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 !

The Lament of a Light Sleeper !

I am sleep deprived and bleary eyed as I write this. My brain as soggy as soaked bread. I would do anything, anything for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Eight hours of restful sleep, we are repeatedly told, is optimal for health. Well I honestly don’t remember when I last got those 8 hrs. I am perpetually moving round like a zombie, in a state of a permanent Jet Lag.

You see, I am what is called a “Light Sleeper”. This means that even a pin falling in a room miles away will wake me up. That for me the sound of water being poured in a glass four rooms away will be like the roar of the Niagara and will jolt me out of sweet slumber. That for me the tick tock of a clock or the gentle whirring of a fan are unbearable noises.

I so envy people who fall asleep as soon as their head hits the pillow. I need to set-up a proper environment to fall asleep . First, I will push and pummel my pillow into a comfortable shape and then toss and turn till I find the perfect position to lie in. Then I need silence. ‘Silence’ you see is the most important thing here. And silence is something I never get. It seems my whole neighborhood has an uncanny way of knowing when I am about to sleep. 

As soon as I hit my head on the pillow, they swing into action with the precision of an army band – a badly tuned army band. The people living upstairs will chose that precise time to move about their furniture and close their doors with a bang. There will a pressure cooker whistling merrily somewhere a few houses away. Not to be outdone, Chopra Uncle from next door will chose that opportune time to hawk and spit and generally gargle away to glory in his bathroom. Every sound of his ablutions crystal clear to me.

Even if I do manage to fall asleep in this cacophony of sounds, most of the nights I am jostled rudely out of my slumber by late-nighters who will bang their car doors loudly, climb the stairs noisily or generally hold loud conversations right under my window about how difficult it is to find parking at night.

And of course once you are up, you can’t go back to sleep. You will count innumerable sheep in all the languages you know, you will pick up the most boring book on your book shelf hoping it will lull you gently back into la la land; but no, sleep will continue to elude you.

Light sleepers like me meet their own private hell when they are travelling.

Invariably, always without fail on long flights I will end up next to a fellow who snores. I will sit there after the lights have been dimmed, wide awake in my cramped airline seat, while next to me the guy will continue his near perfect impersonation of a chainsaw.

I have lost count of the number of hours I have spent in flights and trains trying to amuse myself with the different kinds of snores that I can hear. There is of course the chainsaw impersonation, then there is the continuous gurgling noise deep in the throat that will suddenly morph into something like a huge nasal snort before subsiding down to gurgles again. Then there are some people who lie there with their mouths half open - like fish gasping for water- who will make a continuous gentle soothing sound, which will almost lull you to sleep and suddenly without warning it will morph into an ugly sound like a generator starting. These are the ones that give you a nervous breakdown.

Sometimes it's people whom you least expect to snore that surprise you the most. There was a very delicate, very small Japanese lady next to me on a flight once. She didn’t seem capable of producing even a peep, leave alone snores. But once she fell asleep and started snoring it was like hearing Mt. Fuji rumble just before it erupts into an volcano.

And there really should be a special place in hell reserved for people who will snooze their alarms every 10 minutes but will not get up.

I have shaken out of deep slumber innumerable times in hotels by alarms that are not my own. I sit there, wide wake, my heart thudding violently as the alarm goes on and on. Once the alarm is switched off I try to get back to sleep just to be woken up again by the same alarm every ten minutes. Eventually the damn alarm will rouse the whole hotel and half the city but not the man who snoozes it is supposed to wake.

The one thing, I would kill for, gladly sell my soul for is a sound proof room. And till I get that, I continue to stumble through life in a state of permanent sleep deprivation!

The Circle of Life

It is your turn now.

You are used to seeing them active and managing work and home without flagging even a little bit. Now the gait is getting slower, the hands once soft and manicured, strong and sturdy are as lined and wrinkled as autumn leaves. The back bents a little more with each passing season. You see the changes and yet you don’t want to see them.
They taught you how to tell time and helped your plump little fingers dial your first number on the phone, but now your smartphones and gizmos are beyond them and you curb your irritation when for a thousandth time they ask you how to send a simple sms or check mail. 

They were the ones who taught you how to drive and then drove you crazy with their constant back seat driving. Now it’s your turn to worry when they take the car and they are not home when they said they would.

They could take away the pain from your bruises and cuts with a few soft words. A cool hand was enough to sooth a forehead burning with fever. Now it’s your turn to fret over their back aches and their blood sugar scores and get exasperated when they refuse to go for their medical checkups.

From asking their advice on everything mundane and not so mundane, you find yourself voicing your opinion more and more often and not liking it when they don’t do as you say. From sharing everything with them, you start hiding a few unpleasant facts so that they don’t worry. Instead you are the one who develops worry lines thinking about them.

The changes are there. Almost imperceptible, but there. Inspite of all their show of independence, there is a sudden lack of confidence, a slight dithering in decision making, an occasional need for reassurance.

And yet they stubbornly refuse to give in. They still manage their own affairs, want to travel alone, drive themselves everywhere. They might walk slowly, but still snatch away their hand in irritation when you try to guide them over the uneven path.

Their egos are fragile and so you try to indulge them. But slowly, unobtrusively you take over the driving, the weekly shopping, their paperwork. You start cooking more often, although you’d avoided the kitchen like the plague earlier. You are the one haggling more and more with the electricians and the plumbers and making sure the house runs smoothly.

And suddenly you realize that you are the generation that now has to step in and take charge. At the back of your mind you always knew that this day would come. But when it does, you don’t want to accept it.

You long to fling the responsibility back at them, refuse to acknowledge the changes and what they mean. But you can’t. This you must accept. It’s inevitable.

It’s the circle of life.

Misty Roads !

I took this picture in Lonavala a few weeks back. It was raining heavily and the hills were enveloped in clouds. Driving through the mist felt very surreal and eerie. 

We couldn't see anything beyond a few feet. But then we would drive those few feet and then the next few feet would become visible. We completed the entire journey like this and managed to reach our destination safely.

I like to believe this is what life is all about. So many times we are unsure of what lies ahead, we are not able to see the future clearly and that’s what makes us scared to take the first few steps toward something we want to do.

But do we really need to have the whole journey mapped out ? Do we really need to see the whole road ? If we could clearly see what lay ahead it would take the fun out of everything wouldn't it?

I remember when we rounded a turn and suddenly saw a spectacular waterfall through the mist. It seemed all the more fantastic because we were least expecting it.

All we need is the courage to take those first few steps and slowly step by step the whole road will unfold !

If you people are wondering about the profound wisdom I seem to be suddenly spouting on the blog, Let’s just say that this post is a reminder to self :-) 

Sunday Solitude !

On Sunday, I decided that today I will keep myself away from all distractions. So I switched off my Laptop and the TV.
There was on one at home. It rained the whole day, so i couldn't even go anywhere. 
But I didn't mind it. Because I had the best company one could ever hope for !

I discovered that there is something very comforting in the sound of rain falling softly around you. And that there is no perfume on this earth that can match the smell of wet earth ! 

So how did you spend your Sunday ! 

A Soul's Torment

We sit in the car

My friend and I

On our way to work

Songs play on the radio
We sing along, talk inanely
I tease him about his long hair
how it clashes with his formal attire

His phone rings
Still laughing, he answers it
Pin drop silence
Suddenly he screams

Scream after torturous scream
Like a soul tormented in hell

And then, his body shaking violently
He cries bitter tears
Of agony, fury and despair

I sit there frozen, silent, helpless
A mute witness to his anguish
Death, in one fell swoop
Alters lives forever 

Why I write

It was a balmy summer morning. It had rained the previous night and the morning felt fresh and cool. The air was heavy with the fragrance of mango blossoms and somewhere in the distance a Koel bird sang happily in anticipation of more rains. 

The Old Man and the little girl walked through the mango orchard. Her small pudgy hand clasped in his is large one, as dry and wrinkled as autumn leaves. His big strides slowed down to match her little ones.

They walked in silence down the row of trees, past the fields where wheat stalks swayed gently in the wind and towards the river swelled with the monsoon rains. He, immersed in prayer and she unwilling to disturb his conversations with God.

Finally as they reached the river, he finished his prayers and sighed softly. This was her cue. She looked up at him eagerly and said “Dadu, tell me a story”.He had been expecting this. Every day she asked for a story and everyday he told her one. Sometimes, it was a story from the Panchatantra or the Ramayana and sometimes it was a story out of history, tales of battles fought and kingdoms won. 

But today, instead of beginning a story, he smiled, his eyes crinkling with the effort and said “why don’t you tell me one today”. He expected her to squirm and say that she didn't know any. But she looked up at him confidently and with a gleam in her eyes began to speak.

She started a story about a tiger and a woman it meets in the jungle. She prattled on, her childish imagination on fire, adding characters, making up the story even as she spoke. He listened quietly without interrupting her even once.

Finally he asked her where she had heard the story.” No where Dadu, I made it up just now. I love making up stories.”

He didn’t say anything, but the next day he got her a notebook and a pencil and told her to write whatever came to her mind. And she, who had barely learnt how to string full sentences, confidently wrote day and night. She wrote childish stories, or descriptions of the day she had spent, telling tales of their walks near the river, the mangoes that fell during the storm and the frogs that jumped about after it rained.

Her notebook became her prized possession, something she never showed to anyone but him. He would correct her English, teach her new words but he never ever questioned or curbed her flights of imagination or her writing style.

The ritual continued over the years. The first thing she did when she went to her grandparents’ home during the summer vacations was show him whatever she had written over the months. He would read it and nod, and sometimes when the piece was exceptionally good she would be rewarded with a pat on her back. In spite of being the prolific writer that he was, he was not a man of many words. But to her the pat was like a benediction.

She stopped writing after he passed away. She couldn't bring herself to write anymore. But after a while she realized she missed it too much. Writing for her was almost a need, a release. It was the only way she knew how to express herself. So she picked up her pen and began writing again.

That little girl was me. And perhaps that is why I write. Because my grandfather taught me how, because I inherited this craft from him and because this is his legacy that I carry forward.

Of Birthday toasts and Underwater sea walks !

And we interrupt the broadcast of the Andaman Travelogues to write a post about something very close to my heart!

About a year back, almost to the day, a certain blogger sat in her Mumbai home  moodily twisting her curly hair between her fingers. Always given to whacky ideas and new initiatives, she wanted to start something different. 
As she sat there drumming her fingers on her laptop, an idea brewed in her head - An idea that would eventually have such far reaching impact that even she would be amazed.

She decided to start a group called Indiblogeshwaries - A group of Indian women bloggers. And since she has to do everything differently she decided to forbid sharing of blog links on this page. “No self-promotion” she proclaimed. “We will talk of everything and anything on this page except our blogs !” She started off by inviting her blog friends to join this group and they liked it so much there that they in turn decided to invite their friends! 

I was initiated into this secret society by Purba Ray. When a blogger of Purba’s caliber asks you to do something. You don’t demur. You just do it. So I joined!

For the first few weeks I hardly visited the group. I didn't know too many people there and I felt shy participating. So I used to sort of hover on the sidelines, simply reading the comments and then going away without saying my two bits. But then slowly the conversations there started intriguing me.

So very slowly, very hesitatingly I started participating. Initially I was wary of expressing my opinion in a group where I hardly knew anyone. But then once I started commenting; I was warmly welcomed, taken by hand and pulled in till I felt I was in the middle of a mad boisterous never ending party. Suddenly from being a stranger who hovered hesitatingly at the doorstep I was now cozily sitting on the sofa with a drink in my hand, vouchsafing my opinion and getting into discussions about everything and anything under the sun. 

I am from JNU, and have lived and breathed the concept of Adda- Baazi there. And this group is Adda Baazi at its best – Virtual Addabazi if you may say so, but as stimulating and as refreshing as actually talking face to face.

The comradeship I have discovered here is unbelievable. We are a varied group – From Dentists to homemakers to motivational speakers to environment specialists. We come from different backgrounds and may have nothing in common, but the way I have seen blogeshwaries support and rally around each other is simply fantastic! We rejoice in the happiness of others and feel their sadness as if it was our own!

This is a group that will make you laugh with its witty one liners and whacky sense of humor. This is also a group where you will hear stories of indomitable courage and quiet resilience and wisdom and be awed. This is a group that will help and support you unabashedly. Will pick you up tenderly when you are down and then at the same time, unceremoniously brush the dust off you and tell you to stop whining and get on with life woman!

And ohh there are fireworks and how! We are opinionated, we clash and we don’t bow down easily. Histrionics and double standards are rarely tolerated and we bare our claws with dry sarcasm or sugar coated politeness that will cut you to the quick! But we enjoy the fireworks as much as we enjoy everything else. The bottom line is we are never judgmental and we are quick to forget and move on!

Yesterday, on June 2 this wonderful group turned One. 

And so on this momentous occasion I would like to raise a toast to Vinita who had the mad mad idea to start this group and also to our very able Administrators Janaki and Corinne.

Also, a big thank you to Garima who took the initiative and worked very hard to give us our header ! 

And last but not the least a toast to all of us blogeshwaries. 

The Header with all of us -  created by Garima ! 

Here’s to us ladies! May the madness continue!

And since Vinita doesn't let us off easily, On the occasion of this group turning one, she wanted us to do that One Elusive thing that we are scared of or have been putting off doing.

Honestly speaking I didn't really take up the challenge after Vinita had posted about it. But a few days before Vinita came up with this challenge, I was in Andaman and there I attempted something I never thought I would in my wildest dreams.

You see I am scared of being under water, and so haven’t been to the sea so far. I firmly believe that If God had wanted me to swim, he would have given me fins! I like my face to be out of water and I like to have my feet firmly on the ground!

Although I have been long intrigued with marine life and the wonderful world that lies beneath the sea, my fear has always prevented me from exploring it. I had the opportunity to get under water in Havelock Island and discover that world for myself. And this time I thought I would be damned if I let my fear come in my way!  

 So I gathered my courage and literally jumped in! I not only snorkeled but also did an underwater sea walk for 45 minutes. And it was so worth it because I got a chance to see a magical world - a colorful, utterly beautiful and mesmerizing world! 

And to prove that I actually did it – Here are a few pics ! 

U is for University Days !

I spent five years in Jawaharlal Lal Nehru University or JNU as it is called, doing my graduation and post-graduation in a foreign language. JNU enriched my love for languages and linguistics and I am one of those rare breeds who actually enjoyed my academic years! They were five wonderful years – The best years of my life.

JNU is a green and peaceful heaven amongst the chaos of Delhi. It’s a sprawling campus, only one fourth of it is given to buildings, the rest is all rocks and forest. We once decided to Trek inside JNU and we walked the whole day from morning till night but still couldn't cover the entire forest.

I still remember the occasional nilgai and the deer we would see from our class room windows and the peacocks that invariably came out during the monsoons and danced for our benefit. On sunny winter mornings we would persuade our teachers to take our class out in the lawn and we would study the intricacies of the language and soak up the winter sun at the same time.

Architecturally, JNU is very beautifully built. The aesthetic red -brick academic buildings and the hostels that randomly dot the campus add a charm to the greenery around.
The JNU library has the best collection of books I have seen till date and off course is equally well known because of the ghost that lives there!

But it’s not only beautiful buildings that give a place its character. What I loved the most about JNU was whole intellectual and cultural ambiance of the place. It was JNU that introduced me to the“ Jhola culture” and I took to it like a fish takes to water. The ethnic khadi kurtas over jeans, the juttis or kolhapuri chappals, the embroidered cloth bags from janpath– these form a trademark of those five years I have spent there and frankly my dress sense still has a lot of JNU in it ! It was at JNU that I first learnt the true meaning of “adda – baazi”. The socio-political debates and discussions that took place in its various cafes or on the lawns that could stretch for hours and hours. I enjoyed every bit of them! I loved the street plays you could simply sit on the grass to watch, and I loved the posters that are an ever present part of JNU walls – so much so that it is said that it is the posters that keep the walls up! JNU is like a huge watering hole for all intellectuals and wanna be intellectuals who congregate there to discuss anything from the starving millions in Africa to the role of Marxism in West Bengal.

Eating at any college cafeteria tends to be fun but imagine eating perched on rocks outside the café while looking out on a sprawling maze of green with the huge Parathasarthy rocks looming ahead. Imagine having Chai – Pakoras sitting on the steps of the school of languages as you watch the rain fall gently over the beautiful campus.
You will find eating joints serving everything from thupkas to chilli chicken to paranthas in JNU – and all of it will be finger licking good! And there is no JNU-ite worth his salt who hasn't had Francis’s mango shake and proclaimed it to be the best in the world!

JNU also meant cut throat competition, frantic cramming before exams, desperate last minute hunt for notes for the optional political science classes we never bothered to attend. It meant Language labs, viva and interpretation classes that admittedly made us into the language experts we are today but something we hated passionately then. 

JNU meant going to the ganga dhabha for a simple cup of chai and then getting entangled in a debate and spending the whole evening discussing politics. JNU meant day scholars stealing into hostels and spending the night there, of hitching rides because we could never be bothered to wait for the bus. 

JNU was those carefree sunlit days of fun and laughter and of friendships forged for life !

Du-ites might spent a life time praising their colleges to high heaven but I tell you, there is nothing like JNU !

T is for Translation !

Since childhood I've had two passions, Languages and Creative Writing. I love learning languages, love to understand their mysterious intricacies and how to use them. I have been learning languages since childhood and it was my love for them that made me do my masters in Japanese.

Like almost all language professionals do, I started off by doing translations. When I started learning the language, I had visions of myself wearing ethnic clothes from Fab India, doing literary translations and discussing Japanese art and literature over coffee. But then I found myself in the IT Industry, a non techie sticking out like a sore thumb amongst all those technically savvy people.

The only thing that has come true is that I wear ethnic clothes. Instead of doing literary translations I translated technical specifications and instead of discussing literature over coffee I now spend my time with the so called techie nerds who think Yasunari Kawabata is not worth knowing because he didn't write an idiots guide to Java programming !

But inspite of spending years doing technical translations and then later handling Japanese clients and projects, my Love for literary translations still remains. Technical translations are not easy, to do a good job you need a thorough knowledge of the subject matter along with the language, but then a technical or business translation lacks the charm a literary translation has!

A lot of people think translation is simply replacing the words in the sentence with a similar word from the other language. Translation is not as easy as that! That is how a machine translates and a machine translation in my opinion lacks soul !

The art of translation, especially translating literature is a difficult one. You need to take care of both the lingual and cultural nuances in such a way that the reader feels he is reading the original and not a translation.

I love the challenge of finding the exact words that would convey not the dictionary meaning but the real essence and spirit behind what the writer wants to say. To be able to translate well you need to have not only a flair for words but also a creative bent of mind.

I love translation for I do believe that it is a great art. I love to translate simply for the love of the language, because I love to dabble with words, to play with them and use their magic the way I want!

S is for Solitude – The journey within

Nowhere can man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul
- Marcus Aurelius

A colleague recently took off on a solitary vacation to the hills. He says he really enjoyed being by himself. But what most people found intriguing was that he went all alone. How can you go alone and still have fun? was the question he faced from almost everybody at work.

That got me thinking. Why do most people equate solitude with loneliness? Although solitude means to be alone it does not necessarily mean to be lonely. 

Solitude is simply some quality time that we spend away from other people and the distractions in our life to be alone with ourselves and our thoughts. I think solitude is very important, especially in today’s stressful times. It helps to quieten the mind, refreshes and rejuvenates us.

Solitude could be in the form of a holiday taken alone, a solitary walk, or simply sitting quietly and spending a few minutes with oneself. The “Alone –Time” can be used to connect with oneself, for introspection, reflection or to simply enjoy a good book, music or nature.

 A lot of people prefer to think and work in solitude as they feel that it increases productivity and efficiency.

I really cherish and enjoy my solitude. I carve out some quiet time for myself everyday. I go for my morning walks alone as mornings are when my mind is the most relaxed and peaceful. It gives me a wonderful opportunity to think and contemplate undisturbed. Even during a busy work day I try to snatch a few minutes to be by myself. I find that it calms my mind and bring a clarity of thought.

My holidays are usually to serene and scenic places, preferably the mountains. Even when I travel with friends or family I take out some time to enjoy nature alone. I honestly believe that good creative work needs solitude, so does true appreciation of nature.

Somebody who enjoys solitude may not necessarily be a loner. I may enjoy my moments of solitude but then I also go out and seek company. But solitude is essential to maintain our inner peace and tranquility. It is as essential for our soul as food is for our bodies.

How about you – Do you enjoy Solitude ? and How do you spend your Alone-Time?

(Note - Some of you might have read this post before. I have cheated a bit today ! I had written this post about two years back and decided to use it for "S"since I am down with flu and my brain is as clogged as my nose - And I am unable to pen down the thoughts for the topic I had originally thought to write for "S")

A leaf from History .....

I quickened my pace as the golden dome of the great Gurudwara came into view, glittering in the late afternoon sun. I weaved my way through the crowded lanes, skirting the pedestrians, cyclists and tongas with practiced ease. The city was more crowded than usual, bustling with people who had come to take part in the annual Baisakhi mela. The air was festive, the excitement palpable.

But my mind was not on the festivities. We had nothing to celebrate I felt. Punjab was burning. The last few days had seen violent protests after a few revolutionaries were arrested. The government had retaliated by making mass arrests and  prohibiting all gatherings. Now the city lay quiet, but beneath that thin veneer of forced calm, revolt simmered.
In a flagrant defiance of our rulers, the local leaders had called for a protest gathering in an empty ground near the Gurudwara. That is where I was headed.

The speeches had started by the time I reached the place.  It took me some time to get in through the narrow cramped entrance. Once inside, I realized that the ground was actually quite huge, the size of a small football field.  But in spite of its size I felt claustrophobic, may be because it was hemmed in all sides by houses and was packed with people. Most of them were local shopkeepers and traders, who had closed their shops early to come here. I could see a lot of students – they were the most enthusiastic, shouting slogans along with the speaker. There were also many outsiders from the surrounding villages. Farmers mostly, with their sun blackened faces and colorful turbans, out to enjoy the Mela after months of back breaking toil in their fields. The windows of the surrounding houses were framed with people, mostly women who did not or I suppose were not allowed to come down to hear the speeches. People stood on rooftops and I envied them standing there on wide open spaces while I stood here in the heat and dust, being jostled by the crowds.
I joined some students cheering lustily. But after some time I realized I could barely hear the speakers. Still, I was reluctant to leave the place as it was closest to the entrance and I wanted to leave quickly once the meeting was over. I was not looking forward to getting stuck in that cramped space with so many people trying to go out together.Then the man in front of me hoisted his small child up on his shoulders, blocking my view further. Giving up, I threaded my way to the other side where the crowd was thinner. Although now I only had a side view of the speakers I could hear them clearly. Durga Das, editor of the  newspaper ‘Waqt’, was speaking. He was a great orator and I listened spellbound, all discomfort forgotten.

I heard the sound of the soldiers’ boots on the brick ground even before I saw them. They marched in and stood just inside the entrance staring straight ahead as if waiting for a command from the man standing next to them. I felt a little uneasy but not unduly concerned. As usual they would fire in the air to disperse the crowd or lathi charge us. A few lathis on the back was a small price to pay for in our fight for freedom. 

We all stood there - peasants, students, traders, children and women all united in our defiance.

Then in the blink of an eye all hell broke loose.

The first thing I heard was something that sounded like the crack of thunder. Then I heard screams and realized that the soldiers were firing at us. For a few seconds I stood rooted in dazed disbelief and then I ran towards the nearest exit only to realize that it was already crammed with people trying to get out. The only other way out was to jump over one of the boundary walls and I ran blindly towards the nearest one. Frenzied, panicked People ran helter skelter, desperately trying to find an exit out of that closed space. The air was filled with the cacophony of rifle shots, screams and of bullet hitting flesh and walls. Somehow I expected the soldiers to stop firing once the crowd had dispersed, but they fired nonstop and methodically, aiming at the spots densest with people. Even as I ran, I could see people jerk and fall, limp as rag dolls as the bullets hit them. Through the corner of my eyes, I saw some women fall into the well that was near the speaker’s podium. I was not sure if they got pushed in due to the stampede or if they jumped in to escape the bullets.

I reached the boundary wall and tried to make my way up. People were clambering over each other to climb over it. A man next to me was trying to push his wife up but she kept sliding back. I felt bullets ricochet next to me in the wall as I desperately scrambled to find a foothold in the bricks. Finally I managed to climb over and without a second thought, jumped to the other side.  

I ran mindlessly, stopping only when I was out of breath. Panting, I looked down at my feet and realized I had lost my shoes somewhere and my hands and feet were bleeding and raw. My eyes widened in shock as I saw the blood splattered on my clothes. It was a few moments before I realized that it was not my own.

 I started running again, dashing through the now deserted lanes, staying in the shadow of the houses and stopping only once I had reached the safety of my rooms.

By nightfall the city resembled a ghost town. A curfew was imposed with shoot at sight orders. None of us would have dared to venture out anyways. Because of the curfew, the injured couldn’t reach the hospital and the relatives of the dead couldn’t come to claim the bodies. For days, the air reeked with the stench of human flesh and vultures circled overhead.

Behind closed doors all of Amritsar mourned silently, while the Gods in their Golden Temple remained a mute spectator to the horror that would later be known as ‘The Massacre of Jallianwallah Bagh’.

Note:

This is a true story. My grandfather was at Jallianwallah bagh that day, and he actually lived to tell the tale. He was 19, a student in Amritsar and fired up by patriotism just like any other youth of that time.
He recounted the incident to us many times and I have tried my best to reproduce it here as he told it.I had always wanted to visit Jallianwallah Bagh with him but couldn’t do so before he passed away. He took my mother and her sisters there though, and showed them where he stood and the wall he jumped over to escape.
The fact that he changed his position a few minutes before General Dyer and his troops entered the complex and opened fire was instrumental in saving his life. For had he stood where he was, he would have been among the first to be killed.

The space within

Another challenge from Corinne of Everyday Gyan.

‘Write exactly a 100 words on the prompt and publish it on your blog – a story, a poem, a mini-essay’.The prompt for this week was “sacred spaces”

 Most of us consider sacred space to be something physical. Something with natural beauty or spiritual significance.

For me, Sacred Space has no physical presence. It is something within us. A place where we retreat to discover our true selves; beyond ego, desires, anger and jealousy. A space we must nurture through contemplation and positive thoughts. 

 However adverse our outer circumstances might be, we can find tranquility, bliss and immense mental strength by simply withdrawing into this inner space. We do not need to look outside for answers. All answers lie within.

 Create your own sacred space, create your own Happiness.

The two kinds of Sunshine

Delhi summers, 2.30 in the afternoon. Hot enough to make you feel like a baked potato (or a fried chicken) even inside an A/C car. Tired after driving the whole day through horrendous Delhi traffic and running errands in the heat, all my thoughts are on reaching home as soon as possible.

I try zipping through a green light before it turns red but it changes before I can cross it and so cursing under my breath, I stop the car. I am on the dreaded BRT corridor so I know I am in for a long wait. The sun beats down mercilessly, forming shimmering mirages and almost melting the tar off the road. There’s not a single soul in sight, it’s so hot that even the beggars and the people selling fresh coconut slices refuse to budge from under the shelter of the trees. I increase the car A/C to full and thank god for the black tinted car windows that I have neglected to take off even after our honorable supreme court asked us to. I try to turn my mind away from the heat and think of other things but I am too restless and impatient to do so. 

Suddenly there is a knock on my window. Expecting a beggar I turn towards it with a frown. A small boy of about 11 stands there, holding a bunch of glossy magazines in his hand. He asks me if I will buy a magazine. I can hardly hear him through the closed window but anticipating what he is saying, I shake my head in a No. He asks me again, this time showing the magazines to me one by one. I turn my head to look in the other direction. After a while I notice, or rather sense him still standing there. He is there all right, still holding up the magazines. Catching my eye he smiles, white teeth flashing against brown sunburnt skin and waves the magazines enticingly towards me. Once again I shake my head in a firm no. Not one to be deterred easily, he shows me the magazines one by one, Health, Femina, outlook, India today, some travel magazines. He sees me glance almost involuntarily at the travel magazines and immediately flicks one open to show me the different articles, his smile making his face look almost impish. Again I shake my head, this time gesturing with my hands for him to leave, but I can’t help smiling back a little.  Undeterred by my refusal, or perhaps egged on by my smile, he continues to stand there.  I find myself observing him. His clothes are faded but clean. Scrubbed face and hands and neatly brushed hair, he doesn’t really look like a beggar or a street urchin. I notice that his eyes crinkle up mischievously when he smiles.  

He keeps imploring me to buy the magazines and I keep refusing, but his smile is contagious and I find myself laughing back as I shake my head ruefully. Finally I start fiddling with the car radio, and pretend to be busy changing channels. I look up to see him still standing there patiently. He holds the magazines in one hand, wiping the sweat streaming down his forehead with the other. For the first time I notice that his shirt is clinging to his back and shoulders with sweat and his eyes are almost screwed shut against the harsh glare of the sun. He notices me scrutinizing him and his face breaks into a grin. Grinning back, I finally give in. I roll down the window and buy a magazine and I am rewarded with a smile sunnier than the sun above and an enthusiastic “thank you mam !”

I honestly don’t know why I am writing this here. But something about that little imp of a boy and his smile appealed to me and I just had to blog about it. When I think of him it’s not with pity for a small boy trying to make a living in the heat, but rather of an cheerful, enterprising soul who early in his life has learnt never to be deterred by something as trivial as the summer sun or  a no from a cranky lady sitting in a car !

So much to write …

And so little time! 
All right! I have been AWOL again but I suppose you guys must be used to it by now considering that I do this disappearing act every few months and then come slinking back mumbling excuses about too much work. Well the excuse is the same this time too. But throw in a work trip to Tokyo and a 15 hrs workday and you really can’t blame me for not writing or reading your blogs!

Meanwhile, there is so much I want to write about. I have a whole pile of books I have read that I am dying to review here, I have a few travelogues to write, a few interesting incidents that could be written down in a sarcastically funny manner, I am literally bursting to share my views on the ridiculous adverts we have been seeing on making females fairer in all areas, except this is not the kind of “Fairness” most of us women are looking for!, I so wanted to do a post on the gulmohars blazing a flamboyant red outside my window but then IHM beat me to it!

Hopefully I shall drag myself out from under my pile of work and be back at blogging soon ……  Meanwhile I leave you with this very bad quality pic taken a week back !

this is what we saw when we looked out of our office window in Tokyo  .. 

Dilli meri Dilli !

Delhi and I share a love hate relationship. I have lived here all my life but I never cease to complain about it. I crib about the long distances, the horrendous traffic, the increasing crudeness and brashness of its people but really I couldn’t be happy living anywhere except perhaps Chandigarh. And after a few days in Chandigarh I grow restless and start pining for Delhi.

This lovely city completes 100 years this year and I feel nostalgic enough to do a post on it! I have a whole mélange of memories of Delhi so instead of writing the usual post on Delhi’s history I am going to write about how Delhi has shaped me as an individual and what make this city so very special for me.

So here are few of my favorite things about Delhi -

Lutyens`Delhi

The whole area stretching right from the Pandara Road Government Bungalows till the Rashtrapati Bhavan, taking in India Gate, the secretariat as well as the Connaught circus – that’s my favorite part of Delhi. The roads are broad and well laid out, the avenues neat and tree lined, and most of all the architecture is simply magnificent, something I can stand and marvel at again and again. To the mortification of the stiff upper lipped Brits I have even proclaimed that I like our Rashtrapati Bhavan better than their Buckingham palace!

Once, when I was a university student, on a whim a bunch of us decided to go to India gate one winter afternoon and spent the afternoon walking up and down Raisina Hill. The security was not so stringent in the 90s and the guards indulged us as we wandered about taking in the superb architecture of the parliament house and the North and South Blocks. It was February and the Mughal gardens had just opened to Public– we finished our day with a walk through the gardens - If you are even remotely interested in landscaping and flowers – The Mughal gardens in Delhi are something not to be missed at all!

Another favorite memory is watching the Beating the Retreat Ceremony at Vijay Chowk. I have never seen the Republic day celebrations live but have had the good fortune to watch the Beating the Retreat Ceremony twice.. To say it was awe inspiring is an understatement. The illuminated Rashtrapati Bhavan and the Parliament complex in the background, the military bands, colorful and resplendent in their uniforms weaving magic not only with music but also with their fluid and graceful formations – That is an experience one rarely forgets! 

 Jawahar Lal Nehru University (JNU)

 JNU is something very very close to my heart. I spent five fantastic years doing my graduation and post graduation there and can rightfully say that they have been the best years of my life. JNU enriched my love for languages and linguistics and I am one of those rare breeds who actually enjoyed my academic years ! 

There is a lot I can write about JNU – The aesthetic brick buildings, the sprawling green campus– most of it still a forest, the occasional nilgai and the deer we could see from our class room windows, and the peacocks that invariably came out during the monsoons and danced for our benefit, the fantastic nine floored library that has the best collection of books I have seen till date ….

 But what I loved the most was whole intellectual and cultural ambiance of the place. It was JNU that introduced me to the“ Jhola culture” and I took to it like a fish takes to water. The ethnic khadi kurtas over jeans, the juttis or kolhapuri chappals, the embroidered cloth bags from janpath– these form a trademark of those five years I have spent there and frankly my dress sense still has a lot of JNU in it ! It was at JNU that I first learnt the true meaning of “adda – baazi”. The socio-political debates and discussions that took place in its cafeterias or the on the lawns that could stretch for hours and hours. I enjoyed every bit of them! I loved the way we could persuade our teachers to take our classes in the green lawns on a sunny winter afternoon, I loved the street plays you could simply sit on the grass to watch, and I loved the posters that are an ever present part of JNU walls – so much so that it is said that it is the posters that keep the walls up!

Theater

 My childhood memories are of theater and music concerts, of going with my parents to see plays at the Sree Ram Center or kamani or at the National School of Drama. I had the good fortune to see plays like Andha yug, Asadh ka ek din, Ghasiraam kotwaal before I reached high school. Even today give me a good play over a movie any day! I also thoroughly enjoy the classical music and dance shows that take place in this city – be it in closed auditoriums or places like the Deer park, Lodhi Gardens or the Purana Quila. One of my favorite memories is sitting at Purana Quila in late evening and listening to Bhimsen Joshi as he weaved his magic.My parents inculcated the love of theater in me and Delhi helped me enrich it further !


The ethnic wear

 I really haven’t seen people any where else carry ethnic clothes with so much panache  as we do in Delhi. For lovers of ethnic clothes Delhi is heaven. The ethnic dupattas,kurtas, jackets, silver jewelry that we find here– I love it and flaunt it too !


The Open spaces and the greenery 

Inspite of the high rises and the unending construction, Delhi is still a very green city. From the tree lines roads in South Delhi to its various gardens you can find a dash of green everywhere.I have spent almost every summer morning of my childhood taking a morning walk in Lodhi Gardens where we would sometimes run into Khushwant Singh! Be it the open grounds at Purana Quila, Deer Park, Ridge or the garden of five senses, Delhi’s gardens are a delight especially in winter and spring.

 The book shops

I am sure every city has its share of good book shops but there are some in Delhi especially close to my heart. Connaught Place has the best bookshops in town and for a long time I made regular forays into CP simply because of its book shops. I later shifted allegiance to the bookshops in Khan market because they were closer to school and home. Sadly most of the book stores in Khan market have been taken over by foreign retail brands selling shoes and clothes and with that Khan market has lost most of its sheen!


The historic Monuments

Delhi has a rich history and its historic monuments are a delight to a history lover like me. Starting from the Red fort, Humayuns tomb and Purana Quila to the lesser known ruins at Mehrauli and Tuqlagabad fort I have spent many a day’s wandering amongst the ruins and clicking photographs.

 The “Melas”

So many of them ! The annual Surajkund mela, the dastakar mela, the Diwali mela at the Blind school and who can forget the annual Book Fair at Pragati Maidan – a pilgrimage all book lovers like me must make ! Delhi”s fairs have something for everyone!

So this is what make Delhi so special for me. And what makes this city  special for all you other Delhi - wallahs out there :)

An Indian Summer!

It’s that time of the year again, when we slather on sunscreen even when we go out just for five minutes, when the sun is harsh and unbearable even at nine in the morning and the dust and the looh drives us indoors cursing the weather gods. Going out is a pain and all outdoor activities come to a standstill. There are no bazaars and fests and there is no theater. Places like Delhi Haat and Janpath become unbearable unless you go late in the evening – Its Summer time in good old Delhi!

Most of us have no choice but to stick it out except for brief respites that we might snatch by running off to the hills. Since the past few days I have been slowly and steadily melting and wilting away in the heat and it has left me with a terrible headache. So to cheer myself up I made a list of things I rather enjoy about summers in Delhi:

1)The Gulmohar and Amaltas in full bloom: Delhi turns a vibrant yellow and red thanks to the gulmohar and amaltaas trees that bloom during the summer. South Delhi is full of them and it’s lovely to drive through the shady lanes flanked on both sides with shades of yellow and orange and red. Never fails to cheer me up !

2) Raat Ki Rani and Jasmine: I simply love love love the smell of these delicate flowers. We just have 2-3 shrubs in the neighborhood but you can smell them way down the road. Raat Ki raani flowers only at night and that makes the after dinner walks very pleasant. There is one shrub just near my bedroom window and when the wind is blowing right, the fragrance that wafts into my room is unbelievable!

The jasmine blooms early morning and wilts away as soon as the day becomes hot. The first thing I do after getting up is collect the jasmine flowers and put them in tiny earthen or glass bowls filled with water. Keeps the house smelling fresh and wonderful throughout the day .

3) Mangoes: How can we forget mangoes! Fleshy, sweet mangoes, running juice as soon as you bite into them – the langdaas, the alphonsos, the Dussheris, the chausas …. Slurp ! Have them as a fruit, in a milk shake, cut in small pieces along with vanilla ice cream .. they are delicious in any form ! 

4) Watermelon : I love this fruit even more than mangoes. Take a watermelon, cut it up in small pieces, put it in the fridge for a few hours and then have it all crispy and ice cold. Delicious!

5) Cold coffee, milk shakes and Lassi: For me they are must haves every morning! I am a true Punjaban and I love my lassi along with all forms of milkshakes :)

6) Ice creams and Kulfi : There is no greater lover of ice creams and kulfi than me. Kesar pista kulfi , kulfi in a kulhad, kulfi on the stick .. kulfi in all forms and shapes and sizes. Irrespective of my long standing resolution to lose weight, I have a ice cream or Kulfi almost every day in summer!

7) Panna: I love this tangy drink made of raw mangoes! One of the best remedies for heat strokes!

8) Jamuns – We have this fruit seller that turns up every summer shouting Jamun kale kale jamun and then he gives us the jamun wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper with a lot of black salt sprinkled on the top. Our fingers and tongues get stained purple after eating them. I love the sweet - sour taste of this fruit!

9) Shehtoot (mulberry):A much lesser known summer fruit. Frankly looks a lot like a wriggly worm, you don’t really need to pick this fruit as it just falls as soon as it ripens. You’ll find it strewn all over under the tree. We used to have one in our school and the break time was spent in collecting this fruit!

10) Litchi : My absolutely favorite fruit. Somehow people don’t think much of it preferring mangoes and watermelon instead .As for me I lust after this fruit. The only problem is the fruit itself is so small and the kernel inside so big !! But it’s still worth the effort to peel and eat !

11) The smell of wet earth: One of my favorite summer smells. When the maali waters the plants and the earth is all cool and wet– I love that earthy smell.

12) Koel bird singing: Whenever I think of summer, the first thing that comes into my mind is mango blossoms and the Koel bird singing. Thankfully even in the concrete jungle of Delhi I can plainly hear it and its one of the sweetest songs I have ever heard. I look forward to it each summer!

13) Walking barefoot on the cool concrete/cement floor in the house: Most of the houses have tiled or wooden floors now but the feeling of walking barefoot on a cool cement floor is unbeatable – it’s so cool and nice to the touch!

14) Cottons: Summer is the time for cool white Lucknowi kurtas with intricate embroidery and flowy crisp cotton and organdy dupattas along with silver jewellery. One of my favorite attires! I have a huge collection of and I flaunt it every summer !

This is one of the Dupattas I just bought from Fab India ! 

15) Getting up with the Sunrise:Yeah I am one of those crazy people  who like to get up really early to enjoy the peaceful morning hours and to watch the sun come up. Since this really cant be done in the winter unless you are willing to freeze to death while watching the sunrise I really love getting up at dawn in summers to enjoy my few hours of peace and solitude !

So what do you guys like about the summers ?

(All images are courtesy google, except the last one with the sunrise - I clicked that in Rishikesh !)