopeless search for a Kabul city map. Being audience to several mesmerizing performances in office by the students of Afghanistan National Institute of Music – I felt like royalty. Extended brunches and lounging at the Serena with my besties. Office happy hours. Ladies’ lunches. Movie nights. Farewell parties. Yes, when you spend so many years in a place, you bid many goodbyes grudgingly. The list is infinite. I captured my experiences in a few random articles, and the 1,000s of photos I shot and still treasure.

I lived in a sprawling 4-level house with eight others, communal living if I may. We had a cook Zulmai (Zi for short), a maid and a gardener (our gentle Baba, the cook’s father), who together took care of us very well. The sizable lawn grew beautiful flowers, especially roses, and saw many badminton games. During the days of power shortage, I remember huddling around the bukhari (traditional wood or saw dust burning heater) with my housemates many winter evenings having animated conversations, accompanied by generous servings of hot pakoras and masala chai. Not to mention my struggle to converse in Dari – Baba, bukhari roshan! Baba, masheen chalaan! – meaning to light up the heater or start the generator. These were my famous winter lines. The mini projector was introduced in the home and we ran our very own N Talkies! Outside home, the social scene was a culture shock initially. In Chennai, my friends were from my school and college, and there was a sense of familiarity. In Kabul, I constantly met with strange faces from around the world. I found the

ultra-social personalities overbearing, although they were helping me adapt. Also, because I lived in Afghanistan, I did not think my conversations had to always revolve around aid and development. I came to dislike networking in all forms. So, I stayed a recluse the initial months. But over time, I shed my inhibitions and learned to be comfortable amongst unfamiliar crowds. Even better, I created my own little world with a close group of friends I made for life. We shared similar interests and together, we spent the weekends cooking, watching movies, making holiday plans and sharing photography tips, heading reluctantly back to our dwellings only at the stroke of 12 midnight – it was curfew time! We planned and organized grand Diwali parties, Iftar dinners and musical events at my place. We celebrated everything in equal fervor. We truly celebrated diversity, and life. Those were good days.

Travel Talk - Russia and the Trans-Siberian train journey!

My 2nd presentation with the group after Jordan. This one took a lot of effort and time preparing, having to sort through 7000 pictures (yes, 7000!) to pick about 50. But truly worthwhile. The presentation was well received, and the audience stayed on till the end. There were travelers who had done the Trans Siberian in the 80s, so was interesting to hear their perspective. But more than anything, very excited to have been able to share experiences from my SOLO trip.

Travel Talk - Jordan

The travel group I am associated with hosted Travel Talk: Jordan, which I had the opportunity to present :-) I am not someone who is comfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but I surprised myself by being totally at ease. Thanks to a lovely audience that stayed through till the end and provided positive feedback. Totally made my day. The 8 hours of preparation was worth it. The process helped me relive my holiday, sort my photos and use my travelogue. After experimenting with a number of groups after moving to DC, I fit in here just perfect! It is humbling to know that I am one of the least travelled persons in the group. 

 

 
Very proud to share two feedback comments:

"Congratulations, Asha. Great presentation. Your mode of travel is interesting to those of us who mostly travel with (small) tour groups. Your slides were very professionally done and your commentary entertaining."

"Excellent presentation -- Your journey brought back so much fun memories of my own and you provided very useful insights and tips to those of us who are independent travelers. Thank you, Asha, for sharing and can't wait for your 2nd presentation!!"

Lock Down

It was my 2nd bunker experience. I could not remember exactly when was the last time, maybe six months back? Ironically, time does fly in Kabul, from one incident to another and from one R&R to another. Coming back to Sunday the 15th of April 2012, my first half of the day was filled with meetings and I was hoping for some quiet time in the afternoon to catch up with work. It was hardly 10 minutes after I returned back after lunch that I heard sounds that were all too familiar from years of living here. I followed instructions and was in the bunker in no time. It was 2 pm.

The bunker was a better place that it was ever before. There was a telephone to use for emergency, decent stock of munchies and water, and an AC! And of course a bunch of lively people. Everyone was busily engaged – on mobiles, blackberrys, iPads, and we had unimportant conversations just to keep our minds off the events in the vicinity. We did our best to remain oblivious. Thankfully we did not have a TV.

4:30 PM - At the back of my mind, I was expecting that activities would taper down closer to 5 pm as it had last time. We had some indication of things becoming quiet except for one ‘hardworking’ militant that didn’t seem to let go. He was obviously very dedicated to the task on hand. So we waited. Meanwhile messages were pouring in from family, friends and colleagues.

6:30 PM – We got information about increased activity and the possibility of a longer wait in the bunker. Arrangements began for dinner, I made a quick visit to my office upstairs and came down with whatever I needed if we had to stay put overnight - laptop, chargers, headphones, some reading material and a cushion!

7:45 PM – There was unexpected news that we could leave the bunker and head home. We naturally should be relieved and happy, right? But I was thinking in my mind “am too comfortable to leave the bunker now!” Nevertheless, I phoned my family, responded to a couple of emails and headed home at 9:30 pm.

12:30 AM – I had been doing random stuff, charging up devices and struggling with the internet for 2 hours. I finally gave up and decided to call it a day. Office or no office, there was still work to do. This does not translate to sheer dedication to work. I find work a wonderful diversion and an escape mechanism without having to dwell on the crisis.

1:30 AM – I woke up abruptly and wondered if it was already morning, only to realize that heavy gun fire had woken me up. I sat up not sure of what to do. My housemate was away in India and I did not fancy being all by myself in the house under the circumstances. Shortly, a message said ‘go to safehaven’. I headed to the gym cum bunker downstairs with just my phone and BB. I hung around for about 20 minutes (on the tread mill in fact), then decided I might as well stay put in the bunker the whole night equipped. It was less troublesome than going back and forth. So then I came up to get my stuff but heard voices next door.

Soon enough I was at my colleague’s house, she was sweet enough to have me over. We discussed animatedly about the ongoing situation, trying to assess what and why, the black hawks, the rockets, the machine guns, etc. I have always admired my colleague’s house which is tastefully done. So amidst all that was happening, I made a mental note of stuff I should pick up from Istalif before I leave Afghanistan. We made ourselves Indian chai and butter toast at 3 am! Aah, the simple pleasures in the middle of a crisis! But on a more serious note, I had the easier task on hand, to just follow instructions. Finally at a point, we were convinced that it was okay not to be in the bunker and we could get some sleep. So, I returned back to my room at 4 am.

The gun fire had not ceased completely. The constant drone of the ‘black hawks’ and the firing of machine guns, and possibly rockets too, kept me awake. It was not fear, what was scary rather was the lack of fear. I felt nothing almost. Not wanting to turn on the lights though, I sat in the darkness of my room trying to recount the day’s experience which somehow seemed like a blur. But my mind was racing and I had to pen the day’s events. When I was done, it was 6 am and the warm morning light was filtering in through the curtains. It was a beautiful morning, if not marred by the persistent heavy sounds. I did not think I could sleep but it was too early by my standards to start doing anything else. So I hit the bed, more to stretch having kept awake the whole night. With hope of a quieter day, I surprising let sleep envelop me.

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!