U.S Chronicles - The Land Across The Ocean

Have you ever had a feeling of Déjà vu? A dim but persistent sensation of already been there, done that? An uncanny feeling that what you are experiencing is something you have gone through before?

When I was in California, my friends had taken me to Muir Woods that are famous for their towering Redwoods. The Muir woods are near San Francisco, they almost touch the coast line, the trees sloping down to the Ocean. The route we took was the famous Highway One.It was a breathtakingly beautiful drive with the road curving through the green hills and the Ocean glittering in the distance.

On our way back we drove up a steep hill to a viewpoint overlooking the Ocean. A steep trail led us to the top of the hill and there clinging to the rocks by the very tip of its fingernails was a small lookout, hanging almost precariously over the Ocean.We stood there looking out at the Pacific Ocean, vast and seemingly infinite, merging into nothingness.

The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds that day; the wide expanse of the sea was beautiful but desolately so.  The sea was an iron grey and it matched the dull sky overhead. The waves pounded the surrounding cliffs almost savagely. The Ocean here was rugged and raw.

Suddenly I had a strange feeling that I have been here before.That the wind whipping through my hair and the salty tang of the sea on my lips is something I have experienced before. Even the cries of the birds wheeling overhead seemed familiar. 

I remember thinking that I was standing on the west coast of the United States and it was Japan that probably lay on the other side of this seemingly endless span of water.
Then with a jolt I realized why I had the feeling of Déjà vu.

On the very tip of the eastern coast of Japan, about an hour’s train ride from Tokyo, Lies the Island of Enoshima.
Enoshima is connected to the mainland by an ancient bridge. Centuries ago thanks to a major earthquake the island had almost broken into two pieces.

The island almost broken into two

I always liked going to the Island because it had some beautiful shrines and a monument to Basho, who according to me is one the greatest Haiku poets ever. 

Enoshima is rather small and one day I decided to walk to the very end of it. Once I had reached the Ocean, I perched myself on a huge rock half submerged in water. 

It was not a bright day, it had been raining intermittently and the sea was very choppy and speckled with grey foam where the waves hit the rocks. Even the birds flying overhead seemed to cry forlornly as if protesting against the unfairness of the weather. 

I remember thinking If these birds could cross the entire ocean that curved around the earth what piece of land would they reach? 

Then on the way back I saw a small board facing the sea that said in Japanese, “Next stop San Francisco”.

And almost 8 years to the day I had sat at the tip of Enoshima looking out at the Pacific Ocean, I found myself at the other end of the same Ocean, almost facing that same piece of land.

It is absolutely amazing the experiences travel can bring!

Tuning in to Nostalgia

We whitewashed our house last week and had to take down the TV cable for a while. What followed was four days of complete bliss and silence. For a change, the evenings did not find us hooked to the mindless trash on TV and the three of us actually had a few civil conversations with each other. By the third day however, the TV withdrawal symptoms were at their worst. Being forced to spend more time than was necessary in each other’s company without TV to distract us was straining our patience to the maximum. 

In self-defense I decided to switch on the radio. For the sake of nostalgia, I decided to forego the usual FM channels with their shrill voiced RJ’s and tuned into All India Radio.

The first thing I heard was the very dignified voice of an AIR Newsreader saying “Yeh Aaakashwani hai, ab aap suniye Hindi mein samachar” and that brought back an avalanche of memories.

In the 80s and 90s when I was a school going kid, TV had gained entry into almost all homes. Those were the days when the highlight of our TV viewing was the weekly film on Sundays and the Spiderman cartoon series preceding it. Not to forget the mother of all soaps – Buniyaad and Hum Log. But back then Television broadcasts were only for a few hours every day. So the Radio still reigned supreme.

The mornings in most households including mine started with the radio cackling to life. We measured our time according to the programs on the Radio. First came Vande mataram, followed by the morning bhajans. This meant it was time to get up and get ready for school. And if I was still gulping down my milk by the time the English news started, I was sure to miss my school bus!

I have dim memories of my parents and brother listening to a program called Hawa mahal at night. Hawa Mahal was immensely popular and used to show case plays by famous writers. Because Radio is not a visual medium, the success of the play depended entirely on how the actors read out their parts. The speakers modulated their voice and tone to suit every emotion. So you heard throaty laughter, hushed tones trembling with passion or high pitched angry voices. There was background music as well. If it was an outdoor scene you would hear the chirping of birds or traffic. In indoor scenes you could hear the rattling of tea cups, chairs scraping as someone got up. They gave attention to the minutest of details.
Such programs really gave wings to one’s imagination. You listened to the various sounds and then visualized and created the whole scene in your mind.

My parents always listened to the political discussions or various interviews with the political leaders that came later in the night after Hawa Mahal. I was too young to understand these discussions, but as I lay snuggled up in bed, the droning voices on the radio provided some sort of comfort and familiarity.

And for a very long time Cricket for me was synonymous with the commentary on AIR. The sports commentators used to describe the action so well and in such detail that you felt you were almost there. You could almost hear the crack of the bat as it hit the ball, you could hear the ball whistling through the wind and the cheers as the crowd erupted. For a long time, before close circuit cameras came in, people used to switch on the TV to see the match but kept the voice on mute, preferring to listen to the detailed commentary on AIR.

Late night studying for my 10th boards was made bearable by English songs that played well into the night. The English used by the RJ’s (if they could be called RJ’s at that time) was impeccable and they spoke in a perfect clipped accent. There was no Hinglish then, either pure Hindi or English.

Another favorite was the BBC world service – recommended to everyone who wanted to be up to date with news and also learn proper English.

All India radio had many popular programs but there were a few that had an almost cult following. There is an entire generation of women out there who used to swoon in ecstasy whenever the very baritone voice of Ameen Sayani welcomed you to Binaca Geet mala. There were many programs on Film songs but I particularly remember one called Aapki Farmaish that played songs on requests. Requests for songs would pour in from places like Jhumri Talaiya prompting us kids to open the Atlas to see if the place actually existed! 

And not only Bengal but most of North India religiously woke up at 4 am on Mahalaya every year to tune into Mahishasurmardani. That if not anything heralded the beginning of Navratras for us.

The commentators at that time were very dignified and proper. The listeners or “shrotagan” were treated with utmost respect and reverence. The programs were more riveting and captured your interest totally. 

Radio then was something gentle and soothing, without the crassness and cacophony today’s Radio programs sometime seem to reflect.

From Commoner to Royalty and Back !

For someone who hates any sort of attention, I did get a lot of it the minute I was born. I was rather tall for a newborn and every doctor and nurse in the All India Institute of Medical sciences hopped over to my Mom’s room to have a look at the tallest baby anyone had ever popped out! Mom was obviously exasperated and as she confessed to my aunt, she felt as if everyone was accusing her of smuggling in a month old baby instead of a new born. 

Before I was born, my brother had ruled over the Shukla family in solitary splendor for 8 years. Then, thanks to me he was unceremoniously dethroned. Till then, he was comfortably encosed in his world of toy warships and cars, with the entire family revolving around him. Enter younger sister into this idyllic existence and he suddenly didn’t know how to fit me into the scheme of things.

Luckily for him, because my Mom had to go back to work and my Grandmother couldn’t bear to see me being looked after by a nanny, I was taken away to my Grandparents home.

Thus began the golden period of my life!

When my brother was born, my parents were in Calcutta so no one got the chance to mollycoddle him. This time, I was right there and never the ones to miss a good opportunity, they wasted no time in spoiling me!

My life you see was made.

Oh I was such a pampered child! My every whim and fancy was their command. My grandma planned her whole day around me and my aunts never came home from work without bringing something for me. Other assorted family members plied me with sweets and toys.

My aunts loved to dress me up and take me out. Even one sneeze, one little cough from me used to send them scattering about like headless chickens flapping their arms and worrying. And on hot summer nights, when power cuts and mosquitos abounded, they spent the whole night carrying me in their arms and patting me to sleep.

But the most amazing thing was the change in my grandfather. He was then the Principal of a school, a strict disciplinarian, and everyone from the family to his teachers and students was petrified of him. Although he loved his children, he never displayed any emotions towards them. All this changed with me. I looked at him once out of my big liquid eyes and he melted.

The family had to face his wrath if I as much as whimpered and there was no one to pick me up. According to my grandmother, he never ever picked up any of his children but I was mostly to be found in his lap. I was allowed in his room and he didn’t mind when I waddled all over the place overturning his books and papers and playing with his spectacles. This man who hardly spoke would tell me stories any time I asked for them. And he was the one who gave me the greatest gift of my life - By teaching me how to write.

But then all good things must come to an end. I reached the school going age and my parents decided to call me back. So very reluctantly, amongst much drama and tears, I left the tender loving care of my Grandparents and went back to Delhi.
My parents were the loving kind, but were not the ones to fuss over their kids unnecessarily. No special treatment was doled out to me.

And so ended my days as the Royal Baby! I was back to being a commoner!

Here an old grainy pic of me with my grandfather. 

Written for the Indiblogeshwaris That Tuesday Thingy

The Sounds of Nostalgia

I am in Chandigarh visiting a friend. We sit in her garden sipping Nimbu Paani and lament about the heat and the delayed monsoons. As if taking pity on us sweltering in the heat, a cool breeze starts. And as it picks up, the little bells on the wind chimes hanging from a low branch on her mango tree clink musically.

And just like that, I am back in Kyoto.

I walk in silence up a narrow path twisting its way up to the Shinto Shrine. It is shaded by trees on both sides, flamboyant in their autumn colors of rust and orange. The air has the chill of the coming winter in it. The path is strewn with dry leaves that crunch under my feet as I walk. In the distance the bells of the shrine ring softly, continuously. And in that sweet sound there is something of the autumn’s sadness and melancholy. 

                                           -----

I walk briskly down a street in Delhi. I am late for a client meeting and my mind is on the presentation I have to make. As I pass a restaurant, its door opens and some jazz music floats out. Suddenly I am not standing in Delhi’s commercial district, sweating in my best formals, my laptop bag biting into my shoulder.

I am in Montreal, on a balmy summer night.

I have just two days in the city and determined to make the most of it; I decide to go for a late night walk. Even at that hour the city is vibrant, pulsating and alive. The street ahead is blocked off and there is some sort of stage at one end. Intrigued I walk towards it and realize that I have stumbled upon one of Montreal’s impromptu Jazz events so common in the summer.
 Although I am alone, I decide to stay and listen awhile. The concert begins and soon I am swaying to the music and tapping my foot to the beat. I clap wildly when the performance ends, and when the next number starts, even livelier than the last one, the person next to me impulsively takes my hand and dances a few steps with me. Strangers, we bond together for those few moments over our love for Music and Life. 

                                           -----

Every place has its own music, its own beat. Along with the people that I meet, the food that I eat and the sites that I visit, it is these sounds, this music that I carry in my heart. And when I am least expecting it, I hear something that transports me back into time and brings on a kaleidoscope of poignant bittersweet memories of places visited and times well spent !


This post is written for the That Tuesday Thingy Contest on Indiblogeshwaris. 

Sepia Tones

I found this scribbled in a journal I used to write on and off while I was in Tokyo a few years back. I used to live in a concrete jungle then and I suppose I didn't like it much!

This seems like a good time to reproduce the entry here !

16th July, 2007,

The rains in Japan are not the same as the rains in India. Somehow they seem more impersonal here. There is no rejoicing, no sense of relief that the parched, scorching summer months are gone. People go about their business as usual, hidden under huge black umbrellas, shapeless in their raincoats. 

No one puts out a hand to catch the raindrops; No one stands with their face turned towards the sky, letting the rain caress their face.

There are no kids splashing in the puddles,or trying to float little paper boats. I suppose the Japanese kids are better behaved than ours.

The rain doesn't make the same sound in this country. In India it has a soft comforting sound, enveloping you like a soft blanket. Even when it is falling on tin roofs there is a certain melody to it.

Here the rain has a bit of the typhoon in it, it slams against the buildings, bangs against my glass windows like whip lash and falls incessantly on asphalt and tarmac.

And right now I would give anything for the smell of wet earth!

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.

A Garden of Memories …

I spent my childhood in a lazy government colony. The house had huge airy rooms with high ceilings that kept us cool in summer. There was a garden at the back of the house with a thick hedgerow running around it. The hedgerow was home to a variety of insects, especially ladybirds. As children, we loved to capture the ladybirds and hold them cupped in our hands. We giggled at the ticklish feeling as they crawled across our palms, their black and red bodies glistening in the sun. 

The garden also had a huge banyan, a Gulmohar and a Peepal tree. A pink and purple bougainvillea trailed down the side of the house. The Gulmohar turned a flamboyant red every summer and together with the bougainvillea, added a burst of color to the otherwise summer parched garden. We used to collect the fallen gulmohar flowers, stick them behind our ears and behave like a group of Hawaiian dancers or use the petals as spooky nail extensions.

We kids believed that the Peepal tree had a ghost living in it and never ventured near it after dark. The ancient Banyan however, was a favorite spot for all of us. The branches were thick enough to keep out the hot summer sun and the earth under it always felt cool to the touch. My grandmother and I would spread a rug under the tree and I would sit reading while she pottered about gardening and when it got too hot, sitting in the shade and fretting over what the hot summer sun was doing to her plants. Nestled comfortably within the massive roots of the Banyan, with my back against its trunk, I would stare up at the thick leaves and daydream, or watch the antics of the squirrels running up and down the branches. Slowly with the aid of some food, I befriended the squirrels, and some even grew bold enough to eat from my hand.

My grandmother loved gardening and grew vegetables on one side of the garden and flowers on the other. In the evenings she would get the big water hose out and after watering the plants, would sprinkle the whole garden with water. The wet earth would make the whole area pleasantly cool. The smell of the wet earth combined with the scent of the Raat Ki Rani which bloomed every summer night, was simply heavenly. We would all drag our chairs out and sit talking under the stars, till the mosquitoes eventually drove us indoors.

Grandma’s favorite activity besides gardening was feeding the birds. A large variety of birds lived in the trees and their song would fill the air as soon as the sun rose. Birds’ chirping was the first sound I heard every morning. I would lie in bed hearing them sing, while my grandmother stirred next to me and got up murmuring her prayers. My grandmother never used a clock, for her the time to get up each morning was when the birds started to sing, and then dusk, when the birds returned to their nests, would be the time to light the evening Deeya.

I liked to help my grandmother feed the birds. We would venture out in the early morning sunlight, I carefully holding the bowl containing the bird seeds in both my small hands. We would scatter the seeds about and then fill a small earthen pot with water for the birds to drink from.

A wide variety of birds came down to feed; parrots, mynahs, pigeons and even the exotic bulbul, but my favorites were the sparrows. Somehow I liked this humble black and grey bird even more than the parrots or bulbuls. Most of them had their nest in the Peepal tree. They didn’t seem to be scared of the ghost!  The birds were also used to my grandmother and I liked to think that they waited for her each morning.

Sometimes my grandmother would take a little longer than usual over her prayers and we would be a little late in feeding the birds. The birds would get restless and the cacophony they created had to be heard to be believed. In summer the sparrows would use the earthen pot for not only drinking water but also for cooling off. I would never tire of seeing them duck themselves in their bird bath and then ruffle their feathers to shake off the excess water.

The Sparrows also seemed to love the old brick structure of our home. There were some loose bricks near the roof and they always built their nest there. My grandmother would never let anyone remove the nest and would try her best to guard it against the grey tabby that spent all its time prowling under it.

One day I found a little sparrow – hardly a fledgling lying under the neem tree, hurt and gasping for breath. I picked it up and took it in to my grandmother. She made a nest for it by putting some cotton wool in an old shoe box and nursed it back to health. I wanted to keep it as a pet but my grandfather convinced me about how unhappy the sparrow would be in a cage. I let the sparrow go, and later wrote my very first short story in Hindi about a sad little bird in a cage. Some years back, I rewrote it in English for my niece. It can be read here.

Years passed, my father gave up his government job and we moved to a flat in a more urban part of the city. We no longer had a garden but my parents made do by filling the front verandah with a variety of plants. My grandma however, returned to Chandigarh where she continued to lord regally over her immense garden. Even with her gone, we still continued the tradition of feeding the birds. I would put some bird seed and water out in the verandah and a few birds would come flapping down from the surrounding trees. Instead of having our tea in a garden we now had it in our living room but we kept the door open so that we could see the antics of the birds each morning. For the first few years the birds still came, specially the sparrows; but as more and more people shifted in and more and more trees were cut to make space for flats, slowly their numbers dwindled and finally they stopped altogether.

I am now woken up by a different set of sounds, that of cars honking, taps running and a door banging loudly somewhere. But in this medley of sounds, there is one sound that I so badly want to hear, and can hear no longer – the chirping of birds.

The seeds remain un-eaten and the bird bath lies forlorn and empty.

I suppose this is the price we pay for urbanization …..

100th post !

So this is my 100th post. Wow! Although for a span of two and a half years 100 posts are rather less. But then I haven’t been very faithful to my blog, ignoring it for long bouts in between and then taking it up whenever the whim to write struck me again.For someone who once dreamt of becoming a writer, I should have been the first to jump aboard the bloggers bandwagon! Actually I did not! Somewhere between finishing university and starting work; my writing flagged, reduced to a trickle and then finally stopped all together. But whenever I had a few moments of solitude, I often caught myself wondering if I should start writing again and if I did, would I ever find an audience?

Nirjharini was started in April 2008, when I was not at a very happy place in life.I was in Japan at that time; lonely, desolate and facing very adverse circumstances.This was by no means my first visit to Japan, but I think it was the only time when I wanted to pack my bags and flee from the land I love so much. I badly needed something to take my mind off my troubles and started this blog as a desperate effort to channelize my thoughts towards something positive.And so I began writing again, slowly, hesitatingly, unsure about what to expect.It was a slow journey, but somewhere along the way, came the thrill of discovery that I could still write, a sense of “hey I still have it in me!” especially when the comments from my readers started trickling me. I was amazed that there were people out there who not only read my blog but actually enjoyed it too!
This blog was started on a whim but is now so entwined in the fabric of my life that I simply can’t imagine doing without it. This blog is my personal haven, a safe cocoon where I can be truly myself. My friends have often told me that that they have discovered more about myself through my blog than they would have otherwise. Nirjharini was never meant to be a place to rant or write about my personal life, it is a place to pen down the thoughts swirling in my mind, a place where I attempt to do some creative writing and try to better myself every day.
When I started blogging, I thought blogging it would be a solitary journey, but along the way I met a lot of wonderful readers, most of them fellow bloggers, who nudged me on with their encouraging comments.And so a big Thank you to you, my faithful readers, because had it not it been for you this blog would be gathering dust by now!

This journey is just beginning and I am sure it is going to be a fabulous one. For I made a promise to myself this year, to never ignore this blog again and to make it a place worth visiting. So, come along my gentle readers, travel with me. I am sure you won’t be disappointed!

A book for all seasons !

As someone who is a certified Bookoholic I am fond of all the books that I have. Some books I like because they make me laugh, some because they make me think and some because they are sheer masterpieces with words woven into them as beautifully as an intricate tapestry! And then there are some special books that you can read again and again and again and never tire of. They give you the same comfort as a soft fluffy blanket on a cold winter day, warm and familiar. Books by Ruskin Bond make me feel that way. All his books are precious to me but there is one particular book by him that is very very close to my heart. And that book is Scenes from a Writer`s Life.
 

Scenes from a Writer`s Life is basically a memoir in which Ruskin Bond talks about his childhood years in Dehra, the brief but lonely years he spent in New Jersey and London as a struggling writer and his nostalgia for his friends and for India while he was there. I bought this book about 13 years back, just a few days after it was published.I guess the timing was simply perfect because a few weeks later I got an opportunity to go to Japan. I was very excited about it, it was something I had wanted for a long time. But my happiness was also tinged with little niggling fears. It was my first time in a foreign country and the first time I was going to be away from home for so long! As I packed my stuff for the year long stay, I mulled over which of my books I should take with me. Airlines to Japan only allow you a measly 20 kgs so I could hardly carry all of my books, much as I wanted to ! I had a hard time deciding the few books I wanted to take with me and I am so glad I chose Scenes from a Writer`s Life as one of them. This book turned out to be a real blessing in those first few harsh and lonely days that I spent in an alien country without any family or friends. Sitting in my small apartment in Tokyo, as I turned the pages and read Ruskin Bond`s poignant descriptions about the time spent with his friends in Dehra and his reluctant decision to leave India to become a writer, I could relate to it instantly. I could understand his loneliness, his yearning to get those days back again and yet his determination to follow his dream. In the chapter, “The Pure, the Bright and the Beautiful” Ruskin Bond writes about his going away「A month, only a month and I shall leave with the autumn…… I wish time could stand still now, this very minute, and that life could carry on this way. But my accursed ambition would not have it !」It was the same “accursed” ambition that had brought me so far from home and family to Japan! During those days, this book was my solace, something I turned to whenever I felt homesick. I read this book every night before I fell asleep and to a lonely and troubled heart this book was a great comfort and a source of inspiration!

Japan is almost a second home to me now, a country that I have returned to again and again. But even now, all I have to do is turn the pages of this book and I am instantly transported back to those very first days in Japan ! I have had this book for over a decade now and have read it innumerable times. It has become rather worn over time, but this is one book I can never let go. It has too many memories attached to it !
Another very very special thing about this book is that it has Ruskin Bond`s autograph in it. I had an opportunity to meet Ruskin Bond when he was in Delhi for a Book Reading and from all his books that I have I chose Scenes from a Writer`s life to get autographed! You can see his autograph here. Although its not a very clear picture!

I am extremely fussy about lending or giving away books, and It will be very difficult to get me to part with this book but if I have to lend it, it will be to someone who really appreciates what this book is all about. This book is not for the logical, calculative kinds, this book is for people who follow their hearts more than their minds!

This book should go to someone who is trying to chase his dreams. In his unobtrusive, gentle manner, Ruskin Bond might just give him some courage!

Note - This post has been written for the Blog Adda My Oldest Book and its memories Contest in collaboration with  FriendsofBooks.com.

and I connect with bloggers at BlogAdda.com

Haiku - Memories

A handful of memories

some lost dreams

like sand slipping through my fingers

Simply Coffeelicious !

There is a café in Tokyo that I used to haunt. You have to drink their coffee to believe the flavour and the cheesecakes there are simply to die for. You would find me there every weekend, enjoying their coffee or simply spending time reading or working.
Today, sitting in Delhi, thousands of miles from Tokyo, I suddenly thought about that cafe. I felt as if I was sitting there, in that soft-cushiony red sofa by the wall with a cup of cappuccino in front of me. I could actually smell the coffee, feel the mist swirling up from the cup and the rich dark aroma of that heavenly brew tantalizing my taste buds. I could see the chocolaty-brown froth delicately balanced on the top. I almost saw my self digging a spoon in the slice of moist, creamy-rich cheesecake and feel it melting in my mouth.
My taste buds are all a-tingle now and suddenly all I want is a cup of that coffee.
Ever Happened to you?

Meeting Just the Mother of Two !

Some friendships are forged in childhood, friends you grow up with and who are a part of all your childhood escapades. Some friends are made in college and the predominant memories with these friends are of classes bunked together, movies seen, last minute cramming before exams and hostel days. Some friends are ‘Travel’ friends who are only remembered when you need to take off on yet another backpacking adventure. Some friendships are simply convenience friendships with people you have tea or lunch with at work. These people are conveniently forgotten once you change your job.
Then there is a special breed of friends called 'Blog Friends'. Friends whom you meet through their blogs, start off by commenting on their posts, move on to exchanging e mails and messages and gradually a friendship develops. They become a part of your life and you feel happy in their happiness and concerned when their messages and blog posts are less than cheerful. But these friendships feel slightly tinged with the unreal. You’ve never met these people in real life and your image of them is based solely on blogs read and mails exchanged. But when these virtual friends and their families step out of the blog pages and you actually get to meet them the experience is like magic !
This is what happened when I met Preeti Shenoy of Just a mother of two, her husband Satish and their two very adorable kids Purvi and Atul. She was in Delhi from UK on a whirlwind trip and was sweet enough to squeeze out time to meet me. After innumerable discussions about where to meet and a lot of tearing out of hair due to Delhi’s notorious traffic jams we finally managed to get together.
To be honest, I was a bit apprehensive about the meeting. I am not an extrovert by nature and tend to get choosy about making friends. But as it turned out, I was worried over nothing! Preeti is such a warm and genuine person and it was so easy to talk to her. The awkwardness that’s usually there when you meet a person for the first time was totally missing. We connected immediately, conversation flowed effortlessly from topic to topic and off course about the two things closest to our hearts; blogging and writing ! Time simply flew past while I was with her. The saying ‘Life’s finest moments are those that you spend in the company of friends’ describes our meeting to the T !”
I had been quite skeptical about virtual friendships before but now I feel that they are real – sometimes even more real and enriching than our other friendships !

So whats your favorite Place !

I was watching an old Friends episode the other day. The one where Monika has just broken up with Richard and is so stressed out that she cannot sleep. Phoebe tells her to think of her favorite place in order to relax.
That got me thinking.Each one of us has a favorite place. A safe and peaceful haven where we are always the happiest, where we’d rather be than anywhere else.
Here are my favourite places in no particular order:

Bank of the Ganges – Ganeshpur
Ganeshpur is a small hamlet above Uttarkashi. We discovered this place quite by chance and fell instantly in love with it. The Ganges there is sparkling clean, unblemished by the pollution it faces in the bigger towns like Haridwar. At Ganeshpur it’s very fast flowing and turbulent and going inside the river is impossible. But the bank has many comfortable boulders to sit on; you can see the snow clad mountains in the distance and the river meandering down from them. The nearest village is miles away and the only sound is that of the river. Whenever my mind is in turmoil, all I have to do is close my eyes think of this place. Instantly my mind becomes calm.

My Apartment in Kobe

I lived in Kobe for a little more than a year. My apartment there was rather small, barely big enough for me. But I never wanted to change it because of the spectacular view it offered. It was a corner apt, on the 11th floor and the balcony ran on three sides. From two of the balconies one could clearly see the hills – lush green in summer and monsoons, a medley of colors in autumn– rust, orange, red, yellow. In winter the branches of the trees would be laden with snow and the sun glittering of them would make a wonderful sight. The view was breath taking in all seasons. From the third balcony I could see the sea, shimmering away in the distance. I could see the view outside from my desk, from the kitchen and even from my bed. That was the best part. Wherever I was in that small apartment, I just had to lift my head to see the sea or the hills! Unfortunately I will never go back to that apartment again but I still count it among my favorite places !

Our house in Chandigarh

It’s spacious and has huge floor to almost ceiling windows that make the house sunny and warm in winter and let the cool breeze in during summers. Bright sunshiny rooms, Soft billowing curtains, sofas with cushions in pastel shades, paintings made by my aunt on the walls, flowers and potted plants everywhere; this house is a haven I must turn to at least once a month.

Starbucks Cafe in kobe
Kobe memories again ! If ever there was a fan of Starbucks coffee its me!. Tucked in a corner away from the hustle bustle of the main street, this particular starbucks was one of my favorite haunts. I would go there with my laptop or a book, sink into their soft cushiony sofas, tuck my legs under me, think, read, write or simply observe life passing by as I sipped on the delicious brew. It was large enough so that I could always find a peaceful corner at any time of the day. The staff was always courteous and never bothered me even when I spent hours there. I have been to so many starbucks since but I so miss that one!

So whats your favorite place :-)

Childhood Reads

One of my earliest memories is of the passage connecting the living room to the study in my grandfathers’ house. Bookshelves lined both sides of the passage and they were filled with the Readers Digest. My grandfather was an avid reader and he had started subscribing to the Readers Digest as far back as the 1960s and he had saved every single copy. I remember sitting on the cold floor, just a child of 8; breathing in the musty crumbly smell that I have always associated since with old books; trying to make sense of the stories and trying to solve word power.
I started my childhood readings with Champak – I remember devouring the whole magazine in two days and then pestering my mom to get me another copy not understanding that it I would have to wait till the next month to get it. Champak was followed by Nandan, chanda mama and children’s world. And then came the glorious years of Target magazine. This wonderful magazine started by Living Media was a fabulous mix of stories, comic strips and General Knowledge. I don’t think there is any child who grew up in the 80s who has not read Target. We started subscribing to it as soon as it started getting published in the 80s when I was barely 4 and my brother 11. We continued till 1995 although by then I was too grown up for a ‘children’s magazine’. But I could never give it up. Ruskin Bond, Sigrun Srivastava, Geeta Dharmarajan, Mala Marwha, Vatsala Kaul – Target introduced me to these wonderful children’s writers and they did a great deal in inculcating the love for literature in me.
Another favorite childhood read was Amar Chitra Katha. I guess you can call them our first desi comic books. Beautifully illustrated with stories out of our mythology.
A few years back when cleaning up my grandfather’s house, my aunt decided to throw away the entire readers digest collection. I insisted on bringing it to Delhi; dumped in the back seat of our car. It has a place of honor in my bookshelves now along with all the old editions of Target. I take them down sometimes, to leaf through them and to re-live the pleasures of childhood reading.

A story for Shaivalini

My brother and his family visited us from New Zealand in Decemeber and I spent a blissfull month with them in Chandigarh.More about that later, but here is a story I wrote for my 10 year old niece Shaivalini. Shaivalini loves to read and paint and she also writes stories. She is a very creative and imaginative child and I wanted to gift her a story written by myself because I know how much she appreciates creative writing.

Bina and the Bird
There was a little girl called Bina, who lived high up in the mountains in a house with a red roof. She lived with her grandpa and her grandma and had a dog called buddy and a goat called Tinker Bell as pets. In front of the house was a big vegetable garden in which grandpa grew corn and all sorts of vegetables. Behind the house were cherry and chestnut trees. In winter the mountains would be covered with snow and nothing would grow in the garden. But the chestnut trees would be full of chestnuts. In the cold winter evenings as the snow fell outside; Bina’s grandma would roast the chestnuts in the pine wood fire and Bina would sit munching those as she listened to stories from her grandfather. Most of grandpa’s stories were about the birds and animals that lived nearby.
Summer was when Bina had most fun. She would spend all her time in the garden playing with buddy. This was the time when the flowers would be in full bloom and the garden would be a riot of colors. Summer was also when the cherries in the cherry tree would ripen. Bina would spend hours sitting in the cherry tree eating the cherries. She was a strong and sturdy girl and could climb up the trees almost as well as the squirrels. Buddy loved to eat cherries too but he could not climb trees and he would mope around the tree feeling very sorry for himself till Bina climbed down. Sometimes Bina would throw the cherries down to him so that he could eat them too.
Bina could sit in her favorite cherry tree and daydream for hours. One of her favorite day dreams was that she is flying high up in the blue sky along with the birds, as free as them. She often wondered how beautiful the world would look from up there and how it would feel to play among the clouds.
Summer was also the time when the corn ripened. Bina’s grandma would put the corn out on the roof to dry. The birds that lived in the cherry and the chestnut trees loved to eat the corn and they would come flying down to eat it as soon as grandma had spread it out. It was Buddy’s job to shoo them away. Buddy didn’t like to eat the corn but he loved to run after the birds. But the birds were always too quick for him.
One day as usual Grandma spread out the corn to dry. Soon the roof was filled with birds trying to eat the corn. As soon as Buddy saw the birds he ran after them. But this time one of the birds was not quick enough for Buddy. A swipe of his paw hit the bird hard and the poor bird lay there on the roof chirping piteously. Bina shooed Buddy away before he could do further damage and ran inside with the bird cupped in her hands. When grandma examined the bird she found that half of its wing was broken. She wound it up tightly using a piece of bandage while the poor little bird lay there in Bina’s hands chirping feebly. Grandpa took an old shoe box and filled it with straw and cotton wool to make a bed for the bird. “There, the poor thing should be comfortable in this” he said.
Everyday Bina would get up in the morning and run to the cardboard box to see how the little bird was doing. After she came back from school, Bina would take the little bird out in the garden. She would talk to the bird telling it about her school, her friends and about her teacher Miss Lotty who wore thick spectacles and always gave a lot of homework.
Slowly the bird stop being afraid of Bina. It would perch on Bina’s shoulder chirping and singing to itself whenever Bina took it outside. One day grandma said “Look the wing is almost healed now; soon the bird should be able to fly.” And as if to prove grandma right, that afternoon when Bina took the bird outside it tried to get off her shoulder and fly about for a while. The poor bird wasn’t very successful at first. It could only give a few short flaps of its wings and then plop! It fell in the garden among the marigolds. Laughing Bina ran to pick it up.
But soon the little bird grew stronger and stronger and could fly round and round the garden without falling down. “It’s soon going to fly away to join its friends.” Said Grandpa happily. But Bina wasn’t happy. She had made friends with the bird and she didn’t want it to fly away. She wanted the bird to stay so that she could play with it and tell it stories. So Bina went to the market and bought a cage for her Bird. The cage was really big and had a lot of space for the bird to move about. It had a small perch on which the bird could sit and sing if it wanted and it also had a little bowl for food and water. Bina thought the bird would be very happy in its new home. “It’s so much better than the card board box” she thought. Bina hopped and skipped all the way home with the cage. As soon as she reached home she put the bird in its new cage. Look little birdie she said, “isn’t this a nice home. You have a perch to sit on and a pretty little bowl to eat out of”. Bina hung the cage with the bird inside in the balcony so that the bird could look at the other birds and trees outside and feel the fresh air.
But the bird didn’t seem too happy in its new home. It stopped singing and just sat in its cage looking sadly at the other birds flying by. How strange thought Bina, I wonder why the bird is not happy !
“I wonder why my little bird is so sad” said Bina to Grandpa. “I think it’s sad because you have locked it up in a cage. Now it can’t fly about the garden as it used to. ”Said Grandpa.
“But Grandpa, I’ve got it such a beautiful cage. Why does it need to go outside? I feed it all kind of yummy things and talk to it and sing to it all the time.”
“That’s because in the cage the bird can’t fly; it has no freedom. It can’t feel the wind in its wings nor can it race his friends up to the clouds and play with them”.
“You should let the bird go” said grandma. “See how unhappy it looks.”
But Bina didn’t want to let the bird go. “It’s my friend now I’ll miss it if it goes” Said Bina.
That night as Bina lay snuggled up next to her grandma she had a dream. She dreamt that she was a bird flying high up in the sky. Up and up she went till she could almost touch the sun and everything down below looked so small. She flitted in and out of the clouds playing with them. On and On Bina flew, enjoying her freedom and singing to herself.
She grew tired of playing and flew down to sit in her favorite cherry tree. Suddenly something dark fell on her. She tried to fly away but couldn’t. A bird catcher had caught her in his net. Soon the bird catcher took her home and put her in a cage. It was a big cage and the bird catcher gave her tasty things to eat but Bina was not happy. Her cage felt dark and cold and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She looked out longingly at the flowers and the trees, they were so near yet she couldn’t fly out to them. Suddenly Bina got up with a start. So this is how it feels to be caught in a cage. No wonder my poor bird is so unhappy she thought.
Next Morning Bina ran to the cage and took out her little bird. “I am sorry little birdie” she said, “now I understand how unhappy you must be in the cage”. She went to the window; lifted her hands and let the bird fly out. Up and up the bird flew, soaring high towards the sky, and with it Bina felt as if she was flying too!!

Friends, Shopping and Rajma Chawal

I’ve been meeting a lot of old friends lately. Met A last weekend in Yokohama and yesterday met S. She was in shizuoka for a week which is quite a distance from Tokyo and I had almost despaired of meeting her, but the great pal that she is she delayed her flight to Sunday so she cld spend Saturday with me.We had the most glorious time. We shopped till we dropped and talked about how life had treated us since we met last. The weather gods were kind - for a change the day was cloudy so we spent most of it walking ard Tokyo and by 6 in the evening we were just about ready to collapse.S is a pure veg and not the kind who drink - so I couldn't take her to a Japanese restaurant or a pub without getting disapproving looks and a lecture about the sins of drinking and eating non veg.
Actually S is so shockingly different from the other people I know. She doesn't drink, eat non veg and likes to stay at home with her yr old son and spend time with only good frnds or family. She loves to shop but will shop for bangles and traditional salwar kamizees where as I wld go for silver jewelery and ethnic kurtis and jeans and short tops. As personalities we are poles apart - she is a bit conservative and doesnt adjust to modern ideas fast. - I am the one with the modern outlook who can do anything live anywhere and off course eat anything !
But what is similar is our values and beliefs in life and that goes beyond being modern or conservative- Under all my veneer of modernity I am a person to whom spirituality means a lot - In fact that is the one common factor that brought us together.She understands that part of me so well.Like her I stick to my few friends and will only spent time with like minded people and wld rather spent my time alone than in company of people I dont agree with or enjoy much.
And so we had coffee al fresco and gorged on the snacks she brought from home. Her mom makes all sorts of fabulous namkeens imaginable and I guess she knew that for all my talk about “I love Japanese food and I cant understand why people have to eat Indian even in Japan” I wld be dying for some Indian food so she brought it along all for me.
Then in the evening we had to go to a old colleagues place .. apparently his wife had cooked dinner for us and we are sort of fond of his wife so off we went The wife made us good adarak chai Indian style and then we had rajma chawal for dinner.Rajma Chawal is something I can die for so I really hogged and hogged.
On Sunday - I went shopping to Tokyo hands and lazona in Kawasaki and bought everything from books to hair clips to perfumes to foot creams. I also wanted to buy a very lovely peasant blouse but then off course they didn't have my size - no one in japan has my size - it really doesn't help to be 5 feet 9 inches in a land of tiny people with no busts or behinds to speaks of !
So that's how I spent my weekend ...

P.S
Have I been giving an impression of “poor me I am so lonely in Tokyo”?? coz There was a comment on my last post .Some smart fella wrote about how he pitied me coz I was supposedly friendless in Tokyo and how he was having so much fun coz he had a lot of friends there – dude – first of all this is someone who has been coming to Japan almost every year for the past I don’t know how many yrs now and something I can never get in this city is lonely. And then that post was just a nostalgic bit about how nice it feels to catch up with good frnds you haven’t met in ages. OK !

The company of Friends

What do you do when a dear friend calls to say he will be in town soon and will meet you ? You hop skip and jump around the room like a five year old and start counting the days till he comes. Meanwhile you call your mother, his mother and a hundred people in between pestering them to tell you his exact schedule. And when he does land in Tokyo you call him a thousand times a day when he is in very important meetings with very important people demanding to know when he will meet you.
And when you do meet,the feeling is like coming home. The best thing that can happen to you when you are in an alien city suffering from the blues is to meet someone from home.
And so as the ice tinkles in the glasses and you munch on the chicken wings, the conversation spirals and rambles into everything from philosphical discussions on life to hilarious anecdotes about the people back home to crazy inane happenings. And as you laugh and talk and laugh some more,you realize how much you had missed being with people with whom you can really and truly be yourself without putting on any pretenses.
Then suddenly you realize only five minutes remain till the last train home and you gulp down the last of your drink and hug him and hug him and make your self seem like a little lost kid in a big bad city and extract a thousand promises from him to see you when he is in town again.
And on your way back in the train,as you smile thinking about the conversations and the laughter;you realize that life's finest moments are those that we spend in the company of friends.

So - Here's to the time very well spent in TGIF Yokohama and here to many more such rendezvous in the future !

Kobe Memories

I went to Makuhari yesterday to give a presentation and instantly fell in love with the place .. its much more quiet and much more green than tokyo is ..it reminded me of kobe and took me back to those never to be forgotten wonderful days spent at NEC Kobe - crisp autumn days when the trees on rokko hills turned yellow and orange and red - as if on fire;of standing in the balcony every morning and watching the sun come up the hills with the sea shimmering far away.The half hr train journey to work that never felt cumbersome thanks to the quaint little Japanese houses and green fields that one passed.Eating in the NEC cafeteria - two sides glass while looking out at cherry blossoms in spring and the autumn splendour in Fall.To walk down to the lake every day during lunch and sit there enjoying the peace and quiet .. Now that I am in Tokyo,I realize how lucky I was to get such a wonderful work environment at that time and how much I took it for granted then .... I miss the feeling of general well being and being at peace with oneself and one's surroundings. And most of all I miss the warm pleasant friendly people at work...
Tokyo is all about ultra modern high rise buildings and technology and power. Kobe was all about friendships and warmth and natural beauty and peace ....

More hellos and Less good Byes

Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 - Charlie Brown (Peanuts)

My family and friends are scattered in different parts of the world, living in three different time zones and leading totally diverse lives.And yet we sometimes feel a irresistible need to connect and to talk.With my friends its whats up with you messages on orkut and long emails written once a week that talk about nothing and everything ....
With my brother its phone calls and web cams.Its through the web cam that I see my niece grown taller and hear the sound of her laughter that I miss so much. I see the paintings she has made and listen to the poems she has written and am amazed at her power of imagination. I see my nephew as he scampers around the room and brings his birthday presents to show thru the camera. Its through the phone calls that I hear my brother’s good solid practical advice and feel the love behind it ..feel my sister in laws smile through the lines and the love and warmth that always comes with it .....
And its these e mails and calls that sustain me and get me through my oh my god I cant do this ... I need to go home days....
Did I hear someone say homesickness!