Sorry for the hasty post but it's BirdRace time again. We had one last year and it was terrific fun!
It's on 2 December this year - do do come. You'll need to register with Siraj Taher (32936937) or Sushil Kapadia (9393319333) of the Birdwatchers' Society of Andhra Pradesh. The official site is here and Ludwig has all the details here.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Cleaning up
Closet cleaning is tiring work. In spite of a conscious effort to live lightly, life clings. Things too pretty to be thrown away, old business cards belonging to people I can’t put faces to, contacts that were once important, now mercifully not. I unearthed this morning one card that says Sundeep Sikand! Could this really be the TV honcho? I had no idea I had ever met the man.
I found a bundle of letters, one from a friend telling me she’d fallen in love – she sounds ecstatic, borderline disbelief that she should be so lucky. I was about to remind her of it: ‘Hey, look! A slice of your life recorded, a leaf still fluttering in my shelf,’ and then drew back, hesitating. Would it be tactful? She could hardly be in the same state of mind, and if she saw this now, would she be indulgent, or cynical, or wistful? Second thoughts, as always, blunting that first exuberant impulse.
From another letter, I remembered with a start, a forgotten nickname; I’d forgotten school-friends used to called me Shells. All of us dispersed and adrift now, we have carelessly let go of threads that held us loosely together.
Recipes! Always gathered, hardly ever used. Credit card statements – a few years’ worth. Notepads full of notes for stories long done. Notes with more detail than I put into the articles – I can’t bear to burn those. Phone numbers are a journalist’s lifeline, but am I a journalist? I find the tag burdensome, and shrug it off, with the numbers. They’re probably too old to be of use anyway.
Then considerably more grimy than when I started, I open a fresh bar of rose soap and bathe away the past. What washes away goes, and the rest, I carry anyway.
I found a bundle of letters, one from a friend telling me she’d fallen in love – she sounds ecstatic, borderline disbelief that she should be so lucky. I was about to remind her of it: ‘Hey, look! A slice of your life recorded, a leaf still fluttering in my shelf,’ and then drew back, hesitating. Would it be tactful? She could hardly be in the same state of mind, and if she saw this now, would she be indulgent, or cynical, or wistful? Second thoughts, as always, blunting that first exuberant impulse.
From another letter, I remembered with a start, a forgotten nickname; I’d forgotten school-friends used to called me Shells. All of us dispersed and adrift now, we have carelessly let go of threads that held us loosely together.
Recipes! Always gathered, hardly ever used. Credit card statements – a few years’ worth. Notepads full of notes for stories long done. Notes with more detail than I put into the articles – I can’t bear to burn those. Phone numbers are a journalist’s lifeline, but am I a journalist? I find the tag burdensome, and shrug it off, with the numbers. They’re probably too old to be of use anyway.
Then considerably more grimy than when I started, I open a fresh bar of rose soap and bathe away the past. What washes away goes, and the rest, I carry anyway.
Monday, October 22, 2007
A tweak
A new quote, a new mood, a slant for this blog: Henry David Thoreau, who says, 'What men call social virtues, good fellowship, is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter, which lie close together to keep each other warm.'
It strikes a chord particularly because I’ve come across that quite a lot recently, one way or the other. People banding together, physically, emotionally, and disappointingly, because it so goes against the spirit of the thing, intellectually. Banding together, not necessarily from genuine kinship, but because it gives them security. Not a thing wrong with that – smart fellows, pigs, but I do think it a bit chicken in people (I’ve got the animal kingdom awfully mixed up but you know what I mean).
So to Henry David, who knew a thing or two about walking alone… salut!
It strikes a chord particularly because I’ve come across that quite a lot recently, one way or the other. People banding together, physically, emotionally, and disappointingly, because it so goes against the spirit of the thing, intellectually. Banding together, not necessarily from genuine kinship, but because it gives them security. Not a thing wrong with that – smart fellows, pigs, but I do think it a bit chicken in people (I’ve got the animal kingdom awfully mixed up but you know what I mean).
So to Henry David, who knew a thing or two about walking alone… salut!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Madhya Pradesh account
It's a been a longish while. What have I been upto? Some travel I can plead, but that was just this last month; the fact is I've been moody and self indulgent in this grand all-negating manner.
After I got back from Kurnool, Shweta and I took ourselves off to Jabalpur to trek with the YHAI. It wasn't an altogether fun experience - the organisers misunderstood the concept of trekking and put us into a rickety rattrap of a bus and carted us all over three districts, Jabalpur, Seoni and Chhindwara. We passed through some magnificent landscapes, though - through the Satpura ranges, touching the wonderfully soothing hot springs of Anhoni, the elegance of Pachmarhi and finally the mecca for tiger spotters, Pench, where, no, before you ask, we did not spot the tiger or the leopard.
My own troubles on the trip started on day one, when I discovered to my horror that a fellow traveller had managed to give me conjunctivitis. I was already in Jabalpur and there was no help for it but to mop up and hope everyone else wasn’t susceptible. I had nightmarish visions of a busload of red-eyed people pointing accusatory fingers at me.
The trip included three nights on the bus and this was truly horrible, more horrible than I can say. The bus tended to hurl its occupants out of their very cramped seats, the driver was fond of loud grating sounds banging through the night, and we stopped roughly every hour, when all the lights would come on and 70 people would get off and then try and fit themselves in again. Looking back, now that I have spent every available minute of the past three days sleeping, it looks better. Some views will stay forever, some people will never be forgotten and the long descent into Patalkot is a story I’ll be telling around campfires.
After I got back from Kurnool, Shweta and I took ourselves off to Jabalpur to trek with the YHAI. It wasn't an altogether fun experience - the organisers misunderstood the concept of trekking and put us into a rickety rattrap of a bus and carted us all over three districts, Jabalpur, Seoni and Chhindwara. We passed through some magnificent landscapes, though - through the Satpura ranges, touching the wonderfully soothing hot springs of Anhoni, the elegance of Pachmarhi and finally the mecca for tiger spotters, Pench, where, no, before you ask, we did not spot the tiger or the leopard.
My own troubles on the trip started on day one, when I discovered to my horror that a fellow traveller had managed to give me conjunctivitis. I was already in Jabalpur and there was no help for it but to mop up and hope everyone else wasn’t susceptible. I had nightmarish visions of a busload of red-eyed people pointing accusatory fingers at me.
The trip included three nights on the bus and this was truly horrible, more horrible than I can say. The bus tended to hurl its occupants out of their very cramped seats, the driver was fond of loud grating sounds banging through the night, and we stopped roughly every hour, when all the lights would come on and 70 people would get off and then try and fit themselves in again. Looking back, now that I have spent every available minute of the past three days sleeping, it looks better. Some views will stay forever, some people will never be forgotten and the long descent into Patalkot is a story I’ll be telling around campfires.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
From Kurnool
I remarked to someone earlier this season that the monsoons were passing me by, that somehow this year I hadn’t taken the time to linger in contemplation of clouds, or stood by the window watching rain fall, or even been caught in a drizzle. Foolish, of course, to say these things aloud and tempt the gods into uproarious laughter at your expense. Since I made that rash comment, I’ve hardly been dry.
Maredumilli I told you about here. Since then there have been less thrilling adventures every other day when we wrestle with our alternate-day water-supply. In Hyderabad, I can tell you without consulting the Met department, it has rained every other day since June at 6.00 in the evening.
Then, Ahobilam happens. I’m here on assignment and I thought it would be a nice change from tramping about in the wet, chasing birds and other nonsense. It’s a temple town, so I would enjoy the laidback-ness of it all, gawk at temple architecture, ask what century and so on. The most strenuous activity, I hoped, would be the pradakshina, or at the most trying for the best vantage points for the pictures. Hah hah.
First, it rains throughout. THROUGHOUT. Slow rain, fast rain, torrential rain, flash floods, everything. Second, Ahobilam doesn’t have the decency to be a one-spot temple town – it must needs be the centre of a temple complex, the various shrines of which are flung within a seven-kilometre radius. Ok, I say to myself, that’s fine – I have transportation and I could use a few drives in rain drenched hill roads. But no, ‘car won’t go there, madam. We have to go by walk.’ Do I hafta? I’m getting a little whiny here. Well, it transpires there are nine shrines of the Lord Narasimha – he RULES these hills, by the way – that everyone aspires to see. See, the whole thing is so devious: if you give people a number like that with legends and romance attached, anyone with an ounce of the fanaticism that drives collectors is sure to hare off, notching them up. Anyone would, really.
So, ‘by walk’ it was to be. By now reconciled, I arrived shiny eyed and bushy tailed, joined duly by the guide. I had acquired a new full-suit raincoat that I was eager to try out. I donned it, feeling very like a hearty all-weather English woman. The weather turned a bit waspish and the drizzle thickened. Seenu-Guide set a pushing pace, and we encountered a couple of other guides, cronies who hailed him, wanting to know where he was headed. ‘Jwala,’ he told them succinctly, this being the Narasimha we were setting off to see – merely four kilometers uphill, but a steepish climb. I noticed raised brows and dubious looks; there was not much traffic today, and most guides had taken the day off. A little way into the trail I saw why. The path we were supposed to take is up a rocky hill stream – not alongside it, up it. Normally this is doable and in dry season, it should be possible to do it without getting your feet wet. Now, of course, it has been raining for three days and the waters were roaring and rising still. With one hand wasted on the umbrella we waded into the gushing stream, gingerly feeling underfoot for stable rocks, trying to maintain balance in the face of some very business-like waters.
Of all things I dislike on a trail, wet rocks are the worst. They can be treacherous and I’ve slipped and fallen a couple of times, once banging my knee badly. Now I was expected to walk about two and half kilometers through this rock-strewn stream, traversing it back and forth in an attempt to find the easiest path. The feat was accomplished without damage to life or limb, and I gave much thanks to my all-rubber Bata sandals, although I must write to them about the quality of their Velcro.
How striking are the differences between adventure enthusiasts and the uninformed pilgrim-adventurer. The first is detail obsessed and particular about preparation, gear and safety; the second knows nothing of all this, will turn up in saree and heels and still manage to do everything the former does! It is quite lowering.
Back now in the hotel room and because I leave here tomorrow, I promise you the sun will be out.
Maredumilli I told you about here. Since then there have been less thrilling adventures every other day when we wrestle with our alternate-day water-supply. In Hyderabad, I can tell you without consulting the Met department, it has rained every other day since June at 6.00 in the evening.
Then, Ahobilam happens. I’m here on assignment and I thought it would be a nice change from tramping about in the wet, chasing birds and other nonsense. It’s a temple town, so I would enjoy the laidback-ness of it all, gawk at temple architecture, ask what century and so on. The most strenuous activity, I hoped, would be the pradakshina, or at the most trying for the best vantage points for the pictures. Hah hah.
First, it rains throughout. THROUGHOUT. Slow rain, fast rain, torrential rain, flash floods, everything. Second, Ahobilam doesn’t have the decency to be a one-spot temple town – it must needs be the centre of a temple complex, the various shrines of which are flung within a seven-kilometre radius. Ok, I say to myself, that’s fine – I have transportation and I could use a few drives in rain drenched hill roads. But no, ‘car won’t go there, madam. We have to go by walk.’ Do I hafta? I’m getting a little whiny here. Well, it transpires there are nine shrines of the Lord Narasimha – he RULES these hills, by the way – that everyone aspires to see. See, the whole thing is so devious: if you give people a number like that with legends and romance attached, anyone with an ounce of the fanaticism that drives collectors is sure to hare off, notching them up. Anyone would, really.
So, ‘by walk’ it was to be. By now reconciled, I arrived shiny eyed and bushy tailed, joined duly by the guide. I had acquired a new full-suit raincoat that I was eager to try out. I donned it, feeling very like a hearty all-weather English woman. The weather turned a bit waspish and the drizzle thickened. Seenu-Guide set a pushing pace, and we encountered a couple of other guides, cronies who hailed him, wanting to know where he was headed. ‘Jwala,’ he told them succinctly, this being the Narasimha we were setting off to see – merely four kilometers uphill, but a steepish climb. I noticed raised brows and dubious looks; there was not much traffic today, and most guides had taken the day off. A little way into the trail I saw why. The path we were supposed to take is up a rocky hill stream – not alongside it, up it. Normally this is doable and in dry season, it should be possible to do it without getting your feet wet. Now, of course, it has been raining for three days and the waters were roaring and rising still. With one hand wasted on the umbrella we waded into the gushing stream, gingerly feeling underfoot for stable rocks, trying to maintain balance in the face of some very business-like waters.
Of all things I dislike on a trail, wet rocks are the worst. They can be treacherous and I’ve slipped and fallen a couple of times, once banging my knee badly. Now I was expected to walk about two and half kilometers through this rock-strewn stream, traversing it back and forth in an attempt to find the easiest path. The feat was accomplished without damage to life or limb, and I gave much thanks to my all-rubber Bata sandals, although I must write to them about the quality of their Velcro.
How striking are the differences between adventure enthusiasts and the uninformed pilgrim-adventurer. The first is detail obsessed and particular about preparation, gear and safety; the second knows nothing of all this, will turn up in saree and heels and still manage to do everything the former does! It is quite lowering.
Back now in the hotel room and because I leave here tomorrow, I promise you the sun will be out.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
In Vino Pathos
Shame and scandal again in this year's Tour de France, and heroes are tumbling off pedestals with alarming regularity. Vinokourov and the entire Astana team were banned yesterday and the Yellow Jersey Rasmussen was unceremoniously booted out today after a gutsy stage win only the day before.
It's an arduous sport, this cycling. It's all about the physical, then it's all about the mental and then it's about the human body again. I couldn't ride out a kilometre with 60 stitches in my knees and elbow, leave alone stretches of 150-220 km daily for a fortnight. Then I wouldn't assume that I could get illegal blood transfusions and get away with it, not when the sport and its officials are in such uber suspicious mode.
Why would a rider do it? Is good performance so addictive? Is it that frustrating not to have your body cooperate that you simply HAVE to help it along? Is it worth it, to be able to fly along mountain curves, cross that white line first, pump the air when you know you could just as soon be flying home in disgrace, in tears?
I'm all for clean sport and fairness, of course I am. But I can't help feeling for the desperation these men feel, the loneliness that must grip at the end of a long stage, when you have finished way down the lists, in a body that can't execute what the mind can imagine. A cyclist on dope is a pathetic creature.
It's an arduous sport, this cycling. It's all about the physical, then it's all about the mental and then it's about the human body again. I couldn't ride out a kilometre with 60 stitches in my knees and elbow, leave alone stretches of 150-220 km daily for a fortnight. Then I wouldn't assume that I could get illegal blood transfusions and get away with it, not when the sport and its officials are in such uber suspicious mode.
Why would a rider do it? Is good performance so addictive? Is it that frustrating not to have your body cooperate that you simply HAVE to help it along? Is it worth it, to be able to fly along mountain curves, cross that white line first, pump the air when you know you could just as soon be flying home in disgrace, in tears?
I'm all for clean sport and fairness, of course I am. But I can't help feeling for the desperation these men feel, the loneliness that must grip at the end of a long stage, when you have finished way down the lists, in a body that can't execute what the mind can imagine. A cyclist on dope is a pathetic creature.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Thanks for all the magic, Jo
One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.
Three days to go, my counter says, before we hold Deathly Hallows in our hands. My feelings are so chaotic, I become incoherent. The theories buzz feverishly in my head, there is mounting excitement, poignancy that this is the end of an intense seven-year stretch of fandom, and fear that the inevitable deaths will cast a cloud over what surely will be the final victory.
I am now wondering if I should permit myself to start on Half-Blood Prince, which I have been straining at the leash to do anytime these past weeks. The mother is on Azkaban and Shweta is trying to finish work so as to leave Saturday completely guilt-free. The father is bemused with all this preoccupation and has very graciously promised not to repeat a single HP spoiler or news and even consented not to switch on the TV the whole of July 21st.
There is of course no dearth of reading material on the internet. There are excellent essays everywhere, and the tension among fans is quite palpable. I particularly recommend this one called Harry Potter and the Nice Big Knot by Susan Faust. In fact, this entire list if you have time on your hands.
What does it take to bond so many people at once? I find the universality of it quite astounding. Are we that similar under the skin? JK Rowling’s Harry Potter story is a rather moral one. She doesn’t preach but the values she holds up are unimpeachable. If that should find resonance with so many millions, it makes me feel very hopeful, very un-cynical.
And she has quite as many fans as Harry. On the forums, someone called joshswenson posts in anticipation of Book Seven:
Three days to go, my counter says, before we hold Deathly Hallows in our hands. My feelings are so chaotic, I become incoherent. The theories buzz feverishly in my head, there is mounting excitement, poignancy that this is the end of an intense seven-year stretch of fandom, and fear that the inevitable deaths will cast a cloud over what surely will be the final victory.
I am now wondering if I should permit myself to start on Half-Blood Prince, which I have been straining at the leash to do anytime these past weeks. The mother is on Azkaban and Shweta is trying to finish work so as to leave Saturday completely guilt-free. The father is bemused with all this preoccupation and has very graciously promised not to repeat a single HP spoiler or news and even consented not to switch on the TV the whole of July 21st.
There is of course no dearth of reading material on the internet. There are excellent essays everywhere, and the tension among fans is quite palpable. I particularly recommend this one called Harry Potter and the Nice Big Knot by Susan Faust. In fact, this entire list if you have time on your hands.
What does it take to bond so many people at once? I find the universality of it quite astounding. Are we that similar under the skin? JK Rowling’s Harry Potter story is a rather moral one. She doesn’t preach but the values she holds up are unimpeachable. If that should find resonance with so many millions, it makes me feel very hopeful, very un-cynical.
And she has quite as many fans as Harry. On the forums, someone called joshswenson posts in anticipation of Book Seven:
Jo, please remember, you tread hallowed groundWhat will happen to the Harry Potter phenomenon after this? Will it die out once it is all known, fizzle out like a hex that needs unblinking eye contact? Will later generations even understand what it was like to grow with Harry Potter? What it was like to wait between books, to be told a story over ten years? Like Sheherzade’s Caliph. Perhaps not. Which makes being part of this big pan-world hoopla really special.
Our childhood laid bare, our heart strings unwound.
We’re scared silly, we admit it, but you have our trust.
Go now, be brave, and do what you must.
One last request, we ask: please be our Patronus
And most of all thanks for the magic you’ve shown us.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Monsoons, Maredumilli
Occurs belatedly that I said I was going to Maredumilli, went, had a wonderful time and never said anything about it.
It was just as I had predicted. We were moving straight into the path of the depression exactly on the day it crossed the coast and we spent a considerable part of the three days either getting wet or trying not to.
Rajahmundry was mostly spent at the train station, organising tarpaulins for the luggage. A brief glimpse of the Godavari and the famous bridges across it and soon we were hurtling along to Maredumilli. The tarpaulins were well worth the wait, because soon enough the heavens opened. Car windows were rolled up but fat droplets sneaked in anyway.
This patch of Andhra has some of the finest forests in the state and they look unbelievably beautiful in the rain… we sighed at every turn. The camp site was a lovely spot. On a slight hillock with the Valamuru stream curling around it. About a dozen tents neatly arranged. The facilities however were rudimentary and every meal was brought in from elsewhere. Not having coffee – or failing that, tea – first thing in the morning is more basic than I like.
Dry enough to begin with, the tents got progressively damper around the edges; and what with all our sodden stuff hanging from tent openings or draped over packs… well, it was wet. Then there were meals. There was no concrete structure at the camp site, and meals were had under this lovely machaan built around a Mangifera indica. Here we stood huddled as we ate, being dripped on from between the planks above us. The generator lights attracted insects but we tucked in generously, casually plucking out insects from our food as we went.
The stream I mentioned had a little low bridge over it. Two days of incessant rain later, the water had risen and sloshed cheerfully over the bridge. We, who had just pulled on our socks and shoes, sat down to take them off again to cross over. Incredibly nice to walk the bridge with water swirling around the ankles, though. Good we didn’t know it when we dangled our feet in its waters but the stream is supposed to have quite a few crocodiles.
Birding in these circumstances was surprisingly good, because when it did stop raining for even half hour stretches, the birds came out in plentiful numbers. At least five lifers for me: the Large Yellow-naped Woodpecker, Crimson Sunbird, the Orange-throated Green Pigeon, the Lorikeet and the Chestnut-bellied Nuthatch. As we settled ourselves in our jeeps to head back to Rajahmundry, the sun came out. Of course it would!
People back home were worried, we learnt later, because there was flooding in Kurnool and elsewhere, with loss of lives and property. Families exchanged phone calls for news and everyone wondered at our sanity in going off to the wild at such a time. Fortunately we encountered no such troubles and came back in blithe ignorance of what was happening elsewhere. Much fun came.
It was just as I had predicted. We were moving straight into the path of the depression exactly on the day it crossed the coast and we spent a considerable part of the three days either getting wet or trying not to.
Rajahmundry was mostly spent at the train station, organising tarpaulins for the luggage. A brief glimpse of the Godavari and the famous bridges across it and soon we were hurtling along to Maredumilli. The tarpaulins were well worth the wait, because soon enough the heavens opened. Car windows were rolled up but fat droplets sneaked in anyway.
This patch of Andhra has some of the finest forests in the state and they look unbelievably beautiful in the rain… we sighed at every turn. The camp site was a lovely spot. On a slight hillock with the Valamuru stream curling around it. About a dozen tents neatly arranged. The facilities however were rudimentary and every meal was brought in from elsewhere. Not having coffee – or failing that, tea – first thing in the morning is more basic than I like.
Dry enough to begin with, the tents got progressively damper around the edges; and what with all our sodden stuff hanging from tent openings or draped over packs… well, it was wet. Then there were meals. There was no concrete structure at the camp site, and meals were had under this lovely machaan built around a Mangifera indica. Here we stood huddled as we ate, being dripped on from between the planks above us. The generator lights attracted insects but we tucked in generously, casually plucking out insects from our food as we went.
The stream I mentioned had a little low bridge over it. Two days of incessant rain later, the water had risen and sloshed cheerfully over the bridge. We, who had just pulled on our socks and shoes, sat down to take them off again to cross over. Incredibly nice to walk the bridge with water swirling around the ankles, though. Good we didn’t know it when we dangled our feet in its waters but the stream is supposed to have quite a few crocodiles.
Birding in these circumstances was surprisingly good, because when it did stop raining for even half hour stretches, the birds came out in plentiful numbers. At least five lifers for me: the Large Yellow-naped Woodpecker, Crimson Sunbird, the Orange-throated Green Pigeon, the Lorikeet and the Chestnut-bellied Nuthatch. As we settled ourselves in our jeeps to head back to Rajahmundry, the sun came out. Of course it would!
People back home were worried, we learnt later, because there was flooding in Kurnool and elsewhere, with loss of lives and property. Families exchanged phone calls for news and everyone wondered at our sanity in going off to the wild at such a time. Fortunately we encountered no such troubles and came back in blithe ignorance of what was happening elsewhere. Much fun came.
Monday, July 02, 2007
You go, Mika Brzezinski
ज़िन्दगी भर मेरे काम आये उसूल
एक एक कर उन्हें बेचा किया
- जावेद अख़्तर
It is ridiculous to feel sorry for people who're perfectly happy with their lives but for some years now I've felt a pang for people intent on making a career in the media. High-minded journalistic values make way for baser priorities and if you're to stay in the business, you must play the game by other people's rules. It must be frustrating. At least I know I have been.
But with some people, something's gotta give. Look at how this lady, newsreader Mika Brzezinski on the cable news channel MSNBC, deals with it.
The story's here, and the clip is here:
एक एक कर उन्हें बेचा किया
- जावेद अख़्तर
It is ridiculous to feel sorry for people who're perfectly happy with their lives but for some years now I've felt a pang for people intent on making a career in the media. High-minded journalistic values make way for baser priorities and if you're to stay in the business, you must play the game by other people's rules. It must be frustrating. At least I know I have been.
But with some people, something's gotta give. Look at how this lady, newsreader Mika Brzezinski on the cable news channel MSNBC, deals with it.
The story's here, and the clip is here:
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