Sahib ne bhang pilayi

I said earlier that this year felt like it had been running wild? Well, one of the exciting things we did was to go to a workshop on Kabir. A five-day residential workshop on one of the most hard-hitting raconteurs of the spiritual journey. Readers of this blog will know how much I love this man, and love to quote him: for many years now his utterances have served as clinchers to my primary quandaries as a seeker.

In 2009 – what a year that was! – I happened to go to a Kabir Festival in Delhi. I speak of what happened to me here, and a little more about the festival and its personalities here. 

It seemed extraordinarily important even as I went through the weekend, but what it was doing to me, how it was preparing me and to what end... this became apparent only a few days later. The immersive festival experience happened on 4, 5 and 6 September 2009. Around the same time, my mother was feeling poorly and went through a few medical tests. On 11 Sept, the results came and we learnt that we were going to lose her in a matter of weeks.

Now, this – that my mother might die – had always been one of my worst and very active fears... the stuff of nightmares. As much as I was sure that I would not be able to bear her loss, I had fretted about it for decades. And now it was coming true.

It was my Guru’s compassion, his grace, his love... to prepare me for a blow I had dreaded all my life. Buffered by Kabir, I took the news better than I could ever expect to. The next few months, I was able to live intensely, love intensely and let go gracefully, even joyfully.

Now seven years later, here was a chance to go to a workshop conducted by the inspirational Prahlad Tipaniya himself. It was meant. A chance to express my gratitude – and close a loop.

And another chance to bow low, very low to my Guru.

Some samosas?

It's almost two in the afternoon, and I had a less-than-usually-heavy breakfast and the hunger begins to set in already. But I still have my surya namaskars to do, which I can only do by 3 pm, so it'll be some time before I can snack.

It seems the right moment to be thinking of food and while I'm doing that, I may as well do it thoroughly. Some time ago, I mentioned in the passing a fabulous samosa I had had. Then I got thinking of all the wonderful/memorable samosas I've ever eaten and well... let me just bring you the results. In random order, because I can't do hierarchies with these.

• It was in a cantonment in North India. I was staying with friends and, in turn, got invited to tea by Lt General A and his family, the first family of the community, so to speak. Now, M reported directly to the Lt Gen, and besides my friends were sticklers for proper army etiquette and managed to alarm me quite thoroughly about adhering to the mode in all respects. I was not to address the Lt. Gen. as 'Sir', we were to make sure not be late by so much as three minutes, we were going to spend just this much time, laugh at all their jokes and so on. I was in a tizzy before we got there. But the hosts were charming and glad of outside society. I ate moderately with one nervous eye on my friend's husband, and then only those foods I was sure I could manage with dainty grace. The samosas looked inviting, but was I allowed to eat them with my fingers? I wasn't sure, so I passed over them entirely. However the Lt Gen was keeping an eye on my plate and pushed the bowl forward: "You must try these, Sheetal, they're fabulous." They looked it and, now how to refuse, so I helped myself to one. Small samosas, amuse-bouche-sized, filled with delicately flavoured, perfectly cooked peas. I THINK, or hope that I took another. A third, I am quite certain, I did not permit myself - already M was glaring at me. But the memory of it lingers, mon amis, it lingers. 

• Cinema-hall samosas are nothing to rave about usually but the erstwhile Anand Cinema in Secunderabad was an exception. The aloo masala was always nicely flavoured with a hint-but-no-more of tang and sprinkled with coarsely crushed coriander seeds. But the real winner was the pastry dough - not maida but wheat. In its final years, Anand gave us some truly horrible film-viewing experiences and it was pulled down to general relief but I miss those samosas. 

• Now these matar samosas I'd had in the the Kangra Valley haunted me and it gave me great joy to discover them again. It was in Delhi, in a shop called Bengal Sweets, in the same market block as our office in Safdarjung Enclave. This restaurant supplied us with lunch when we hadn't packed any, gol gappas whenever we felt like it, and in the winter months, batches of fresh green pea samosas. Not as delicately made as those ones but good enough and plus you see, I could devour as many of them as I wished. 

• Since I live in Hyderabad, Irani samosas - crisply fried, sharp golden triangles filled with thin strips of onion - are easily procured. There have been some amazing confections over the years. In the Charminar area, in university canteens, in people's homes with adrak chai... but one of my favourites is the Corner Shop, that is to say, just round the corner from where I live. My dad brings them wrapped up in newspaper but the smell reaches us even as he enters the house. No one can have just one.

• The Hong Kong wala. My companions had been suffering the lack of desi chai for nearly a week. On the last day, there were just two of us, wandering the fascinating lanes of Wan Chai. We came to a small store called Kathmandu Store and here we could see was where the sub-continent community could come for products of Home. Hajmola, Kurkure, Maggi, MTR packets, namkeens, mehndi cones, bindis, DVDs with movies and music - it was a kirana shop, essentially. Plus, small tables and stools for those wanting to sit. Samosas were available. He whisked them out of the kadai, served them with a nice spicy mint chutney... the aloo filling was benignly spiced and we had to temper our haste with caution for the steam still rose from the pastry. Then 'milk tea' to wash it down. It was perfect. 

Honourable Mentions:

• A small samosa filled with sweet corn that I recently had at Nishu's. Store-bought, I think they said, but excellent!
• On a river cruise on the Zambezi (full story here), we stopped to picnic on an island in the middle of the river. They laid out the contents of the picnic basket and... samosas! It was a nice feeling.
• A teensy Irani samosa that is sold on the Sabari Express on the return journey towards Hyderabad. The seller gets on the train at Bhonghir, I think, and gives us something like eight for Rs 20. Since this is always around noon, I'm in a dilemma every time - eat now and ruin lunch that's waiting at home or indulge and let later take care of itself?

Oops, they did it again

In September last year, my landlady had this nice tree outside my balcony shorn. I was a new tenant then and I had protested mildly - perhaps she didn't even notice. But look, they did it again:


What am I to say? It was doing well, better than I had hoped. In a few weeks it would have given me privacy from 70 percent of the apartments that face me. Besides, I liked it. I didn't know they had this planned. Nothing to do now but wring my hands. Shall I storm off harridan-like and tell them how presumptious, how officious they have been? It isn't even on their property. It's a street tree. It belongs to EVERYone. How dare they?

Or now that nothing can be done, can I calm down and consider this a lesson in cultivating detachment?

Kahat Kabir

Kabir Festival 2

Just a brief overview of what the festival offered. It was an effort to broadcast the work of the Kabir Project - a project that involved "series of journeys in quest of this 15th century mystic poet in our contemporary worlds." The output, if you want it in concrete terms, consists of 4 documentary films, 2 folk music videos and 10 music CDs accompanied by books of the poetry in translation. The person who has propelled this effort is filmmaker Shabnam Virmani and all of this was the result of an Artist-in-Residence program at the Sristhi School of Art, Design and Technology.

The films have taken some four years to make: they involved extensive and intensive travel and although they have been constructed into four stand-alone themes, there is substantial overlap (at least, of personalities) and the tetralogy is best, in my opinion, seen and taken together.

The first of these was Chalo Hamara Des that starts by introducing to us Prahlad Singh Tipanya, a folk singer of Malwa, whose way of life is coloured by Kabir. With Prahladji in tow, Virmani travels to Stanford to meet Linda Hess, a scholar of comparative literature who has translated Kabir and now is working on the oral traditions that thrive in various parts of the subcontinent. Early in the film, Hess talks of the peak of Shoonya that Kabir refers to, the peak that is the destination of anyone on the spiritual path. And earnest though these seekers are, and sound though their theory is of what they must do, it is the practice of it that was fascinating to me. Through the films they expand into something larger, and fall back again into their selves, trapped by habit, structure and personality.

The next film Had-Anhad is the most toasted of the four. It starts in Ayodhya, with a few chest thumping Hindu reactions on the Babri Masjid issue. Then the film seeks Ram - Kabir's Ram, the Sagun Ram, the Nirgun Ram and it seeks Kabir or rather the various Kabirs that appear scattered here and there. It follows the trail to Rajasthan to interact with Mirasi sufi singer Mukhtiyar Ali to see what he makes of it and then over the border to Karachi to meet with Farid Ayaz whose family has been singing qawwalis for 700 years - a man so intensely possessive of his Kabir he tells his contingent of guests very frankly that he is not about to tolerate their dissenting views.

Kabira khada bazaar mein - which some might perceive as the weakest in the chain - is still interesting for its examination of how Kabir has been appropriated by various sections of society. Some are interested only in his incendiary stances, some use him for his dalit status, some take Kabir to represent an alternative religion that goes against the very essence of what the saint might have himself said or meant.
However, the truly ticklish point of the film comes when it traces the actions of Prahlad Tipanya. A man whose singing has earned him a considerable following, a man who has all through believed in the essence of Kabir and tried to emulate it to a subtle pitch, does the unthinkable: he joins the Kabir Panthi Sect as a mahant. His work now involves ritual, wearing a hierophant-ish hat and he must perform (and exhort others to perform) the chauka aarti. Tipanya is criticised in the film by his own assistants, his family, his friends (Hess and Virmani included) and his contemporaries. He protests albeit softly that he wants to change the system from within. It is a weak argument. What is clear though is he feels he must; however obscure his motivations, it is obvious he thinks his path goes through the establishment, not around it.

The fourth film Koi Sunta Hai moves to fresh arenas: classical music. It explores the influence of Kabir on Pt Kumar Gandharva and in turn, classical singing, as well as of course, what this did to elevate Kabir's own status from being considered the literature of beggars and mendicants to more refined circles.

The films are avowedly a personal search as far as Shabnam Virmani is concerned. She wields the camera herself, we see her occasionally caught in mirrors or shadows but she pervades the films far more than through appearances alone. She is addressed by name by her interviewees, that they are in fact in a dialogue is never in doubt. It must be her manner, her skill as a questioner that she manages to evoke such spontaneous responses, such charming reactions.

Music occupies a large chunk of the footage and it is quite central to the project. It enhanced the experience of the festival so much that the personalities whose lives that were being minutely examined in the films were also present. When they sang of course, we knew them intimately.

The festival was expensive too: entry was free but there was music on offer and after each screening or concert I went back, quite sure I needed to have that CD as well. So ended that a bit poorer and a bit richer.

Sahib mera

Little bit blown. Actually very much blown. I’ve just spent the weekend from Friday evening to Sunday evening at a festival devoted to Kabir. An explosion of music, of Kabir’s words, his personality, his timelessness. An explosion of ideas, perspectives, people, their intimate personal lives. Their words, their attitudes, their common goal. The politics of it, the ownership of it, the fluidity of it — the high brow application of it, the accessibility of it... it has been all somewhat overwhelming.
I want to blog at some length but am tumbling over my words, so incoherent am I in my hurry to say all the very important things at once.
So this, just to capture the first flush. But I will, insha’allah, come back to blog about the various aspects of what I have learnt, what I have observed. Already my state before I went to IIC on Friday evening is fast fading; I have assimilated too quickly.

Kabhi neem neem

Few things anger me so consistently as the stupid, unfeeling chopping of a tree. Came home last night to find a street light throwing rather more light on the walls than it was accustomed to do. It was late, the last day of production—it was only a hazy bewilderment. This morning, with something akin to horror, I found the tree had disappeared. Morons, who know nothing of what a tree can mean, have shorn it—humiliating the young neem, stripping it of dignity and robbing it of several years’ work.


It might be the handiwork of corporation walas who like their electricity wires to survive unhindered, but they seldom clean out a tree like this. I suspect the fell hand of my landlords, who are painting the house and may well have thought they’d like everyone to admire the new coat without the interference of greenery.

I have been telling myself to get a grip, to stop bewailing spilt milk but it’s all I can do not to storm off and speak to them in very cold accents.

Aashiana dhoondta hai

Two weeks into the new city now. It has been easier and more difficult than I thought. I call home twice a day, which is normal. I miss my mother, but that was expected. I hate being out of 50km radius from her. She complains I hardly speak to her when I’m home, but I simply hate not being able to.

Delhi is fine. I have been moving hither and thither, have seen two movies, gone to several of its beguiling markets, eaten out few times and met some really nice people. I like it. The metro construction renders the roads cramped and everyone leans on their horns, but what the hey.

Finding a house – a good one – seems extraordinarily difficult. Everyone who has house-hunted in Delhi assures me it is a task of gargantuan proportions. There seems to be a pattern. At first, there is an allocated budget and a certain insouciance; you will even imagine fondly that you will spread the word and something appropriate will turn up, thus making it unnecessary to cough up the one month’s rent the broker will demand. Reality check: no one around you has an aunt or friend who magically has a house that needs a good caring tenant. However, there are several property agents. On my second day at it, I opened an Excel sheet with columns for names, numbers, speciality areas and current status.

Then you begin. You are shown the most appalling houses in various stages of disrepair, in several kinds of bad taste. Up staircases so dark you navigate solely by touch and instinct. Down alleys where you hold up your trousers daintily, picking your way through vegetable (and other) waste. Or you find houses of which only one aspect is extremely right. There is both frustration now and hope. You tell yourself: if I could find such a happy location as I found with House A, accompanied by the nice woodwork in House B and the un-hole-like kitchen in House C, we would be set. Easier said, my friends. There seem to several such houses as you rattle through various enclaves, glancing about longingly, but none available to rent for the price you have in mind. So you inch up a little, and then a little, till you are considering some entirely ridiculous sums of money. This is where we are at.

Even then, the house eludes you, I am told, till you are quite on the threshold of despair and about to give up, give in and beg to be let into the Good Samaritans’ Shelter. When you are on your knees, the House will appear. Insha’allah.

Due North

This blog, dear readers, such as it is, will now go out of Delhi. Seeking a change from the sameness, I have sought employment in the capital and have moved here this week.

If you're making noises of disbelief, your reactions will match many I have met. I must, of course, have been responsible for the wide-spread impression that I was a well-rooted Hyderabadi institution, who would grow to a venerable age here, eventually being pointed out to visitors of the city on their first tour of it. Look! Sheetal Vyas, over there, doddering on the sidewalk! We don't know very much about her, but she has been here forever.

Seriously though, it is a wrench. I do do love Hyderabad and leaving is a betrayal. It is really, because my rationale was that it was becoming so unbearable to live in, that I might as well live in another bigger unbearable city as not.

So you find me in Delhi, hefting five bags and looking for a place to stay. So, dear, kind people, if you should hear of a nice two bedroom apartment in South Delhi or even a spacious two room set (as they call them here), please do let me know – my email is on the profile (I think!).