Remembering Pandit Jasraj

The news of Pt Jasraj's passing came yesterday and it seems indeed like the end of an era. He has always been on my go-to playlist of favourites. His classical performances but equally his bhajans and chants never fail to move me.

As a journalist, I met him in 2001 in Nizam College, where the Pt Maniram-Pt Motiram Samaroh used to take place in those days. I remember his warmth and affection. He was speaking and I was nodding at everything he said. Suddenly he broke off and asked, "Why aren't you writing all that down?"

"Mujhe yaad rahega, Panditji," I had smiled. I seldom made notes apart from dates and specific references. 

"Yaad-dasht achchi hai tumhari, hein!?" he had patted me on my head. 

Jai Ho, Panditji!

This piece appeared on 28 November 2001 in Hyderabad Times, Times of India

Acharya devo bhava

It's like clockwork. Come November 30 every year, the city is fortunate to welcome into its midst, some of the country's most talented and most promising musicians. Because every year, Pt Jasraj, the stalwart of the Mewati gharana pays tribute to his father Pt Maniram and grandfather Pt Motiram with a sangeet samaroh. The man behind it all, Pt Jasraj, is in the city and Hyderabad Times met up with the maestro for a chat.

These past few days, Panditji has been holding long sessions with students in Hyderabad, imparting his knowledge of a lifetime. It's a curious fact, but of all the masters in the world of Hindustani music today, no guru has yielded quite so many disciples as Pt Jasraj. Of them, Sanjeev Abhyankar and Tripti Mukherjee are seen as worthy successors. Rattan Mohan Sharma is yet another promising singer.
"Yes, I find as much pleasure in teaching as I do performing," says Panditji, in response to that observation. "You see, some time or the other the human body gives up," he explains, "and what will we leave behind us, if we don't impart our knowledge to younger people?"

He has an interesting story to tell about why he regards the guru-shishya relationship so highly: "When I was 11, I had been playing the tabla for five years. One college student asked me if I would teach him and I agreed. We had this little ceremony of tying the 'ganda' (a sacred thread) and he gave me a dakshina of Rs 3 with prasad, etc. When I came home, my mother was so annoyed with me. She explained what a responsibility it is to accept a student, and what a deep bond it creates. Since then, I have never taken that role lightly."

He has four schools in the America alone - one each in Vancouver, New York, New Jersey and Atlanta, where he teaches. He teaches in Mumbai also. But for all the time he spends on his students, he doesn't charge a paisa. "Vidyadaan is a very special thing," he says, "unlike money it doesn't get spent. And it enriches the giver as much as the recipient." His sincerity strikes you, when he narrates, "I've always hated to accept money for tuitions but till 1963, I had no option. But once, I prayed to God, asking him to give me enough to run my household, so that I wouldn't be obliged charge my students. He listened to me, for that very day, I got a telegram offering me Rs 800 per month."

His children Durga and Sharang haven't taken to classical music, but then you know he means it when he says, "All my students are my children."

Ramnagar ki Ramlila

Last month, I spent a week in Kashi. An absolutely memorable week that seems to have changed me, transformed me. I have never been so hung over over one city before. (Although I do remember going on a bit about my travels in the Himalaya: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5).

When I came back, I absolutely had to write about one aspect, my last evening in Varanasi, when I went to the famous Ramlila of Ramnagar. It was an immersive experience that delighted me on every level. I have been day-dreaming about going back to Kashi at this time next year, negotiate some reasonable long-term lodgings and stay for the whole month. Wander around the city in the mornings... see the 56 Vinayakas, the Nava Durgas, the Panch Kroshi temples, the secret underground temples, the eight Bhairavas, the 12 Adityas... everything! In the evenings, I would head to Ramnagar to see the lila.

Today, as I write, the Ramlila is playing out its last day in Ramnagar. At this moment, perhaps the swaroops and other primary characters are in the palace-fort, being given a hospitable meal by Kashi Naresh, receiving their dakshina from him, before leaving the palace on adorned elephants.

I wrote about it, and the piece appeared in The Hindu’s Sunday Magazine earlier this week. This is a longer, more detailed version of that piece.

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Ramlila, the dramatic folk re-enactment of the life of Rama is conducted across North India during the Dussehra. The entire culture has been designated an intangible heritage by UNESCO, and the most notable traditions are those observed annually at Ayodhya, Ramnagar and Varanasi, Vrindavan, Almora, Satna and Madhubani. Against the ten-day version at most places, the Ramlila at Ramnagar is an elaborate, protracted affair, and takes 30 to 31 days to tell. The folk narration is done by gaslight and without microphones. The crowds range from a few thousands to over a lakh on different days.
 
Patronised by the Royal Family of Varanasi, the Ramlila here is an extraordinary example of site-specific or environmental theatre. The 5 sq km of Ramnagar town are designated to be various locations: Ayodhya, Janakpur, Lanka and so on, and the performance shifts between these locations, sometimes moving to as many as three locations in a day.

Ramnagar’s Ramlila

“Chup raho!! Saavdhaan!” hollers a frail man from the stage. That command for silence is the cue that ‘samvaad’ or conversation is about to take place on the raised platform. The crowd quietens and pitches its collective ears forward, straining to hear the dialogue. Surely, without microphones, the voices wouldn’t carry beyond a 100 rows, and the gathering is several thousands strong. But it doesn’t seem to matter: everyone is following the action closely, already familiar with each line, intimate with the characters and their motivations, keenly anticipating the unfolding of a story they’ve been told and told again since childhood. That is the Ramilia at Ramnagar.

It was chance that my visit to Kashi coincided with the 31-day, elaborately-told Ramlila that unfolds here each year. I had heard so much about this spectacle, and although I’d seen performances in Delhi, it is understood that haven’t seen the lila till you’ve seen ‘Ramnagar ki Ramlila’. I dearly wanted to go, but I was a solo woman traveller... Ramnagar is 12km away and across the river... how would I go, would I be able to muscle my way through crowds, and if the lila ended late, how was I to get back? My hosts put me in the care of Shuklaji, automan and local guide, who would take me there, orient me and bring me back. It was perfect!

But the morning of the day brought worrying news. The previous day’s performance had been cancelled much to the consternation and disappointment of the thousands who had gathered –a thing that had never happened for as long as anyone can remember. Four of the five ‘swaroops’ – the children who don the five primary characters of Ram, Sita, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughna – were down with gasteroenteritis. They were in hospital, the newspapers said, and expected to recover by the evening, in time for the next performance.

So we went. We were early, and I had time to wander about the Ramnagar fort and palace-grounds for a while. As I made my way back, elephants were being brought around to the entrance. Kashi Naresh, the nominal ruler of Varanasi, is the patron of the Ramlila and takes close interest in it. In fact, the Ramlila here was started by his ancestor Udit Narayan Singh around 1830 and further honed by Maharaja Ishwari Prasad Narayan Singh, who ruled 1857–1889. He not only took the Ramlila out of the palace-fort into the main town but also commissioned scholars to compose dialogue in Awadhi. Even today, the selection and casting of actors for the main parts is done by the king, and the actors are chosen based on their fluency in Sanskrit, diction and throw. He also provides provisions and upkeep for the thousands of sadhus who come to see the Ramlila each year. Naturally, Kashi Naresh Anant Narayan Singh would be attending the festivities and it was just a matter of time before he and his family set out for the performance.

We trundled off deeper into the dusty town of Ramnagar, and I saw the various locations: here, the site for Ayodhya, over there, Lanka. Today was supposed to be the ‘Dhanush Yagya’, a thrilling episode where Rama strings the bow that wins him the hand of Sita but alas, with the previous day’s cancellation, the program has been rearranged. But Shuklaji consoles me: the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ or the ‘Conversation Amongst Eight Women’ and ‘Phulwari’, the garden scene where Sita first lays eyes on Rama are highly prized too! The women particularly flock on this day, I learn.

Bhajans by the roadside

We settle into the front rows and the crowd slowly swells. Mats and sacks are laid out, some bring foldable chairs, and some, with great foresight, carry steel dabbas, which do double duty for snacks and a low stool! I also lay out the felt ‘aasan’ I’ve brought for the purpose. (This was a recent acquisition at a charming shop near Dashashwamedh Ghat – a mat woven with kusha grass and this bright-red fabric for Rs 25.) It’s warm, and almost everyone buys a palm-leaf fan.

There is uncertainty in the air. If the swaroops are still ill, this could be a wash out again. “We came yesterday as well,” Tulsiji, next to me, says, “I live near the fort but many walk hours to get here. Nirash ho gaye... everyone was disappointed!”

Thankfully, it’s only a 3-hour delay. I saunter around, eating jalebis dipped in jaggery (a delicacy that’s only served during the lila), sample some excellent revdi and buy a cone-packet of makhana. The Ramlila is famous for ‘niyamis’ – these are regulars who ceremonially attend every day of the lila. I get to be on the sidelines of a pageant of what Shuklaji calls their “aan, baan, shaan”, in other words, their pomp and splendour. Typically the niyamis first take a ritual dip in the waters, wear new clothes (usually blazing white) and walk with what’s almost a swagger. I see an array of forehead markings indicating clan, or Saivite/Vaishnavite orientation. One point of pride are the staffs that they carry – ornate, worked wood with inlay and handles of silver and gold.

The elders wait for the programme to start

Staffs of many impressive kinds

In yet another piquant practice, the niyamis come armed with bottles of ittar, and it is customary to smear your friends and acquaintances with a touch of perfume. The cost of a small vial could go up to a lakh, and the kinds of ittar you carry (a different one each day, if you can afford it) says much about your status. Shuklaji met a friend and my heart leaped for joy when the man we encountered brandished a small sheesha of perfume. I was honoured with a dab – it turned out to be an ambergris-based flavour that I revelled in all evening.

“Has the Maharaja come?” I ask. “Arre, madamji,” Shuklaji says scornfully, “Agar aaye hotey toh ’Har, Har, Mahadev!’ ka aisa gagan-bhedi utkrosh hota ke aapko pata chal jaata!” Had he arrived, cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ would’ve pierced the skies! Informed of the delay, the king has delayed his own departure.

Finally, he arrives, and so do the swaroops: Ram-Lakshman are bedecked with sequins, sparkling stones and heavy crowns. Their limbs are smeared with sandalwood paste, lightly scored through to form lines and whorls. The scene is the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ where Ram and Lakshman walk through the streets of Janakpur, setting the town abuzz with speculation. The boys look regal and impassive as they walk through the crowds, both real and theatrical. All the swaroops, even female parts, are played by boys under the age of 16. In fact, all parts in the lila are played by men. In recent years, the character of Soorpanaka alone has been enacted by a woman, I read later. 

Two of the sakhis in conversation

The swaroops

On stage, the eight women (young men in women’s garb) hold forth, exclaiming over the beauty and grace of the two young men from Ayodhya, wanting one of them to wed their princess. Interestingly, although the actors broadly know their parts, each line is prompted by Vyasji, the director of the performance. He stands behind the actors, with a helper shining a torch on the book he holds open. He mutters the dialogue sotto voce and the actors then pick up each line, declaiming them in a curious sing-song fashion. leaving room for the prompts. To one side, below the platform, the swaroops sit, poised and phlegmatic. The villagers attending them fan them continuously. It is a curious mixture of worship and pragmatism: worry for the sick boys who still have IV catheters embedded in their veins as well as reverence for the gods they represent.

What prompted the actors to perform when their bodies are so frail? Sheer mind over matter? The age-old compulsion that the show must go on, but also because this is a tremendous responsibility. From Ganesh Chaturthi onwards, when they’re cast into their parts till the lila culminates 40 days later on Ashwin Poornima, the boys remain in character. No one addresses them by name, and even amongst themselves, the Ram-swaroop gets all the respect due to the oldest brother.

Now, the scene shifts and we all make our way to an antiquated Gomteshwar temple some distance away. We hunker down around the temple precincts and Shuklaji finds me a spot that lets me see, without craning my neck, both the shrine and the made-up ‘garden’ outside, where the romantic encounter takes place. In the audience, Kashi Naresh sits in a prime spot, unimposing but upright, his white kurta and cap gleaming in the falling light. Finally ‘Janaknandini’ Sita arrives on a palanquin. There are exclamations of delight, and everyone cranes to get a better look... she is clad in red, in contrast to the four brothers who always don yellow. Her bearers shoo crowds out of the way, and the dedicated light man replenishes his ‘mashal’ or torch constantly with kerosene from a quaint, old-fashioned dispenser.

The Gomteshwar mandir which serves as the backdrop for Phulwari

Sita and her companions make their way up the temple steps. I come to realise that time takes on quite a different meaning in rural India. The assembled crowd took the three-hour delay completely in its stride. Shuklaji informs me that every day, the performance, which begins at 5pm takes a flexible break at dusk, so that everyone – from the Maharaja to the performers – can do their ritual sandhya vandan. Small wonder then, that when Sita disappears ‘off-screen’ into the sanctum for a good eight minutes to do her Girija pujan, everyone simply waits. The puja isn’t for show and neither is their devotion.

The Ramlila is punctuated by singing from the Ram Charit Manas by Ramayanis, a group of twelve men who narrate the story in verse. This is followed by the actors who then perform the re-enactment. The Ramayanis finish their verse and the samvaad begins. Ram and Sita meet in the garden, and there is a flare of attraction. Each hopes they are meant to be together. In the rapt audience, mobile rings are frowned upon, chatter is sternly shushed. Some just read the Manas by LED light, following events their own way.

An hour more, and it is done. The swaroops stand for the final aarti, a white firecracker is set off to indicate finis. Within ten minutes, the entire crowd disperses. Till the next day, when Shri Ram will string the Shiv Dhanush and win his bride.

Stories from the Seema

In October last year, I undertook two travel assignments for Outlook Traveller – one to Medak and the other to Kurnool. A '2 States' kind of story – one trip into Telangana and the other into Seemandhra. I was supposed to go to the coast, but every time we plan a story for Coastal Andhra, it has most lamentable consequences for that region. Srikakulam, we thought in 2012, and it triggered Cyclone Laila. We had only started to consider Guntur-Vijayawada again and it brought on Hudhud. So we decided on Kurnool, which has proved more hardy. Not that it has a history of being particularly easy for me but at least there isn't a trail of disaster.

It was hot weather, I had a migraine throughout but we managed a lovely trip. Here is the story. Photos on this blog are mine.

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These Border(less) Lands

As we speeded along the road from Hyderabad towards Kurnool, my thoughts dwelled quite a bit on the bifurcation of Andhra Pradesh into Telangana and the residuary state. The rights and wrongs, the causes and effects of the matter aside, it felt like a house divided, borders where they didn’t need to exist... too many lines, I thought sentimentally, are never a good idea.

The destination was Kurnool, the gateway to Rayalaseema – a province with a rich and varied history, a place of hot passions, violent factionist loyalties, a land that was once the stronghold of Krishna Deva Raya. Rayalaseema and Coastal Andhra together now get called ‘Seemandhra’ – two thirds of the former whole.

Kurnool town received us indifferently. We settled into the hotel, and battered as we were from the hot drive, decided on a siesta first. Then, as the sun moved west, revived by cups of tea, we ventured first to the tomb of Abdul Wahab Khan, the first Nawab of Kurnool. The two domes were visible over rooftops from a distance, and narrow, winding roads led us there. No sooner had I stepped into the compound than I acquired the company of a band of inquisitive school boys, intrigued by visitors from far-off lands. We took a shine to one another and my friends accompanied me inside as I peered into the musty burial chambers of the noble family, then to an adjoining dargah and around the tomb to the Hundri riverside, now a murky trickle.

Gumbaz

The tomb held no surprises but I was utterly charmed by the building that abuts it. This was Osmania College, a privately run college that offers up to post-graduate degrees. I wandered into the grey, stone courtyard. Students were making their way home and activity for the day was winding down. Established in 1947 by the educationist Dr M Abdul Haq, this place exudes a combination of an old-world that keeps pace with the world, albeit in its own way. At many points, I saw, at a height above my own, markings declaring ‘Flood Level, 2009’. I knew there had been floods in Kurnool a few years ago but it was still startling to realise that had I stood at this point then, I’d have been submerged with half-foot to spare. 

I strolled into the library and was warmly made welcome by Mohd Akmal sa’ab, who has held charge here for 32 years. This reading room, he informed me, was inspired by the Connemara Public Library in Chennai. A long central reading table, afternoon light slanting on the bookshelves, small lime-washed staircases leading to the upper levels... I took in a breath of deep delight. Portraits of various dignitaries lined the walls, including one of Ghalib. And the issuing counter was such an anachronism, I had to have a picture of that as well.

But light was fading and I wanted to see the Konda Reddy Burz by decent light, so I tore myself away and rushed to the Old Bus Stand area. There, to one side of teeming traffic, was the semi-circular citadel. It is not a word one commonly applies to forts but, I tell you, it fits this one: Konda Reddy Burz is cute. Dated to sometime around 1530-42 AD, it was built by Achyuta Raya, the successor of Krishna Deva Raya. It was used as a community call-to-arms, the man from the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) told me; not living quarters but a bolt-hole in case of attack. There is a boarded up underground passage here that is said to lead all the way to Alampur, 28km to the northeast, to emerge somewhere in the precincts of the old Jogulamba Temple there. But the thrill of hearing about secret pathways like this one inevitably dims in the light of repressive realities. It has been sealed, they will tell you, the passage has been blocked by rubble and is unusable... and no! you certainly can’t explore it. Oh, what is the use? This sort of thing would have never deterred children in adventure books but I nod meekly and go away.

The next day, we took a winding route across the district to Belum Caves. Barely 25 km out of Kurnool, however, we stopped to have our breath taken away. Let’s put it this way – there are rocks at Orvakallu. Lots of them. Magnificent deposits of quartz and silica piled up in spectacular formations. Between two tall walls of stone, there is a ravine that has been cut through by water. I’d been here before but it was even more impressive the second time.

We rushed through breakfast and headed to Banganapalle. I didn’t have too much information about what I was seeking here – just couple of references online. However, the picture I’d seen was enough to have me turn a touch dogged and enquire for the ‘Arundhati bangla?’ at every halt for directions. What I was looking for was the summer residence of the Nawab Mir Fazl Ali Khan Bahadur, more recently famous for being the shoot-location of a Telugu fantasy thriller called Arundhati.

They told us we’d find it on the road to Yaganti, near the village of Pathapadu. And just when we began to have misgivings about this search, there it was under the torrid noon sun: on a slight hillock, somehow looking imposing, forlorn, forbidding and beckoning at once. A beautifully proportioned bangla with a series of arched windows, staircases leading up from each side. It looked deserted but there were a couple of villagers in occupation after all. An array of local snacks were laid out and they collected a modest entry fee which opened the locked doors of the building. I bought a potnam of sunflower seeds for Rs 5 and followed her in. Corridors gave way to chambers. Here and there the roof had caved in and sunlight streamed strongly in, making for nice pictures but a sad story. I could see why Arundhati had chosen to come here – there were ghosts still.

Pathapadu Bangala.

 Our next halt was Yaganti which was famous for its temple to Shiva. Nestled at the foot of some imposing cliffs, the lord is called Yaganti Uma Maheshwara here. Built by the illustrious Sangama kings Harihara and Bukka Rayulu, the 15^th-century temple is beautiful, with a pushkarni ever-supplied with spring water. And to one side of the main temple is a dramatic shrine. Steep steps lead up the cliffside and right into a thin aperture in the rock... the cave opens up to considerable height and here, in an alcove, reigns Lord Venkateshwara, whom Sage Agastya first intended to install at Yaganti before Shiva took it for his own.

Embedded in the cliff-side.

By now, we could see that stone was a ubiquitous feature of the Kurnool landscape. Untouched and towering in some spots, and fully exploited at others such as the village of Betamcherla, famous for its polished slab. Marble, granite, black stone are all mined here and almost every building we passed was in the stone business. But now, at Belum, we were approaching rock at another level altogether. With a length of 3229 m, these appear to be the longest cave systems in the country outside of the karsts of Meghalaya. The entrance was a circular pit and right away, we descended and then moved into a spacious chamber with a circular opening overhead. I craned my neck to see a deep blue sky and a white puff of cloud... at the rim of the crater, grass fluttered in the breeze... so pretty! That was our last glimpse of the sky for a while.

Skylight in the Belum Caves.

Belum Caves were first discovered by British surveyor Robert Bruce Foote in 1884, but it was only recently, in 1982-84, that a team of German speleologists headed by Daniel Gebauer conducted a detailed exploration of the caves. The team mapped about 3½ km of caves, and when APTDC stepped in to develop the caves as a tourist attraction in 2000, they put to use only 1½ km. Knowing that this tourism corporation had great enthusiasm that was not equalled by good taste, I will admit to some apprehensions about their treatment and showcasing of natural wonders. Walking into the caves, I did purse my lips at an artificial fountain, did wonder if they needed to be quite so obtrusive in designing stairs and ramps for tourists. But after the whole tour, I have to tip my hat to them, and indeed thank them for making the experience of these caves at all possible for people without endurance or a thirst for perilous adventure. The whole walk has been designed to include various features of interest – large caverns, interesting formations and, at the lowest point at 120ft below, a spring they’ve called Patalaganga. It gets hot and it gets claustrophobic, so at four points during the walk, the authorities have lowered air shafts for people to stand under and, literally, recover their breath. The sense of being underground, surrounded by damp black limestone, running my finger along indentions made by water, seeing shapes formed by years of stress and deposit... it was simply terrific.

It was time to head back to Hyderabad but there was time for one more detour – the temple complex at Alampur. Now this, strictly, isn’t in Kurnool – it falls within Mahbubnagar and therefore Telangana. On the other hand, history binds these places rather tightly. After all, when carts ferried stone to the temples being built at Alampur in the 7th century, it was at Kurnool that they stopped to be greased. Kandenavolu, they used to call it then, for ‘kandena’ meant grease.

The Jogulamba temple, Alampur. It's one of the 18 Mahashakti Peethams in the sub-continent.

The temple complex at Alampur is on the banks of the Tungabhadra and each shrine – there are many – has a tale to tell. I walked along here and there, and came upon a dargah wedged snugly into the wall next to a temple for the lady Kamakshi. India’s secularism pops up in the most unexpected nooks. Then I stopped at an ornate pathway when a priest fortuitously offered me information. The jyothirlinga at Srisailam had four gates in four directions, and this spot, where I now stood, was the western gateway – an entrance that has witnessed footfalls of every pilgrim that came from this direction.

The lay of the land was different then, I mused, their hubs were other than the ones we’ve created... the lines they drew on their maps were formed differently. Kingdoms collapse, establishments fade away, lines blur and are redrawn afresh in each era... cities rise and fall but the land is more enduring. These border lines don’t matter as much as I think they do.

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The piece appeared in Outlook Traveller, November 2014. The link to the online version is here.

Saaquiya aaj mujhe neend nahi aayegi

Magha maasa or the month of Magha is here again. And I am fortunate, again, to find myself in the Velliangiri foothills spending the week leading up to Mahashivarathri at the Isha Yoga Center.

While I am here, I might as well be useful, so I help out with the live blog, where we follow the events at Yaksha, the annual festival of dance and music, culminating in the big night.

Last year, after this now-familiar sojourn, I had written about it for Outlook Traveller. The full version is here.

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Holy Days

For thousands of spiritual seekers in India, particularly South India, it’s become something of a no-brainer. Whatever else they may do through the year, they know already that they’ll be spending Mahashivarathri – the 14th day of the lunar month of Magha – at Isha Yoga Center, at the Velliangiri Foothills in Tamil Nadu. The Isha Foundation is a spiritual organisation founded by Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev, and the Yoga Center – a green settlement surrounded by mist-kissed hills – is a truly beautiful place. It is the seat of the Dhyanalinga, a 14-ft structure that is a veritable powerhouse of spiritual energy, capable of transporting people into deeply meditative states.

This Mahashivarathri night is something of a wild party. There is heart-pumping music, some powerful guided meditations… everyone dances like this could be their last night on earth and no one sleeps a wink. Versatile Carnatic artiste Aruna Sairam came to sing this year, Sadhguru narrated stories from Shiva-lore interspersed by dance performances by Anita Ratnam and troupe, and in the small hours, when the eight-lakh-and-change people at the venue may have understandably drooped in their seats, The Raghu Dixit Project woke everyone up rather nicely. The events were also going out live via television to millions of people wishful of maintaining the tradition of keeping awake this moonless night.

But I, for one, was glad to actually be here. There is something very auspicious about this particular time–space combination. As it is, the planetary positions make it highly advisable to keep your spine erect through the night to benefit from a natural upsurge of energy. What makes it even more interesting is that Isha Yoga Center is located at 11°N, a band across the planet which, thanks to the centrifugal force created by the spinning earth, is particularly beneficial to those wanting that aforementioned energy pushed up. A double win, so to say.

However, I wasn’t here only for a day. Every year, the week leading up to Mahashivarathri is dedicated to Yaksha, a festival of classical music and dance. This year’s line-up included the Carnatic violinist TN Krishnan, Hindustani vocalist Ulhas Kashalkar and the towering Carnatic vocalist TM Krishna. Nothing – not even wild horses – were going to keep me away.

The performances typically take place in the Linga Bhairavi courtyard. This is a newly minted deity – a thoroughly feminine power who is both fierce and wonderfully kind. The walls that form the backdrop are lit with hundreds of lamps and concerts begin as soon as dusk falls. The seven recitals were all excellent but Odissi danseuse Madhavi Mudgal was a revelation to me. Deft footwork, skilled abhinaya and the capacity for stillness that marks a master. On the final day, TM Krishna held sway. Culling from the kritis of Muthuswamy Dikshitar, Bharatiyar and other Bhakti poets, he sang a fine blend of technique and devotion.

Just to pump up the spectacle quotient, every day of Yaksha has a Maha Arati. The Goddess is taken out in a procession around the complex, where the arati is offered to the Dhyanalinga. The pageant involves trumpets, cymbals and long flaming torches… attendants clear the way with aggressive, sweeping gestures as the Devi is brought into position. Then, lithe-bodied bramhacharis, holding large vessels of leaping fire, offer their dance of passionate submission. It is fabulous to watch!

Then, the week-long party was over. At six in the morning after Mahashivarathri, lakhs of people melted magically away. Bleary-eyed, I walked back from the grounds. The Dhyanalinga, which I expected to be besieged by long queues, was surprisingly empty. I dived in, and sat in one of the cubicles. I was deprived of sleep, and of course, the Dhyanalinga did its thing…. I was soon fathoms deep in an indescribable space beyond space.

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A shorter version of this feature appeared here, in the April 2013 issue of Outlook Traveller.

Tiger Warrior - a review

Tiger Warrior: Fateh Singh Rathore of Ranthambhore
By Soonoo Taraporewala
(Viking, Rs 499)

A Reverent Gaze

The title of this book is an evocative one. With the Rajput references and the many elements of machismo, it carries echoes of clanging metal, hints of tales of valour, images of a brave fighter wiping blood and sweat over hard fought battles. You will find all those elements in this book—only, the landscape isn’t the ramparts of some historical fort but the open grasses of a national park, and the battleground is tiger conservation in India.

The story of Fateh Singh Rathore—the man who carved out Ranthambhore National Park and worked tirelessly to create a safe haven for tigers—is tremendously inspiring. An exceptional naturalist, Fateh Singh was almost empathetic in his knowledge of tiger behaviour, “to such an extent,” the author tells us, “that he himself was like a tiger as it is possible for any human to be.” As a long standing friend, Taraporewala manages to bring to life many facets of this brave man, and the events of his long undulating career as a forest official and conservationist—his family background, his almost random-seeming appointment in the Forest Department, and his subsequent dedication to the tiger cause. Also, there is great insight into the larger operations of the Indian Forest Service and the Government.

The book holds, however, more due to the drama in the life of its subject—which the writer reports earnestly—than to the style of prose. The technique is more ‘tell’ than ‘show’. Barring a fervent foreword by Valmik Thapar, who grew to be a close friend of Fateh Singh’s, we get no voices but Taraporewala’s, not many quotes, no very interesting interviews or opinions, no commentary from the subject’s family or friends. The assortment of pictures is disappointing as well—a mere eight pages and not one image of Jogi Mahal, the beautiful forest resthouse in Ranthambhore that Fateh Singh restored and rebuilt.

For all that though, this is a book that both rouses and disheartens. We see the efforts that a single man is capable of, the fruit that can be brought to bear if the will exists but, equally, the heartbreak that comes from a world too mediocre to receive such dedication with gratitude or grace.

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This was published in Outlook Traveller, January 2013. The link is here.

Gadbad, Gadbad!

I mentioned recently my travel to the coast of Karnataka? It was for this story, published in Outlook Traveller, December 2012.

Incidentally I was supposed to go to the other coast but Cyclone Nilam had her say and suddenly altered plans saw me doing this wonderful jaunt. All good.

 

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All Pretty On The Western Front

 

Apart from the wonderful Udupi food and the marvellous array of seafood that the western coast of India is known for, there is another kind of culinary offering – one that had escaped my notice till I actually landed there. It mystified me at first. If an ice cream proclaimed itself to be ‘Gadbad’ Ice Cream, what might it do to my insides? With a six-day trip ahead of me, I let it go in Mangalore (regret!), eyed it again on Kaup Beach and then gave in to sample it in Karwar.

This is a vertical sundae, a concoction invented in Mangalore. In a tall glass, they lay a bed of fruit salad, pile up three scoops of ice cream in any flavours you fancy, sprinkle it with dry fruits and tutti-frutti and, to finish up, pour some honey and vividly coloured syrup all around. A bit of everything. It occurred as I was eating it that it wasn’t a half-bad description of my own jaunt up the coast of Karnataka. With Mangalore at the base, a dollop each of Udupi, Murudeshwara and Gokarna, garnished with beaches and temples, flavoured everywhere with the salt of sea breeze. It was very gadbad.

Mangalore was full of contrasts. Wearing the look of a blasé city but a scratch or two reveals the town – and its history. First we decided to be obeisance to Goddess Mangala Devi, who gives the city its name. An old temple (some say 9^th, some say 10^th century) still half-wearing its Dussehra finery – festivities this temple is famous for. Then a visit to Lord Kadri Manjunatha was called for. This is an 11^th century temple built over in several layers. On the side, through the slats in the window, I peeped at a truly magnificent bronze idol of Trilokeshwara. Should it be in a museum, lit and well displayed, or better thus, viewed through a narrow aperture, preserving a quaint mystery and installed in a consecrated space?

The sun dipped and we headed to the shores at Panambur beach, where the Mangalore Port is located. Children squealed in delight, young men thundered up and down the sand on hired ponies, and gaggles of girls dunked each other in the water. I bought myself a cone of bhel puri and saw the sun off.

The next day was devoted to the temple town of Udupi, the history and lore of which are steeped with references to Madhvacharya, the 13^th century philosopher-saint who propounded the Dvaita school of Indian philosophy. This was hallowed turf for me; a veritable Mecca for the community I hail from, and I’d never been. So basking under what I hoped was the benign approval of now-deceased grandparents, I went.

Car Street Road is where it’s all at. In a close cluster – amidst a bustling market selling everything from flowers to cool drinks, puja essentials to curios – the temples. The ancient Chandramoulishwara temple and the Ananteshwara temples are traditionally understood to have first dibs on your attention – you must visit these before you visit the main Krishna temple. There are stories and legends told about everything, and there is the curious case of the west-facing idol. The story goes that the poet-saint Kanakadasa was not allowed entry into the shrine by the upper-class priests and so stood outside singing songs of praise. Pleased with his devotion, Krishna turned west to face him even as the wall developed a crack. So darshan here is sought through a small window called Kanakana kindi. A rather splendid view it is too: a small idol adorned with a ‘vajra kavacha’, armour studded with diamonds.  Around the temples stand the eight muttas – temple administrative systems, if you will – that take care of the Krishna temple in turn. The whole street is redolent with a culture that is now shrinking.

Free lunch is offered at the temple and I found my way to the large dining room at lunch time. Long rows of people seated on the floor for a lovely meal of rice, chutney, sambhar, saaru and buttermilk. A massive container of rice came pushed in a trolley, huge vats of liquid carried up and down the line by two men, efficiently dispensing the broth. “Yellinda ma neevu?” I got asked again and again, “where are you from?” The curiosity deepened to friendliness every time I responded in Kannada. My neighbours guided me through the meal, assuring me there was saaru to come when I wondered how to allocate my rice, and graciously took their leave as I still lingered over my plate.

The temples visited, we headed to the sea at Malpe Beach. At the entrance, a large statue of Mahatma Gandhi loomed on the horizon. In the afternoon light, the Mahatma looked forlorn – but no doubt I was letting my own pessimism about the state of the nation carry me away. Sufficient numbers of enthusiastic locals gambolled in the water but we left them to take a ferry 6km across to St Mary’s Island, one of four small uninhabited islands that are geologically very significant. Huge columns of basaltic lava are strewn across the island and are stunning indeed. Vasco da Gama is supposed to have stopped here on his way from Portugal to Kozhikode and given it its name.

Back at Malpe, I called for a chai and a fortifying sandwich, and we also made time for one other stop – the extremely beautiful Kaup beach. I don’t know if the beach coloured the mood or if it was the mood that enriched the beach – but it seems now to be painted in my memories with hues of gold, blue and purple. There is a noble lighthouse here that was built in 1901 and it carries layers of memory. On the rocks, young people sat quietly appreciative, talking in low tones and walked down the rough stairs before it became too dark to see.

We were doing a longish haul the following day and heading all the way to Murudeshwara, 165km from Mangalore. The erstwhile NH 17 is now called NH 66 – not quite the legend its American counterpart is but an interesting enough road. The highway goes from Kochi to Mumbai and serves the entire coast of Karnataka. Scenic mostly… dotted by a series of bridges over canals formed by the backwaters, lined with coconut trees, paddy fields and broad leaved sal. The road does not, for the most part, hug the coast – although the tang of the sea is never far away.

But a little beyond halfway, suddenly the blue comes into view and you know you’re in the very beautiful Maravanthe stretch. We stopped for lunch at a resort here, which gave us the advantages of open views of the water along as well as a thatched roof over our heads. A little further, fisherfolk busied themselves with their nets, their colourful boats lined up high on the sand. I was squinting in the hot afternoon sun, feeling a little sorry that we should not have come upon this peaceful spot when it was a bit cooler. But that was only till I hitched up my trousers and let the waves come to me, caressing as they retreated. The sea has that quality, I find, of altering your perspective. It was no longer too hot, and with thousands of crabs milling about their hidey holes and sandpipers roosting in the rocks, it was absolutely the perfect time to be in Maravanthe.

Along the road, we came upon a dramatic picture frame – the waves crashed to the left and to the right, winding her way in languorous bends, the Souparnika river. An auspicious river that supposedly absorbs the goodness of 64 medicinal plants and herbs as it flows – a dip in these waters, therefore, is believed to be marvellously curative. I remember my mother insisting that her skin turned a beautiful golden when she bathed in the Souparnika… but there was no easy access to the water at this point and I regretfully gave up the idea of bringing home one bottle of its magic.

Soon we were at the bustling temple town of Murudeshwara. Dozens of buses at the local bus stop, taxi stands in the narrow main street, shops, tourists, eateries, lodges. The beach isn’t the cleanest by any means – the tourists keep to one side and the fisherfolk occupy the other. However, there are two features that tower over the town – one, the 20-storied raja gopuram to the Murudeshwara temple, about 237ft tall that needs you to crane your neck all the way if you’re standing at the entrance; and two, a 123ft sculpture of Shiva that dominates the landscape from miles away. The Murudeshwara shrine itself is old, linked to the convoluted legend of Ravana and the atma linga, but the temple has been constructed over the past decades through the efforts of local businessman and philanthropist R.N. Shetty; the sculpture, one of the tallest in India, is his vision as well.

There is a wonderful opportunity for underwater adventure at Murudeshwara. The lovely dive site of Netrani is 20km off the coast from here – and the lure was irresistible. The next morning saw us chugging along in the motor boat listening to a basic primer on scuba diving. The coral island of Netrani is a beautiful spot with a visibility of 15-20m and I was excited. Soon I was kitted out with the cylinder fastened to my back and I learned to my dismay that I was expected to fall into the water with a back flip – oddly enough, the aspect that scared me the most. Still, that was accomplished without a hiccup, and my instructor and I descended slowly. It didn’t seem so drastically different from snorkelling at first but the pressure started building in my ears and I knew I was definitely under water. We went down to about 12m. Vast schools of fish, fascinatingly coloured, marine life along the floor, corals, anemone… I saw other divers, hand-signalled ok for the underwater cameras and looked about avidly. A mere half-hour in a completely different element. I loved it but it did make me appreciate air and the fact that I was designed for it.

We moved up north to Gokarna next – which seemed to be the point where, culturally,  Karnataka melded into Goa. The beach shacks were more geared to the European palate, the beach shops had an eye firmly on the foreign tourist market. We stayed at an interesting little place called Namasta Yoga Farm, which is run by German Oliver Miguel. My cottage had a gorgeous yoga deck framed by orange curtains and I succumbed at once to the temptation of twelve rounds of Surya Namaskars.

The beaches here are beautiful: Om, with its undulating shape, and Kudle, so popular with the foreign tourists. Perhaps the name bestows a certain quietude to people who visit Om, because towards evening even the gambollers sauntered over to the rocks and fell to quiet meditation. Journey’s end but I fear it’s given me a taste for the sea that my land-locked city will struggle to assuage.

 

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The story, with additional information, is also up here.

Creature Comforts

Another deadline stares me in the face and since I cannot yet meet its eyes, my attention darts here and there. Let me put up this story of a river (and continent) I loved very much.

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Creature Comforts

There is something about great rivers, and there is something particularly special about the Zambezi. Wide, life-giving, embracing but also ferocious, and imperious in that manner of sweeping all before it. It is impossible to know – or love – a river such as this too well. And certainly not on the basis of a two-day acquaintance. But then, as lovers everywhere know, it depends on the two days.

Oddly, what I found most impressive was the fact that Zambezi, which traverses a distance of 3,540 km, and crosses seven countries to empty into the Indian Ocean, is only the fourth-longest river in Africa. It duly takes its place after Nile, Zaire and Niger – a little comparative study that brought home to me, firsthand, the magnitude of this land. I had read of colonial travellers’ term for the vast swathes of this continent. MMBA, they had called it, in part awe, part rueful frustration – Miles and Miles of Bloody Africa. I could see it now.

Our headquarters in Livingstone, Zambia, was the Royal Livingstone, a hotel located at a particularly well appointed spot on the banks, with a view of the Zambezi just before it hurtles down a chasm to form the magnificent Victoria Falls. The hotel’s lobby is designed to make most of this vantage: you walk in and gaze not upon the room (which is tasteful) but through the other archway which frames the blue-grey expanse of the water. Everywhere, in the dining areas, the charming rooms with their open verandas, the architecture employs an intelligent, pitch-perfect permeability between indoor and outdoor spaces.



Our very first item on the sightseeing list was, naturally, the Victoria Falls, ‘the largest sheet of falling water’ on the planet. Actually we’d been seeing it for miles. On the flight in, the flight attendant’s plummy tones had directed us to look out of our windows to the mist rising off ‘Vic Falls.’ Then as we drove from the airport with the river a constant presence on our right, we pulled up to see a soaring froth in the distance and a brilliant rainbow caught in its snare. From the hotel’s deck, again, in the distance, the spray. It was, without question, the centrepiece.

We moved closer now and the sound of cascading water deafened us. Mosi-oa-tunya, the Makololo people call it: ‘the smoke that thunders’. It does indeed. As we approached the eastern cataract, Francis, our guide, pointed into the water. A black rotund sleekness surfaced slowly - a young hippo marooned by the swirling currents, not strong enough to wade to the other side, clinging to the less turbulent shallows by the reeds. He could be there for days, we were told.

We donned raingear, protected our cameras and lenses in plastic covers and started walking to the other side of the fissure. And around a corner, our first frontal view of the waterfall. Through shrubbery at first and then, as we picked our way along the edge of the gorge, getting wetter and wetter from the needle spray, the whole amazing expanse of it. It is a breathtaking sight, one neither our cameras nor our exclamations could do justice to. Let’s put it this way: it’s bigger than us.



We went the next morning on a quintessential African activity – a game drive. The Mosi-o-tunya National Park is a small one (66sq km) but it gave us a full morning’s sightings. How astonishing it is to set out to see fauna in Africa – there is no lurking, hiding; no strained glimpses through shaded shrubbery… there’re all out there, in the open, crossing your path with impunity. So we saw herds of Impala, Bushback antelope, Wildebeest, Zebra posing this way and that. A Southern Red-billed Hornbill honoured us with multiple sightings, a warthog ambled our way and we encountered a large troop of baboons. I brought my binoculars out to get a good look at a Saddle-billed stork and the strange Hamerkop bird. We came then to a completely denuded tree on which perched an appropriately sinister gathering: a venue of White-backed vultures. We pulled up again at another point – majestic elephants, a small herd of five, would have right of way. Of course.

We didn’t see any big cats but I was delighted enough with my first sighting of a giraffe. What a strange looking animal it is. Put together like an assortment of other creatures and that bizarre neck with a touch of fur all the way down! Our specimen nibbled placidly at the upper leaves, his marbled skin pattern catching the light beautifully. Just like they said in the nature documentaries.
Next, I had a choice of activities. The first, to go by boat to Livingstone Island, to the spot where the explorer David Livingstone first discovered the falls in 1855. I was tempted but I opted for the other item on offer: to jump off the Victoria Falls Bridge.

After the falls, the Zambezi gushes into this narrow scenic gorge which has this historic bridge across it – a no-man’s land that connects Zambia with Zimbabwe. I was excited about this bungee jump. My very first, and so pleasing to do such a celebrated one!  As we drew to the bridge, however, the anticipation turned into dry-mouthed dread. I looked down and saw… way, way down… the teal blue waters swirl and churn. Around me jumpers were getting into harness and taking off to plummet 111m towards the river. My turn came. I was having my feet bound with padding and the bungee cord, and was asked to move, hopping, to the edge… the very edge of the platform. I twitched nervously but with the jump master blocking my passage backwards, there was no way but forward – into thin air.

I didn’t… couldn’t… soar outwards like I was advised to. Instead I fell with a scream like dead weight. I went first, the body followed, the stomach joined us several minutes later. It was truly beautiful… suspended upside down, being tossed up and down in the ravine, twirling around to see a fully circular rainbow from the spray.

Yet another view of the falls was afforded me the next day, when I went up in a micro light. It’s a vehicle too flimsy to be taken seriously but miraculously, it worked. There I was, insulated like an astronaut against the morning chill, looking down this way and that. What seemed like grey boulders were strewn about abundantly – elephants! A vein of silver-blue picked out the Zambezi’s course and soon we were motoring –inevitably –towards the falls. The small plane tilted into the spray, which rises on average to about half a kilometre in the air. The cataracts sprawled across 1.7 km, thundering down over 100m. I saw the bridge I had leaped off the previous day and marvelled anew at my own daring.

It was a good way to say goodbye, and now South Africa beckoned. Rather, more specifically, Sun City. A three-hour, cramping drive from Johannesburg deposited us at the entrance of the Palace of the Lost City – which is an experience that is at once dazzling and bemusing. Opulence meets quirkiness in this wild Xanadu-like hotel – sweeping halls, tiled mosaic on the floor, ceiling… everywhere. Spires, domes, columns, sculptures, tapestries, genuine animal skin upholstery… everything at once.

Sun City is a huge hit with Indian travellers who have made their presence felt, one way or the other. And we very nearly added to it. Bart, a gametracker at the Pilanesberg Game Reserve, was scheduled to meet us at 3.00 that afternoon. But we’d had a rough day, worsened by a small accident on the Segway and consequently, it was an hour later that we trooped to the game vehicle. Our guide was furious. After informing us that punctuality was a trait much prized in South Africa, he laid down the Indian-tourist-specific rules: “This vehicle stops when I want it to, moves when I decide. So don’t ‘chalo, chalo’ me. There is no ‘chalo, chalo.’” Oops!

But the afternoon improved. Sighting a lioness in the distance as we had only just entered the park set the seal: it was going to be a good day. The Pilanesberg reserve is set in the crater of a long extinct volcano: plains fringed by mountains. The habitat is a transition between the Kalahari and the Lowveld, and so benefits from an overlap of species. To the eye, it was a vivid, dramatic panorama that changed moods every twenty minutes as the afternoon went by.

In the distance, we spied a bulky grey figure snoozing. White rhinoceros. Two impressive horns, small flappy ears and over 3,500 kg of mostly muscle. Antelopes we saw an abundance of: the smallish Steenbok and the handsome Kudu. Bart thawed towards us – clearly, tourists as lucky as we appeared to be couldn’t be that bad.

The light had started to slant when suddenly he stepped on the brakes with an excited yelp and pointed.  A leopard high up in a tree, resting delicately and yet, quite comfortably on a mass of foliage. We found the spot with the best view and settled, willing to wait as long as the leopard did. The lone tree and the panther silhouetted against the gathering dusk – it was a moment of unbelievable rightness. A few minutes later, the cat tired of his perch and clambered down, carefully negotiating his way down, clasping the trunk as he backed onto the ground. And then with a last look at us, he leapt across a small stream and melted away into the tall grass.

Elated with our encounter, we headed back to the gates. And stopped again. A brown hyena minced along the side of the road, glassy eyes staring back at our searchlights. It crossed the road and we saw it gone before we set off again. A little further, a traffic jam. Game vehicles had stopped in the middle of the road and a hushed silence – one that indicates a sighting of no ordinary significance – prevailed. Soon the object of their attention became apparent to us. Quite by the road, three lionesses at play. Caught in a pool of cross-lighting from the various game vehicles, the sisters ambled, swiped, nuzzled and gambolled. After five minutes, or perhaps ten, they walked slowly away till the darkness enveloped them. Now it seemed indeed that a visit to Africa was complete.

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This was published in Outlook Traveller, October 2012. The link is here. 

Much Addu

When we come across places whose first characteristic is immense, startling beauty, we tend to sigh — and we tend to want. The sharp equatorial sun of the Maldives, the many layered shades of blue, the eternal shadows of coconut palm contrast so keenly with our own grey streets, that comparisons are human, and inevitable. But the poet Wordsworth has an admonition for travellers who do that: “But covet not the abode,” he tells us sternly, “O do not sigh /  As many do, repining while they look...”. He was right. These islands are best approached with a firm intention to sample but not crave. For which purpose, my three days in Addu Atoll were perfect.

Addu is the southernmost atoll of the Maldives – a little apart culturally from the rest of the islands. It is the only atoll (the country has 26 such natural groups) to fall just south of the equator – a fact that took me in an Anne-of-Green-Gables kind of delight. I forgot, however, to check if water does swirl down the sink counter-clockwise.

I was here with Make My Trip’s very first charter to Maldives. The package is designed to render these isles more affordable to the Indian tourist and there is one sure way to do that: make up the numbers. Special flights from Mumbai make their way straight to Gan International Airport from where Herathera, our resort, was 20 mins away by motor boat. I slightly feared a claustrophobic three days – would this resort be large enough to hold over 100 holidaymakers without making it seem like something out of Honeymoon Travels Pvt Ltd?

In the event, it was just right. Herathera is a thin, elongated island with a 4km long beach and it uses its features wonderfully. About 300 villas are arranged along its length; hedges and design guard your privacy and give you your own access to the beach that practically laps at your doorstep. Mealtimes were communal but comfortably so, and for the rest, I could almost imagine myself Robinson Crusoe if I cared to. Very nice.

But I was lost to all this the first morning. The red-eye flight, followed by a cradle-mimicking motorboat ride... when I got to the room, I noted that it was bright and pleasant but succumbed to sleep many fathoms deep. Privately, I have a scale of how much I take to a place by marking how well I sleep there – the Maldives has performed superbly. I did nothing more strenuous that morning than lounge in the patio, gaze at the sea, read, take photographs and take in lunch. As I returned along the garden way, I spied a quick furtive movement on the ground just outside my front door. A small slanting hole but its occupant was now hidden from view. A vole or shrew, maybe?

Shrugging, I detoured to the waves that formed the backdrop to everything. I like the sea but, I must confess, am not overly fond of sand. One visit to the beach and you’re coming up against gritty particles all day — some that sneakily go so far as to infiltrate bed-clothes even. But that was before I walked on this soft whiteness they have laid out here. And on the back-steps leading up to my room, forestalling just such a complaint such as mine, stood a mud pot of cool water and a ladle craftily made of coconut shell and a crook of wood. So I was able to happily wash off every time before stepping in and, in consequence, rushed out to the water as often as the mood came upon me.  I took my morning coffee out to the waves every day – the simplest thing but so exotic!

About a dozen of us clambered into a local doni-boat that evening and chugged into the sunset. I was looking out especially for a particular bird: the white tern, or the dondheeni as they call it, is a resident and they make quite a symbol of it in Addu. I couldn’t see it on Herathera and I was told they were likelier on other islands with generous supplies of breadfruit. But there was no hint of the white bird, there were no dolphins either at Dolphin Point; however, to compensate, as the sun sank, a patch of golden yellow leached spectacularly into riven bands of purple and orange.

During dinner, at the mellowly-lit Kilhi restaurant, there was music. Young men from nearby villages came to sing, accompanied by drums and beats. They wore white shirts and lungis that they call ‘feyli’ in these parts. Dark bodied, lithely muscular, their smiles friendly but a touch sardonic. The songs tugged at me – the language curiously familiar but elusive. There is some Arabic, some Persian, some Sinhalese and I could swear to similarities with Kannada. The airs were familiar too – I discerned a Salil Chowdhury tune, which put me in a quandary. The composer was known for being widely influenced but music in the Maldives draws heavily from Hindi movies – which was the original? In the face of the joyous recitals, it didn’t seem to matter.

The next day, as I ambled around the island looking up at fruit bats, a bizarre sight met my eyes. A resort cart glided by and I glanced at it idly: it was occupied by some six people, all blindfolded with black tapes. Yes. Blindfolded. Terrorist attack! Wild incoherent images of slavery or bulk kidnappings! Well, not. Mercifully for my nerves, I had been told the day before that I might encounter this extraordinary cartload. What was actually happening was that we were sharing the resort with the crew of Survivor South Africa. These captives were contestants of the show, who were let loose on one of the neighbouring uninhabited islands as part of the game. While the ‘surviving’ took place in the genuine wilds, the ‘tribal council’ sessions were filmed in a hut-like structure at the far end of Herathera, where they were now being transported. The blindfolds, of course, were to keep them from seeing the civilised environs of the resort and ruining the ‘wild’ mindset.

The producers had chosen their spot well, for that is the magic of the Maldives. Of the 1190-odd coral islands that form this beautiful chain, only around 200 are inhabited. The rest either have resorts or are left to be. There is something so right about the arrangement of land and water. All this makes the islands very difficult to run, of course. Everything is imported – rice, fruit, vegetables, which made me worry slightly for the ‘survivors’. Resort islands generate their own electricity, purify their own water. Staff is ferried back and forth everyday.

This knowledge made me slightly guilty about my carbon footprint at lunchtime when I dug into fresh vegetables, olives, cheese and the wonderful desserts the chef had concocted. It didn’t, of course, make a difference to how much I dug into them, which is as it should be. As I returned I stopped short on the path as I had done before, but it was too late. My shy ground-dwelling neighbour had made a quick getaway. I was now seriously intrigued. Clearly, a little guile was called for. I went in, waited a little and parted the curtains from within. And sure enough, there he was, sitting meditatively by his burrow. Not a mammal at all but a small crab, unaware that I was snooping on his afternoon siesta. A little communion with Google-God has been done and I fancy my friend was a ghost crab.

To the Indian mentality that is so centred on ‘activity’, the isles, no matter how pretty, begin to feel like a trap fairly quickly. I heard tales (vastly exaggerated in the service of humour, hopefully) of honeymooning couples driven to suicide or murder by the end of a week. At least two women in our group told me on Day Three that they had had quite enough.

But Day Three held some activity for me: I went snorkelling. As we sped our way across to the reef, I gathered my gear. I’m myopic, and it cost me a pang to put away my spectacles and don the plain-glass snorkelling mask. The discomfort of entering an unfamiliar element was going to be heightened by the handicap of extra-blurred vision. But that couldn’t be helped. Life-jacketed and sun-blocked, my mouth dry with fear, I slid off the doni and into the water. All around, the orange figures of my companions bobbed in the sea. Reluctantly, but knowing I must, I flipped on my belly and put my head under the water. And, just like that, entered another world. The reef teemed with life – corals of amazing variety, sea anemone, schools of thin shimmering fish, broad vividly patterned families. The corals were so close, I was afraid I’d damage them. I let the sea toss me where it would for a bit. The experience was so physical, so holistically sensory, I didn’t even notice the lack of my spectacles. Some 40 mins later, I felt a tap on my arm; the instructor was motioning me to head back to the boat. I had been so lost, I hadn’t noticed I was among the last to heave myself back in. Heavy-bodied, so tired and so happy.

That evening, I jumped at a chance to visit Gan. Given its geography and its dichotomous approach to tourism, it’s quite possible to visit the Maldives and not meet its people. Gan is linked by bridges and a 17-km paved road to the islands of Feydoo, Maradhoo and Hithadhoo, the atoll’s capital island. The drive was most telling. To the south, Gan bore its history on its face: between 1941 and 1976, this used to be a British Royal Air Force base. Wide roads, white colonial buildings... a memorial here, a cannon there, military neatness everywhere. Then a clutch of souvenir shops and general stores, self-deprecatingly attempting commerce. As we passed over the bridges, the scenes changed. Shops, banks, schools, government offices, residential areas, the homes...I could see what stood for affluence, which residences indicated more modest means. In Hithadhoo, a heartwarming sight – young men and elders hunched over tables in concentration, engaged in a local tournament of chess and checkers.

It was time to leave. At Gan Airport that night, we suffered a frustrating delay with our 3.30am flight. Resigned, I spread my shawl in a corner and managed a half-decent snooze; when I came to, it was dawn, the plane ready to leave. We stepped out of the lounge to a rain-washed runway. Light was streaking gloriously through the clouds, the sea glinted a very fresh blue. In the trees to one side, a pair of pure white birds circled, flexing their morning wings. The white tern. I stood transfixed for a few moments, and walked into the waiting plane.

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This was carried in Outlook Traveller, February 2011. The link is here.

Season of Mists

I have been behindhand in uploading my travel pieces but I've really been wanting to. My travel to Meghalaya was memorable. I've said before how some places, some views force the mind open to other worlds, other possibilities. There were many such scenes here. Scenes that sometimes bubble up from the murky depths of consciousness, if you're sitting quiet for a moment, vacant.
This piece appeared in the July 2009 issue of Outlook Traveller, the monsoon issue. The link is here.

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A Walk in the Clouds

On the subject of entrancing places, M.M. Kaye talks of names “that possess a peculiar, singing magic in every syllable; like Samarkand or Rajasthan, or Kilimanjaro…” In that list she should include Meghalaya, the ‘Abode of Clouds’. Round the vowels a touch full, stretch the ‘a’ that links ‘megh’ and ‘aalaya’…The name presages dream-like vistas—a magical land with its head perpetually in the clouds.

It is best said at the outset so you can paint them into your mental frames: Meghalaya’s colours are white and green. The white of cloud and mist is “a shining and affirmative thing” but the green—the green annihilates everything “to a green thought in a green shade.” The colours form backdrop to everything – the roads, the landscapes, the ubiquitous waterfalls. The verdure is not surprising, of course, given that the small state gets an awful lot of rain. On average it receives 12,000mm each year – more than any other state in the country.

I was hoping for rain – some vigorous showers would add much-desired verisimilitude to a monsoon travel story – but not too much. In the event, it rained quite precisely to plan. So here I was ensconced in the beautiful resort Ri Kynjai, sitting out in the balcony overlooking the equally beautiful Umiam Lake, watching clouds gather. They were light-hearted at first, and light-coloured. But the grey seeped in, darkening the skies, darkening the lake and the clouds burst all over with unabashed drama.

I drove that evening along rain-drenched hill roads with no very particular destination. I peeped into a nearby Jesuit monastery, stood at spectacular vantage points everywhere. I passed through villages, where, with only a small concession to the rain in form of something held over their heads, people continued with chores outside. You cannot, I suppose, put off your tasks till the downpour has exhausted itself if you’ve known it to last 20 days.

Shillong was a slight surprise. A hill town, with narrow winding roads meeting big city with its buses, choked traffic and teeming office goers. I hadn’t known it to be such a centre for education, that it attracted students from all the Northeastern states; hadn’t expected to be caught in traffic jams. Local Khasi women manned the shops everywhere, their manner a nice mixture of brisk politeness. They are a matrilineal tribe and tend to produce independent women. In the business centres of the city, women sped about wearing the traditional two-piece Jainsem. I was very taken with the garment – it fell so gracefully, seemed to afford ease of movement and, going by the variety on Shillong’s streets, could be very smart indeed. When I walked about Police Bazaar, I looked for Jainsems at the wonderful shops there. The salesgirls have coached me on how to wear them – one of these days, I mean to dazzle my friends by turning up in it.

The morning went to some tourist activity – waterfalls and peaks that make for cosy picnic spots, and I was fascinated by the sacred grove near Smit. A group of trees standing together in a stately manner, conscious of their dignity and their hallowed status. Meghalaya’s landscape is dotted with such delicious significances – there are over 80 such groves or law kyntangs dedicated to forest spirits, and several ancient stone circles and monoliths that supposedly serve as memorials.

There was a rare treat in store that afternoon. Everywhere in Shillong, I had noticed small box shops, all prominently displaying a slate with four numbers chalked out on them. The significance was lost on me till Amar Rai of Ri Kynjai led me with a grin to Siat Khnam, introducing me to a lottery by archery that Meghalaya is obsessed with. It was an amazing scene. What happens is this: some 50-60 archers stand in an arc and shoot at a haystack for four minutes. The number of arrows is counted and the last two digits are announced. Bets are placed daily on what the numbers might be: your investment could be as little as one rupee, which could earn you eight if you’re a good guesser; the second round of shooting yields a little less — six rupees to one. There is, of course, no upper limit and bets are often placed to the tune of thousands of rupees. Fortunes are made on the teer, I was told, and the gambling is both compulsive and, as I found, terribly infectious. I placed modest sums on a clutch of favourite numbers and stood back. The archers took aim, the start was announced and a rain of arrows shot across the field, most embedding themselves in the stack. It was spectacular. It was over a few minutes later, and some of the watchers rushed over to the betting booths, quite certain they had the right count.

The counting began, with proper transparency. I moved in front to take a picture and was hastily shooed away – I had briefly blocked the view of investors who waited like hound dogs for the verdict, keen-eyed, alert and noses aquiver. 81 and 20! Alas, one more arrow and I would’ve made a tidy sum. Phone calls were placed, SMSes went hither and thither broadcasting the numbers and I could imagine men in box shops all over the state, reaching out for their placards and writing out the fresh results – dashing hopes, making fortunes.

I made my way to Cherrapunji the following day. It has for long held the record for being the “wettest place on earth” but the record is now regularly tossed back and forth between Cherra and neighbouring Mawsynram. I was going to stay not in the town proper but at Cherrapunjee Holiday Resort, 17km away. The route was incredibly picturesque – the plains of Bangladesh lay below, obscured by swirling mists and small waterfalls gurgled here and there. Cherrapunjee Resort does not have too much by way of competition, but it does not believe in resting on its laurels for it made its presence felt throughout the 17km-stretch. Boulders advertised the joys to come – the living-root bridges, the caving adventures, the wonderful treks and went on to become increasingly ambitious “Tourism to conserve top soil” and “Tourism for sustainable development”. There was no doubting the earnestness behind all this.

The resort turned out to be a pleasant place – modest but nicely located, with clear views of the hills around. The owner Denis P. Rayen is an interesting man with a fascinating history. Married to a Khasi, this banker from Madurai has established himself here against many odds. It was he who worked to bring the now famous living-root bridges to the attention of the world, and he relentlessly plugs Cherrapunji as a place “every meteorologist should visit at least once in their lifetime.” His agenda in two-fold: one, purely scientific, for the phenomenon of excessive rain in Cherrapunji enthrals him; the other, he wishes to help the Khasi people with alternate livelihoods.

There are a few living-root bridges around the resort – the most interesting one, a two-tiered double-decker at Nongriat would take all day to trek to but another at Ummunoi could be reached in half a day. The forest plantation engulfed us as we made our way down the steep mossy path. “The green part is slippery, madam,” my guide said helpfully. I had to bite back a laugh and the urge to ask him to show me one square inch only that wasn’t ‘green’.

The bridge itself was fabulous. About 200 years old, the roots of the Indian rubber tree on either side have been trained by local tribesmen to grow across the stream, and they hold strong in a glorious organic network. The first one was made in Cherra, I learnt, and later duplicated all over the region.

As we sat outdoors that evening, munching on roasted cashews with fireflies darting all around us, I tried to understand why exactly it is that Cherrapunji receives so much rain. The explanation involves moisture-laden clouds travelling unhindered for over 400km before they crash into the Khasi Hills. The orography of the region adds its twist and Cherrapunji gets rained on – a lot.

Leaving behind the mist-kissed cliffs of Cherra with a trace of regret, I made my way to Mawlynnong, a village almost on the Bangladesh border. My choice wasn’t random: Mawlynnong has a reputation for being the “cleanest village in Asia”. The Meghalaya Tourism Development Forum (MTDF) has worked hard to position the village as a rural tourism destination, going to great lengths to create tourist-friendly conditions. They have succeeded very well indeed, perhaps too well.

The guesthouse specially created for overnight guests is an utterly charming place. Raised on stilts, the hut is built with traditional materials and overlooks a thicket and small waterfall. The larger of the two accommodations has a machan propped on the uppermost branches of a tree – a childhood dream come to life. The village is pretty – flowers bloom in every hue and in great profusion. Also, there is no denying Mawlynnong is extremely clean – the roads are metalled, a large parking lot accommodates visiting cars, a teashop does brisk business and visitors line to clamber up ‘Sky View’, a tall, bamboo tower that affords a view of the Bangla plains yonder.

For the people of Mawlynnong, I suspect, this is a balancing act. They are proud, justifiably proud, of the ‘clean’ tag. Indeed Khasi households everywhere are impeccably kept. More than half the times I saw a Khasi woman throughout my stay, she would be out washing or drying clothes, or sweeping out her yard. On the other hand, they are very private. They seem to dislike being photographed and they are a subtle people, their manners complex and full of nuances. Every gesture is significant; their need for politeness is very high. To be viewed as they are, like fish in a glass bowl, must surely annoy them? Their urban visitors bring in money but they are also occasionally boorish, certainly brash by Khasi standards.

Deepak Laloo, the MTDF man behind Mawlynnong’s tourist thrust, is also concerned about how the constant interaction may change the villagers’ traditional way of living. He took me along to visit a family – friends of his – in the village. I was led hospitably indoors to sit by the kitchen fire and offered tea and slices of pineapple. The children came in from play and one ran across as Ba Laloo and I sat talking. He was summoned back by his elders to have his ear pinched: he had broken our line of gaze – unacceptable behaviour!

I touched down in Delhi to find that only six days in Meghalaya had altered me. I blinked at the grey, flinched at the honking and felt more than a little bewildered. The culture shock I hadn’t felt going in showed up coming back.

What Lies Beneath

I've been wanting to put up this travel piece for a while, but I'm hurrying because I am dying to put up the next one: I went to Meghalaya recently and wanted so much to blog - only, I couldn't because the first words out needed to be for the magazine. I've lost steam on that one but in the meantime, here is Patalkot. I had mentioned it in an earlier post, this is the longer story.

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A tribal settlement in a deep forgotten stretch of the Satpuras...





The most fascinating aspect of this adventure was the idea of it. The idea of a gorge so deep it was seldom ventured into, a valley so hidden it was forgotten. Consumed almost by the hills of the Satpuras, in Chhindwara in Madhya Pradesh, these depths have a fanciful name—Patalkot, Sanskrit for the ‘nether-lands’.

To best communicate the extent of this place, it needs a bird’s eye view, or better still, a satellite-eye view. From the firmament, this section of the Satpuras looks as if giant hands had absently run a finger through the surface, doodling a small horseshoe shape as it scooped out the earth. The narrow rut left behind is 1,200-1,500ft deep, and on average, 2-3km wide from wall to wall. The entire valley covers less than 80 sq km. I was excited; frankly, straining-at-the-leash excited to be taking this walk. Trekking as we do through India’s stunning landscapes, this one was still special. My sister Shweta and I were with a group of people on a small circuit through the Satpuras. We’d marvelled at the marbled walls of Bhedaghat, traipsed through the very civilised Pachmarhi and, on this day, we were going down. We drove through to Rathed village and were set down at the beginning of a trail, with a couple of local guides in charge.

I tried to glean a little more about the fissure. What, for instance, was the reason for this sharp depression? No one knows for sure but one plausible theory is meteorite impact. An odd-shaped, sharpish lump of otherworldly stone, crashing with enormous impact, slicing through the land...all conjecture, of course, for there have been no studies, no validation of the surmise. On the other hand, there are myths. Prince Meghnath is supposed to have passed into ‘Patallok’, the nether-world, through this valley. Patalkot’s existence may have been known to the outside world, but the memory had grown hazy, and it was certainly forgotten till about half a century ago. Then in the 1950s, a small scout party belonging to the new administration of the then Central Provinces made their way through and ‘discovered’ the valley anew. They found something more, something guaranteed to send a zing down the spine of anyone who enjoys colonial thrillers featuring ‘remote tribes’—they found human settlements. Scattered across 12 villages, close to 2,000 people lived in the valley, self-sufficient tribal communities retaining no significant contact with the outside world. Since then, interactions have grown but slowly. Before the 1980s, none of Patalkot’s inhabitants had ever tasted salt.

We seemed to be descending for half an hour, but we were not technically in the gorge yet. Already, our breakfasts showed signs of having been digested and instead of digging in our packs for sustenance, we turned to the trees that flanked the trail. Amlas were found to hand and we nipped away; they left a cool taste on the tongue and took care of the thirst—a mistake, we discovered later, for Shweta forgot to sip from her water bottle and developed a thundering headache later. Still we seemed to be walking along the rim of the basin. People in the group dawdled as they took pictures and I was starting to wonder what the guide was about, for time was limited. It would take us four hours to get down there and as much to climb back up—except the sun leaves Patalkot about two hours sooner than it does the world outside. If we didn’t want to climb back in the growing dark, we would have to make better time. In about 15 minutes though, it was official—we were lost.

There are apparently three trails down to the bottom: we’d come from Rathed, the other two go from the villages of Chindi and Chawalpani. We waited for another guide to join us, and the sun was climbing when we finally stepped off the edge. A very little way down, the air around us started to change. It became cooler, the scents of the forest pressed down and everything went rainforesty. Warblers flitted incessantly and, further on, the mandatory stream entered stage right, gurgled charmingly and exited stage left. The forest floor was covered with growth, giving off a bouquet of smells as plants were crushed underfoot. Protected as it was from marauding intruders, and also due to its peculiar geography, Patalkot is a veritable treasure trove of medicinal flora. According to Dr Deepak Acharya, who has made it his work to preserve and document the medicinal plants here, there are hundreds of economically important plants, a clutch of rare flora and even some endemic ones. The people of Patalkot (mostly of the Bharia and Gond communities) are expert foragers, and remarkably skilled at making pulps and extracts. Their concoctions are believed to have therapeutic value and are even able to treat snakebites, measles and cholera, alleviate hypertension, diabetes, coughs and pains.

We reached the floor, and came to a large clearing, rimmed with soaring circular rock walls. I stood there, turning where I stood, craning up long enough to acquire a crick in the neck. I’d have like to see a play performed here, for it was glorious natural amphitheatre. Also, precisely the sort of place that has humankind buckling to its knees in prayer. Predictably, there were deities and other godly representations carved on the stone; an idol installed at one spot, a red, fierce-looking trident lodged in another with ‘om’ emblazoned on it—isolated or not, in some ways the settlement is clearly no different from any other place in India. Not far away, we came upon the Dhoodhi river that flows through the valley. Here and there, the river cuts through rock, and stepping-stones are strewn about conveniently—within five minutes, the lot of us were in the water for an impromptu dunking.

A group of tribesfolk came by, herding goats, strolling with their staffs across their backs, arms casually looped around. They looked at us, I imagine, with as much curiosity with which we studied them. Dark-skinned, deep-lined tribal faces. There were a few girls as well: wearing men’s shirts and what seemed like sari petticoats, tucked in so they stayed at knee length—and on their feet, they wore hawai slippers. The villages of Patalkot have been subjected to rigorous ‘development’—there is a school here now and the clincher, the sign that they have indeed been brought up to speed, comes from the fact that some houses now have dish television. Just another tribal settlement now and, frankly, it would have been just another day-trek through forest and brush, but for the knowledge that this was once a remote, inaccessible trench that no one knew about.

The sun was withdrawing from the walls around us and we hustled. I didn’t fancy tripping into brooks or climbing back out by torchlight. We spilled out of the valley to a glorious sunset, just in time to catch the ball of red fire dipping over the horizon.

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Published Outlook Traveller February 2009; picture ©Shweta Vyas