Oct 1, 2018

The One In Which We Try Telling A Story

I believe that each one of us has two types of voices inside our head. One is a negative little voice that is forever discouraging, trying to convince us that we will fail miserably at everything we try.The other is a positive voice always shouting encouragement.
These two voices in my head fought a bloody battle a few days ago. But before I tell you who won this battle I must tell you about Kommune.

Kommune, co founded by Roshan Abbas, is a brilliant initiative that curates live performances of not only some of the best story tellers in this country but also gives a platform to the creative speaker within us to perform. I have been to several Kommune events and have been enthralled by stories from Roshan Abbas, Tess Joseph, Hari Sankar, Anshu Mor, Kubbra Sait, Ankur Tewari and many more. Kommune also has something called story slam where people like you and me can go up on the stage and tell our stories.
The stories are based on real life experiences and perhaps because the speakers allow the audience a peek into their innermost thoughts, the audience instantly connects with the stories.

So last weekend, Kommune had another event in Delhi. This time it was a story telling workshop followed by a Story slam. The workshop was conducted by Roshan Abbas and Hari who gave us many precious nuggets of wisdom about the art of storytelling.

Kommune usually has a theme for story slam and the theme this time was nostalgia. Now inspite of thoroughly enjoying the workshop I was totally unsure of speaking at the story slam the next day. You see that nervous, negative little voice inside me goes into an overdrive every time I want to attempt something new, especially if it involves speaking in front of more than 2 people.
It whispered maliciously in my ear how I will stutter and stammer and forget what I want to say or worse people will simply find me boring and laugh. Meanwhile the other voice, the one that speaks up very rarely suddenly woke up and asked me to get my act together, shut the hell up and participate. Part of me wanted to go up there and speak and break free of my fears and a part of me just wanted to sit quietly, listen to everyone and then slink back home, my fears and inhibitions intact.

At the workshop, while discussing nostalgic memories, Hari had talked about photographs from our childhood, taken using a film roll, much before smartphones and digital cameras came into existence. I had spoken of my childhood memory about how my mother loved photography but wanted each picture to be perfect and insisted we change out of our ‘ghar ke kapde’ into our ‘bahar ke kapde’ before the photograph was clicked and how most of our family pics were in our garden.

So now I had a nostalgic thought associated with a childhood picture that I needed to weave a story around. Saturday passed with no inspiration. I decided to write something on Sunday morning. Sunday morning came and went and I had nada. It was almost time to go to the story slam. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t know what to wear, it was raining, I didn’t want to drive, I was sure there would be no parking at the venue. Inspite of these thoughts, I was still forcing myself to come up with a story. I timed myself as I spoke aloud, creating the story in my head, adding and deleting things as I went, in a desperate attempt to have a coherent story within a 5 minute time frame (Hari had told me he would haul people physically off the stage if we went over the limit !). In the cab on the way to the story slam I was suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that I would forget my story half way through and so began a frantic jotting down of the main points on my phone.

At the story slam session, who ever wanted to tell a story had to write down their names on a chit, put them in a basket and Roshan or Hari would pull out the names one by one. There were to be 10 speakers randomly chosen. So I didn’t know if I would eventually get to speak or not. Too much trouble for such a slim chance whispered the evil voice in my ear.

Anyhow I wrote my name on the chit and put it in the basket. I was joined by my lovely friend Kajal Kapur and we waited for the show to begin. The show began with a few songs by one of Kommune’s featured artists that I barely listened to as the good voice and the bad voice were playing their own symphony inside my head. Then came the time for the first speaker.

Roshan read out the name. It wasn’t me. I don’t know if I was relieved or disappointed. Second name, not me, third name, not me, fourth name not me. By this time I was a nervous wreck, restless and fidgeting in my seat. I wanted to go up there and speak, at the same time I hoped I would never have to open my mouth in front of this room full of people. The worst was when the fifth name was someone called Aditi and the sixth name was also someone called Aditi. What are the chances that two people with the same name would get a chance but one Ruchira would not get picked? By the time the 7th speaker was called I was doing deep breathing in an attempt to calm down. I was so exhausted with all those oscillating thoughts in my head, I was barely enjoying the performances. Something which I really regret as some of the speakers were really good. Then after 9 performances it was time for the 10th and final speaker.
I waited with bated breath, not sure what I hoped for as Roshan picked up the chit and read out the last name – Not me.

I felt a whole lot of conflicting emotions then.But I think somewhere the predominant emotion was also that here was one chance of proving to myself that I could do this and I had missed it. With this one small, teeny weeny disappointment came an avalanche of negative thoughts – I never get anything I want, I just keep trying with no results, life is so screwed up and unfair. While these dark waters of thoughts were churning in my head, the 10th speaker narrated his story and left the stage.

Roshan came back on stage and we assumed that he would now announce the end of the session. Instead he looked at his watch and decided that there was still time for one more story. As if in very very slow motion he picked up a chit, opened it up and …read out my name. Before the negative voice could freeze me on the spot, I jumped up and was behind the mike. Such was my confidence in myself that I will screw up that I didn’t even bother to ask Kajal to take pictures, forget recording my story.

I started speaking. Into my second line Roshan interrupted me. I was sure he wanted to me to stop and go back to my seat but all he wanted me to do was wait because a few people were trying to come in and he wanted me to start once everybody had settled down. While we were waiting, he narrated some story about marketing Maggie noodles in the 80s that I didn’t hear a word of.

I was back behind the mike and finally telling my story. After a few lines, I realized with a start that the audience didn’t have that bored, dazed look on their faces. On the fifth line a few in the audience actually smiled. Gradually my palms stopped sweating and my heart stopped doing its frantic tom-tom against my chest. The audience were really listening to me! They laughed when I was funny and clicked their fingers (Kommune’s version of clapping) when they thought I said something they could connect with. And suddenly I realised that I was actually enjoying myself. I finished my story and the applause I got should have been all that I needed to erase the last of my self-doubt. But I was still unsure about how I had performed. I got my answer when I was voted the best speaker at the story slam.

I was not perfect that day, I had fumbled and jumbled and made mistakes while speaking, yet I had managed to capture and hold the audience’s interest. But even more important than the appreciation was the fact that I had taken that one crucial step in overcoming my fears.

Kajal bless her heart had recorded my story on her phone so it is there for posterity as a constant reminder for me to not listen to those nervous bring-you-down voices in my head, to believe that your time will come, be it at a story telling session or at something you really want in your life. All you need is a little bit of patience, a bit of faith in yourself, and an ability to squash down that voice in your head whenever it rears its ugly head to say something negative.

So here is my first attempt at story telling for all of you.

The first line is missing from the video “The Delhi of the 80’s was full of small government colonies and I grew up in one of them …..




Sep 17, 2018

Himalayan Orchard - The Hidden Gem of Apple Country

A few hours beyond the crowds and mayhem of Shimla, in the quiet village of Rukhla, lies a charming farm stay called the Himalayan Orchard.

I was there earlier this month when the monsoon was still lingering in the mountains and the apple season was at its peak. With all my love for Himachal I have never been there at apple picking time. I have looked longingly at the trees when they were bare and shorn of their fruit or when the apples were the size of small green golf balls but an Apple Orchard in its full glory had continued to elude me.

The roads from Chandigarh are excellent and we made good time inspite of the constant rain. I can understand the concerns about not traveling to the hills during the monsoon, but the peaks playing hide and seek behind the mist, the verdant greenery, the sudden flashing streak of sun through the clouds is something you will only see when it rains in the mountains.

As we neared apple country we could see apple trees dotting the mountain side, looking like shrouded giants under the white nets to protect them from parrots who love to feast on the fruit. As we went in deeper, the apple trees started appearing on both sides of the road, tempting us to just reach out and grab the ripe, shining red fruit. The trucks trundling down the winding roads carrying their loads of apples were another sign that we were really and truly in Apple Country.

Himalayan Orchard sits prettily on a sloping hillside, besides a pocket handkerchief sized garden with an immaculately kept lawn laced with a riot of multi coloured flowers. Painted a pristine white with a pink roof and green trimmings, pretty flower displays peeping out of huge windows gleaming in the sunshine, the cottage looks very welcoming. Beyond the cottage are steeply terraced hills, with their patchwork quilt of apple orchards and thick deodar forests, bumping and merging into each other before stretching on to the rugged peaks beyond.



The Farmstay is run by Devanshe and Mike and is actually Devanshe’s family home. They both met when they were teaching English in Japan and they decided to come back and turn this delightful property into a Farm stay.

Himalayan Orchard is a very beautifully curated home, tastefully done up with either family heirlooms or curios that Devanshe and Mike picked up during their travels. The art and artefacts, the various musical instruments, the ceramics from Japan, the colourful canvases on the walls, the wind chimes and the Koi nobori blowing gently in the wind all reflect a very personal style statement. This is a home where every nook and corner has a story to tell.




The pretty picture windows in each room allow an unhindered view of the mountains and the orchards. I loved the morning times the best with everything serene and quiet and the soft sunlight pouring in through the windows.


We had all staked our favorite corners at the Farmstay and mine was this sit out where Mike and Devanshe have made a pretty trellis for the grape vine. The view from here was picture perfect. The brown knobs that you see supporting the vine are actually from fishermen’s nets in Japan that Mike has painstakingly collected over the years during his walks on the sea shore.



The best thing about Himalayan Orchard is that it is not exactly on the tourist map so along with a peaceful and unspoiled environment you also get a chance to see what life is like in rural Himachal.

The farmstay has its owns stock of cows, chicken and a few goats. There is also a cock that will make sure you are up at day break whether you like it or not. The first morning when I was woken up by the insistent crowing I stumbled outside to hear a different kind of noise, somewhere between shouting and screeching. I started to wonder if this is how the people in this village greet each other but then I couldn’t see any one in sight. Devanshe told me later that this is the noise the workers make to scare away the birds from the apple trees.

The Farm is always busy but there was feverish activity going on in the orchard since it was apple picking time. Usually extra hands are called in to work during the picking season but Himalayan Orchard also gets people from Workaways to stay and volunteer with them. It is a fantastic concept where you can live with a family as a volunteer and in turn get a fabulous insight into the local culture. 

When we were there, we met Olivia and Luke from Britain and Dominique from Slovenia. They not only helped Devanshe and Mike around the farmstay but also chipped in with the apple sorting. 
We decided we wanted to ‘help’ too and made our way down to the apple shed where Devanshe’s father was busy supervising the work. After the apples are picked from the trees, they are brought into the apple shed to be cleaned and then sorted according to size using a machine that has different sized outlets through which different sizes of apples fall into different trays. After sorting the apples are packaged for their Journey in to all corners of India.




Later we made our way down to the orchards where workers were busy picking the apples. Our intention was to help again but I think the only help we did was eating half the apples off a tree!



Tired by my efforts to pick and sort apples I was delighted to discover that the Farmstay has a library and a game room. The library warmed my heart. The book collection is eclectic and the view from the windows fabulous. You not only have hundreds of interesting books to choose from but very picturesque surroundings to read them in. I had to be dragged out of there at meal times.


Meals at the farmhouse table were ambrosial. There was Devanshe’s home made sourdough bread, cheese, plum, gooseberry and ginger chutneys, mushroom pickle and jams and of course freshly made apple juice along with other Indian and continental dishes. When we were there, we had pasta with home grown kale pesto with delicious apple crumble one day and Sidkus made by Devanshe’s mother the next. Sidkus are a traditional Himachali dish made with wheat and stuffed with either lentils or Jaggery. I have eaten them before but I have never eaten more tastier ones than the ones cooked by Devanshe’s mother !


Everyone ate together and the conversations hopped from one topic to another with Devanshe’s father telling us about the orchards, Mike talking about the local folk lore and history, Luke, Olivia and Dominique discussing their travel plans while Devanshe kept an eye on all of us making sure our plates were full and we were eating well.

Devanshe is a wonderful artist and glimpses of her art can be seen everywhere, from the beautiful signboards, the décor inside the house, her gardening, her flowers to the food she cooks.







If you are lucky, in the evenings when the frenzy of activity has died down and every one is in a relaxed and mellow mood, you might catch Devanshe at her Piano, playing something soft and beautiful. Olivia, one of the workaways happened to be a Piano teacher and both she and Devanshe made our stay that much more memorable by their music.


Mike very good humouredly says he is good at something the British would call bodging but we in India call Jugaad. He is excellent with his hands and can do anything from making an apple juice press to building a yoga studio on his own. As you go around the farmstay you would see always see him tinkering with something or the other.

His interest and knowledge about the area’s natural history and topography surpasses that of even the locals. He has spent months mapping and curating trails around the farmstay and has up to 12 trails clearly marked till now. This is no small feat considering the terrain. One of the highlights of our trip was the trek up to Sararu pass with him to get milk for Devanshe’s cheese making and a hike into the surrounding areas for mushroom foraging.


Himalayan Orchard has something for everyone. For people interested in the outdoors there are hikes and treks as short as two hours to as long as two days. For nature enthusiasts and photographers there is an abundance of flowers and plants and butterflies to photograph and identify. You can potter about the farm and take part in the milking, the cheese making and other farm activities. For writers and artists there is peace and solitude and a picturesque view for inspiration.



If you are someone like me who just wants to vegetate, there are many cheerful corners with comfortable chairs and plump cushions that invite you to doze or read or simply be.

Himalayan Orchard is the best of Immersive tourism where you get a deep insight into local culture and lifestyle. There is no television there but fabulous views, books to read, delicious home grown food and interesting conversations.

For me this was a fabulous Detox not only from the digital but also the urban world and an invaluable opportunity to explore the beautiful surrounding area. I will definitely be back for more.

Himalayan Orchard from a Distance 

For more Information about Devanshe and Mike and their farmstay, please refer to their website.



Coming up next – Hiking up to Sararu Pass with #JugaduMike and artisanal cheese making with #FarmerDevanshe

Aug 15, 2018

Of Gateways to Heaven and Freedom

I remember watching the news one sultry June evening when I was all of thirteen.The channel kept showing images of a man standing infront of a long row of tanks on a wide road. He was directly in the line of fire and was trying to stop the tanks from advancing. The tanks moved left. So did the man. The tanks moved right, so did the man. This went on for many minutes till he climbed the first tank in the row and started talking to the soldiers inside. 
That unknown man became famous as the “Tank Man. The road he was standing on was at Tiananmen Square, the city Beijing. This visual became an epic image of what would later be known to the world as the Tiananmen Square Rebellion.
To someone like me who has grown up in a liberal democratic environment, Tiananmen Square rebellion epitomized the struggle for democracy and human rights - short lived and ruthlessly squashed but very courageously fought. 
So,when I was in Beijing in the beginning of this year, I grabbed the opportunity to visit Tiananmen Square. 


The entrance to the square is through a gate where you need to queue up for security checks. The day I visited it, a legislative meeting was being held at the Great Hall of people across the road. The security was very tight and the checks stringent even by Chinese standards. Later I found out that it was one of the meetings to discuss removal of presidential term limits effectively clearing way for president Xi to rule for life. 

The queue of Chinese people and tourists like me snaked for kilometres. It took me 2 hours just to get in the Square.I came out through a narrow doorway and was immediately staggered by the sheer size of the square. At 110 acres, Tiananmen Square is the world’s largest paved square. Straight down the square are the Monument to the People's Heroes and then Mao’s mausoleum. Across the wide road is the Great Hall of people (Where the parliament meets) and other government buildings. To the North of Tiananmen square lies the Forbidden City, the imperial palace of the Ming Dynasty. 

Mao built the Tiananmen Square as a magnificent showcase of the strength and grand scale of the communist party. 





I spent my first fifteen minutes in the square looking for some sign, some symbol of the rebellion. But there was nothing. Not even a signboard or a memorial. It’s as if the Movement for Democracy never happened. 

I tried talking about it with my Chinese colleague who had accompanied me but he seemed very very hesitant to talk about it there. 
At a glance Tiananmen (Ironically, it means gateway to heaven) seems like any other square. You could almost imagine flowers blooming there in spring. Children were running around, people strolling hand in hand and tourists clicking pictures of the life size picture of Chairman Mao infront of his mausoleum. But beneath this atmosphere of gaiety there was an uneasy feeling of constantly being watched that kept me on my toes. Policemen were everywhere, surly and silent, with their eyes on everything. ` 

Inspite of the size of the square, there didn’t seem to be any place to sit. You had to keep walking. Numerous fire extinguishers were scattered all over but not just for fire safety, they were there should someone set themselves on fire in protest. On the side of the road were huge lamp posts that I was told have hidden camera on them. 

Back in my hotel room, I tried searching for Tiananmen square on some Chinese search engines and all I could come up with was a few mentions about how it is a big square in china and surrounded by important landmarks. Apparently, all sites talking about the movement have been censored and blocked. The government frowns upon and suppresses all discussions about it online or otherwise. Journalists and activists who write about it do so under great peril. The government has managed to erase all traces of the movement from books, journals, websites and even public memory. 
A whole lot of youth born after the revolution have a distorted and government fed view about it. If at all it’s mentioned in text books, it is portrayed as a counter revolutionary attempt to harm the country. 

It is amazing how history is distorted and minds shackled into believing just what they are taught. 

In many ways China continues to stride ahead like a great giant. Beijing is very modern and sparkling with fantastic infrastructure and a great transport system. It is a safe, beautiful place to live in and it’s commendable how China has managed to control its seemingly unresolvable problems of both population and pollution. But behind this shining façade, there is something sinister and dark and foreboding that seems to suffocate you. 

Then you come back to the chaos and disorderliness that is India. A country with a thousand wrongs but still a Democracy where the people have the right to raise their voice, the freedom to protest against what they feel is unfair. 

For this freedom I am eternally grateful. And it is this freedom that we must always endeavour to protect and fight for, especially in these changing times, because if we lose the freedom of thought and speech, we are nothing but slaves of the people who rule us.

Aug 8, 2018

Of Sawan, Lord Shiva and Pretty Ladies

Sawan in Delhi means monsoon, the devout praying and fasting for lord Shiva and for people like me, long hours of commute as the kanwariyas
take over the roads.

Sawan up in the mountains means something else. It means long lazy days of rain, lush green forests, mist floating among the deodars and a very festive atmosphere in the ancient Shiva temples dotting the mountains.

One such Temple is Jageshwar, nestled in the mountains near Almora. What is interesting about Jageshwar is that it is actually a cluster of 124 large and small temples inside a walled complex. Some of the temples are so small that you have to bend double to go in and there is no place for even the priest to sit. Some are really huge with their own carved doorways, and sculptures of gods and goddesses in the area leading to the sanctum.

The most famous temples in the cluster are Shiva temples such as the Mritunjaya temple, Jageshwar temple, Lakulish temple, Dandeshwar temple but there are Ganesha, Devi, Kuber and Surya temple amongst others.

No one is certain when the temples were built but the archaeological Survey of India estimates that they were constructed somewhere between the 9th and 12th century AD. The temple architecture is predominantly of the Nagara style, with shikhara or a wooden roof covering most of the temples Almost all temples have stone sculptures as well as carved panels depicting mythological stories about the god that temple represents.

Walking around the temple complex is like browsing through a pictorial book of stone about archeology and mythology. 

The walk to Jageshwar is through thick deodar and pine forests. It’s like walking through a great green cool cathedral that consists of the best things of nature, birdsong, tall, magnificent trees and a cool cool breeze.

Jageshwar is usually a quiet place, but it really comes into its own during July - August when the annual Sawan mela takes place and people from the surrounding areas descent to the temple to pray.

It was on the second day of Sawan, two weeks back that we found ourselves at Jageshwar.
We had looked forward to wandering around the complex clicking pictures and spendng some quiet time in the picturesque area. So we polished our camera lenses, replenished the batteries, got out our raincoats and began our walk to Jageshwar through a fine mist of rain.

What we had not anticipated was how much the locals love Jageshwar during Sawan.
The crowds started a few kilometers from the temple and by the time we reached there we were in the midst of an animated throng of devotees.
Another shock awaited us as we entered the temple complex.Ugly blue and green tarpaulin covered the entire area to protect the devotees from rain. The beautiful arches and carvings that we wanted to photograph were used to string plastic from one temple to another to protect those walking under them. There was no way we were going to get our tranquility or even one clear shot of the temple. 

Part of the Temple complex 

Some of the carvings and panels 

 But the ugly tarpaulin were offset by something really lovely and exquisite that we would have missed had we not come during Sawan. 

In the hills, as it is with every small and big town in India religion is always interlinked with gaiety and celebration. People see religious festivals as a chance to dress up in their best clothes and make a big social occasion out of it.

That was what was happening in Jageswar. Every seemed to be dressed to the hilt, but the women outshone everyone.
They were dressed in their finest sarees, wearing the traditional mang tikka and the famous Uttarakhandi nath studded with stones. Draped over their sarees was a beautiful shawl called the Pichoda. The Pichoda is a cotton drape in saffron colour with patterns and designs in brick red. Sometimes the Pichoda is decorated with gota and glass stones to make it more dressy. Every Kumaoni bride gets one when she gets married and on every social or religious occasion, the Pichoda comes out to be worn over their sarees. 

At Jageshwar, we saw every married woman right from the old grannies to young brides flaunt their Pichodas.

They looked like exotic colorful birds and added bright splashes of colour to the drab brown and black of the temples. They didn’t mind talking to us, showing off their jewellery and even allowing us to click pictures.




Jageshwar temple is also known for it’s Parthiv Shiv Pooja where the devotees make Shivalings out of mud or cow dung or butter depending on what they are praying for. Entire families were there, making those small Shivlings and then doing elaborate Poojas with the help of the priests. 

Parthiv Shivlings made of butter and Mud. And the lady of the house performing Pooja ! 
Thanks to the sawan mela we couldn't get the pictures we wanted or find the serenity we had hoped for, but we experienced the bonhomie and exuberance that comes with a festival in India and saw the otherwise silent temple turn into a vibrant, lively place.

I think even Lord Shiva would have enjoyed that bit of fun and celebration!

May 10, 2018

In Defence of Sneakers

The one picture that will stay in my mind forever from Sonam and Anand Ahuja’s wedding is the groom serenading the bride at their reception wearing a nifty Sherwani paired with - hold your breath, Sneakers ! 

The sight of those sneakers brought a ray of hope for me.



You see, I have broad feet. And when I say broad I mean one foot can cover North America, the other South America and perhaps the toes would still dip in the Ocean.

On top of that, my feet distinctly have a mind of their own and refuse to be comfortable in anything else but good old fashioned sandals or sneakers.

I go into shoe stores and look with great longing at those glittering, classy pairs of footwear all lined up to entice me. They seem to whisper to me – look at me, pick me up, I will make you look stylish and hot. Almost reverently, I try them on, only to find that they cramp my feet so much it feels as if someone is slowly and steadily crushing my toes. Then from a corner a comfortable but plain pair of sandals smirk and says haa look all you want, but it is to me you will come finally.

And that’s the truth. Try as I might to cram my feet in those dainty footwear I invariably turn to the comfortable shoes because in my case comfort always wins over fashion. I have tried to buy trendy shoes or juttis with pretty embroidery by convincing myself that a shoe takes a day or two to become comfortable but after a few days of wearing them all I have to show for my effort is blisters and callouses on my feet and toes that are ready to fall off.

Then I decided to go and work in Japan. The Japanese have very tiny feet that they cram into even tinier shoes. The only time I tried buying shoes in Japan is etched in my memory forever. I went into the shop and asked to see some shoes. The lady had one look at my feet and almost reeled in shock. She brought in the largest shoe size she could find and I could barely fit one toe into them. After an hour of trying every pair of foot wear in the shop, she finally asked me to go the men’s section and perhaps look for sneakers that were slightly unisexual as there was no hope of finding anything even remotely lady like in my size.

My life became infinitely easier when Clarks opened in India. They have a range of shoes for broad feet that also look awesome on you. To them I am eternally grateful that I don’t have to wear frumpy and orthopedic looking shoes any more.

But sneakers remain my first love. I have them in all shapes and colors and they occupy more space in my shoe rack than all other shoes combined.

If you are a Punjabi you would know that there is no wedding complete without at least two full nights of mad dancing. And to dance you need comfortable shoes. I have been known as that mad girl who flings away her shoes to dance barefoot or simply changes into her jeans and sneakers to dance the night away.

If I was not even as momentarily fashion conscious as I am now, believe me I would not think twice before wearing sneakers to work. But then decorum demands that I dress in formals. And I even with my nonexistent sense of fashion I would never combine anything formal with Sneakers. Unless of course I am Anand Ahuja.

But honestly nothing compares with sneakers. They are simple no nonsense shoes that don’t you give any grief. It doesn’t matter if you squelch in mud wearing them, get them wet or dirty, all you need to do is wash them and you are sorted. They are the epitome of comfort. The soft sole, the laces that make for a comfortable fit, the extra room for your toes, all this keep your feet snug and happy. You can walk fast in them, run in them, come down stairs as quickly as you want without being terrified that you’ll break your ankle. Sneakers are your friend for life, you can walk miles and miles in them, climb Mountains or even the Great Wall of China and they will not even whimper. The older the sneaker, the more character it has and the more comfortable it gets. Nothing tells travel tales better than a travel worn mud splattered sneaker.

So the world can laugh all it wants at Anand Ahuja’s sneakers, I am going to simply assume this is now a fashion statement and wear them all the time with great panache!

Apr 10, 2018

The Reluctant Gardener


Everyone in my family is born with a green thumb. My grandmother had this huge garden, one side of it dominated entirely by flowers and the other side with less ornamental but more practical things like chilies, spinach, carrot, cauliflower, tomato and other assorted vegetables, not to forget the lemon, mango and papaya trees. The lemons out of my grandmother’s tree were as big as oranges and there was not a more teekhi mirchi or a sweeter carrot for miles around.

Living in Delhi and nostalgic for the gardens of their childhood, my parents tried to replicate the same greenery in our small flat in Delhi. We always had plants, shade loving ones inside the house and the more sturdy ones outside in the verandah. There was even a corner dedicated to herbs like mint and coriander and lemongrass. Every weekend they painstakingly watered and mulched and pulled weeds, doing pretty much everything but crooning to the plants.

My role in all this was small. I hauled plants from one place to another and helped weed and water them under the eagle eye of my mother.

I realized how much plants really meant to me when I moved to Japan. In Tokyo I was surrounded by concrete and glass with just some sad looking trees here and there. I could live with that but I hated waking up to a balcony that was devoid of any sort of greenery. It seemed too forlorn and the window sills seemed desolate without any plants. I tried filling the void by buying flowers every week and putting vases full of them all over the house. But I still yearned for plants. The house looked too empty and too impersonal without them.
So I went to a flower shop cum nursery near my house and randomly picked up a few pretty looking plants and came back with detailed instructions from the owner on how to look after them.

It was then that I realized that plants die on me. Like just curl up and Die. Whatever I did, water them diligently, move them religiously from sun to shade and shade to sun, talk to them, sing to them they just refused to smile.

There was one particular plant I really loved. It had little pale pink and reddish leaves that looked all dainty and pretty. I took special care of it and kept in a sunny corner of the window where I could admire it all the time. One fine day I came back from work and found it drooping. I assumed I had been giving it less water and watered it some more. By next evening the plant was lying lifeless and no amount of watering or putting it in the sun could save it. I was broken hearted. Next to follow was a bonsai like flowering plant. It started shedding leaves and then there was just a stump left that withered and died within a few days.

After a few months of steadily killing the plants I had bought, I went back to the shop and asked for some sturdy plants that needed the least care. The shop owner gave me a dirty look that screamed “Plant Killer” but nonetheless gave me a few plants which she said could never die. All I had to do water them regularly.

Of course the plants died. No matter what I did over the months, the plants kept dying as if they had a personal vendetta against me.

The green thumb in the family seemed to have skipped a generation.

By the time I was back home in India, my parents had decided to shift to another city. My mother was very concerned about leaving her plants in my tender care but she really had no choice. I was given detailed instructions on when to water, how much to water and when to move to plants in and out of shade.

It goes without saying that over the years, with my parents increasingly out of town, our plant population has gone considerably downhill, leaving only a few tough plants that have managed to survive inspite of me.

Meanwhile, I realized that I sorely missed gardening. I missed the cool calm mornings spent watering the plants, the smell of wet mud and the joy of seeing a rose or jasmine plant bloom. I missed those days when the house overflowed with plants and the neighbors dropped in just to admire them.

Things were not made easy by my friends who all seemed to be avid gardeners and inundated the social media with their prettily flowering plants and bragged about their leafy palak and rotund pumpkins.

I was determined to make plants love me, come what may.I decided to give gardening another shot and bought a few plants over the internet. The picture showed smiling plants in the best of health but what I got was their drooping wilted versions. Obviously they were beyond any resuscitation. Then I went ahead and ordered a particular plant because I loved the flowers on it. When the plant arrived it was bare save a few leaves. The Gardner who looks after the society lawn told me that this plant flowers once a year and I would have to wait six months for that. Before the six months were up, the plant was history!

But I wanted plants. I really did. It’s not as if I wanted to turn great stretches of arid land into a beautiful landscape (Well in the distant future, I dream of doing that actually), all I wanted was a verandah full of greenery, some flowers and most importantly the simple pleasure of gardening, and watching things grow and bloom.

But I really didn’t want any more plant deaths on my head!

To console myself, I continued to visit Lodhi Garden – The mecca of Gardens in Delhi and rejoiced when the famous Sundar Nursery opened near Humayun’s tomb. But something in me was still not happy.

So I decided to give my relationship with plants one last chance. I spoke to the gardeners in my family, for once taking their advice seriously. I started with baby steps, In the beginning just trying not to kill the existing plants, before moving on to planting new ones.

Among the plants that my parents already have, there is now a sweet little marigold cheerfully waving it’s  flowers, a rose plant showing great promise of white roses and some mint and coriander leaves peeping out of the soil. And yesterday, I plucked a few home grown lettuce for my salad.

I think the plants and I are slowly becoming friends.

Simple steps, hopefully that will lead to a greener and more colorful future !


 

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