What a hair raising ride that was. Can't imagine anything remotely like it. Not even the scariest loopiest of roller coaster rides.
We had gone to the Malls on Sunday evening. Another weekend, another trip to the multiplex to catch another crappy movie. The only break before another routine work week.
It was half past eight when the movie got over. It was drizzling half heartedly. We didn’t think much of it since it had been overcast the entire day and hadn't rained. We hopped onto the second Rickshaw, the first one was two small, A claimed, despite the Rickshaw wallah's protest that it wasn't. We had hardly managed to squeeze ourselves into it (requires some acrobatics), it started pelting. But we carried on bravely. It was coooold. I had to hold on to our shopping, my shawl which threatened to fly away or worse get entangled in the wheels and strangling me in the process, and keep from slipping off the shiny slippery seat. It was dark and the rickshaw driver couldn't see or didn’t care to avoid potholes. And worse. The lightening. Oh god. What wild flashes. There we were, a dark hazy object on a dark narrow road, streaking by in the pelting rain, occasionally lit up by wild lightening. I never noticed the crazy maze of cables criss-crossed overhead before. Death by electrification, or falling out of the rickshaw or getting run down by a passing car....would the excitement never end. I think it was the longest 15 minutes of our lives.
As if the fates, God and every body else fed up with my constant moaning about my 'stuck-in-the-rut' situation decided to give me a mighty cosmic jolt! And I guess it worked. The rains washed away not only the ever present dust, but the cloud of angst that had built up around my head.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Atithi Devo Bhavah
They say that the first impressions are often the strongest. Especially unpleasant ones, no matter how tiny compared to the rest of the good or pleasant impressions. That one tiny bad experience can colour one's judgement, perception (negatively).
On our arrival at the Indira Gandhi International airport, Murphy’s Law struck. We got stuck at the slowest counter at Immigrations. Then our luggage took its time to arrive. Others whizzed past.
We waited feeling dazed, disoriented having traveled across three time zones within 24 hours, jostled and shoved by others who got their luggage and rushed out. I left the trolley for a closer look at the belt, when there was a resounding crash behind me. Both A and I froze. My precious Indonesian fan had been knocked down. Having cradled the large cumbersome thing like a baby from Jakarta, only to have it crash so close to home, was too traumatic for me. I ran, picked it up and then before I knew it, I scowled (too mild a word), snarled was more like it, at the hapless (and I suppose bewildered Chinese co passenger, one of the large China Express group), who cowered. To our relief, it hadn't broken and was intact.
We collected our luggage and passed the Chinese contingent, who by now, were even more confused. Their leader was holding a piece of paper, no doubt with the instructions, which at the moment was making little sense. I can imagine what a contrast IGI must have seemed to them from the efficient order of Changi airport.
Outside, it was hot and dry and ugly and chaotic, traffic was bad, roads were dug up. And to make matters worse, remorse struck.
And just five hours back, we were in Singapore, where everyone, without exception, had been so nice, friendly, cordial. (A told me that was because S’pore is dependent on tourism). Perhaps it was. But they felt so genuinely nice and warm.
Lately, there have been these Atithi Devo Bhavah ads running on television as part of the Incredible India Campaign, Based on the ancient Indian thought “Atithi Devo Bhavah” Our guest is blessed. Our visitor is God”,
It’s simple logic, if someone in a house is rude to you, as a guest, you don’t encourage your friends and relations to go there”.
First impressions are often the strongest. And to the Chinese lady, I (Indian Jane Doe) was mean and bad to her. It was my fault after all, to have left the 4 feet long fan precariously balanced on the trolley. She would after all never know that I have cherished the thought of having my own Indonesian fan (since I first saw one at the age of 12) and finally getting one, what it meant to me. She would not know that we are, in general, a warm and hospitable race. She would never know that I am actually quite nice and non aggressive and helpful. Worse. What if, I was responsible for making her think badly of Indians forever.
A part of me says that as usual, I am blowing things out of proportion. She must now be busy in sightseeing. And yet, like a small itch that refuses to go away. I keep remembering that odd officer at the immigration desk at Changi airport who very curtly (and completely opposite to the warm and friendly Singaporeans) asked me to step back from the monitor and not see what he was typing in. (Also, the fact that he had a layer of foundation, eye brows thickly penciled in and had lipstick on which had smudged and spread over his lips. Yes he did!)
It’s never too late. Atithi Devo Bhavah
On our arrival at the Indira Gandhi International airport, Murphy’s Law struck. We got stuck at the slowest counter at Immigrations. Then our luggage took its time to arrive. Others whizzed past.
We waited feeling dazed, disoriented having traveled across three time zones within 24 hours, jostled and shoved by others who got their luggage and rushed out. I left the trolley for a closer look at the belt, when there was a resounding crash behind me. Both A and I froze. My precious Indonesian fan had been knocked down. Having cradled the large cumbersome thing like a baby from Jakarta, only to have it crash so close to home, was too traumatic for me. I ran, picked it up and then before I knew it, I scowled (too mild a word), snarled was more like it, at the hapless (and I suppose bewildered Chinese co passenger, one of the large China Express group), who cowered. To our relief, it hadn't broken and was intact.
We collected our luggage and passed the Chinese contingent, who by now, were even more confused. Their leader was holding a piece of paper, no doubt with the instructions, which at the moment was making little sense. I can imagine what a contrast IGI must have seemed to them from the efficient order of Changi airport.
Outside, it was hot and dry and ugly and chaotic, traffic was bad, roads were dug up. And to make matters worse, remorse struck.
And just five hours back, we were in Singapore, where everyone, without exception, had been so nice, friendly, cordial. (A told me that was because S’pore is dependent on tourism). Perhaps it was. But they felt so genuinely nice and warm.
Lately, there have been these Atithi Devo Bhavah ads running on television as part of the Incredible India Campaign, Based on the ancient Indian thought “Atithi Devo Bhavah” Our guest is blessed. Our visitor is God”,
It’s simple logic, if someone in a house is rude to you, as a guest, you don’t encourage your friends and relations to go there”.
First impressions are often the strongest. And to the Chinese lady, I (Indian Jane Doe) was mean and bad to her. It was my fault after all, to have left the 4 feet long fan precariously balanced on the trolley. She would after all never know that I have cherished the thought of having my own Indonesian fan (since I first saw one at the age of 12) and finally getting one, what it meant to me. She would not know that we are, in general, a warm and hospitable race. She would never know that I am actually quite nice and non aggressive and helpful. Worse. What if, I was responsible for making her think badly of Indians forever.
A part of me says that as usual, I am blowing things out of proportion. She must now be busy in sightseeing. And yet, like a small itch that refuses to go away. I keep remembering that odd officer at the immigration desk at Changi airport who very curtly (and completely opposite to the warm and friendly Singaporeans) asked me to step back from the monitor and not see what he was typing in. (Also, the fact that he had a layer of foundation, eye brows thickly penciled in and had lipstick on which had smudged and spread over his lips. Yes he did!)
It’s never too late. Atithi Devo Bhavah
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Jakarta # 2
Once again, we found ourselves in a new land with no knowledge of the language. We were completely dependent on our brother-in-law and his wife to guide us for each and every thing. The script is english and many words are a simplification of their english counterpart. Mobil means car. Diskon is discount. Apotik means pharmacy (some vauge link to apothecary??). And so on.
There was a doctor's sign Doktor Gigi. And later on I found similar signs every where. Perhaps this doctor had a flourishing business? No. Actually gigi means dentist!
Then suddenly, a word would crop up on a bus, on a board, reminding us of our shared heritage not so long ago: Widiawati (Vidya wati), prapanca (c is pronounced as ch), dirghaayu, jaya...familiar words many with similar meanings. Each time I saw a new one, I felt so thrilled.
But one word had us in splits: "Susu". It means milk. I had gone grocery shopping with my sister in law. And I had a fit of hysterics in the mall. Chocolate susu, soya bean susu, low fat susu, full cream susu...(for those who are not aware of it...susu is the common term for urine in hindi).
There was a doctor's sign Doktor Gigi. And later on I found similar signs every where. Perhaps this doctor had a flourishing business? No. Actually gigi means dentist!
Then suddenly, a word would crop up on a bus, on a board, reminding us of our shared heritage not so long ago: Widiawati (Vidya wati), prapanca (c is pronounced as ch), dirghaayu, jaya...familiar words many with similar meanings. Each time I saw a new one, I felt so thrilled.
But one word had us in splits: "Susu". It means milk. I had gone grocery shopping with my sister in law. And I had a fit of hysterics in the mall. Chocolate susu, soya bean susu, low fat susu, full cream susu...(for those who are not aware of it...susu is the common term for urine in hindi).
Jakarta
This morning, I got a mail from some one who wanted to buy my abandoned blog site. Am in Jakarta and I would have liked to return and then post. But not after this morning's mail. So here it is, my Jakarta trip, in bits.
At long last, another break. 9 entire days. Till the very last minute I couldn't believe that I was just taking off in the middle of a LOT of work. (But in an ad agency, there is never a no-work period). I almost didn't make it. In the end, I managed to leave, but a week after A did.
I stepped out of the plane and was met by a smiling man with my name on a placard. He whizzed me through the non descript airport and through the entire visa / immigration / luggage tour. I was wondering who he was, when I met A who tipped him, for his "services". (Out here, its apparently a common thing, to avoid long and bother some queques at the immigration and visa counters).
The exterior of the airport was so very different. The sloping dark brown glazed tiled roof, wooden beams running horizontally through out the breadth of the airport was a riot of orange bougaenvilla.
A's first comment on arriving in Jakarta (a week before me) was "Its just like Behrampur". This irked his brother no end! True. Small huts, banana trees, clumps of other vegetation, not unlike any small town / village in India and perhaps Behrampur.
And then yet another of those commonly done things...a small tip...and one can take the shorter route to the city on a road meant for government vehicles.
At long last, another break. 9 entire days. Till the very last minute I couldn't believe that I was just taking off in the middle of a LOT of work. (But in an ad agency, there is never a no-work period). I almost didn't make it. In the end, I managed to leave, but a week after A did.
I stepped out of the plane and was met by a smiling man with my name on a placard. He whizzed me through the non descript airport and through the entire visa / immigration / luggage tour. I was wondering who he was, when I met A who tipped him, for his "services". (Out here, its apparently a common thing, to avoid long and bother some queques at the immigration and visa counters).
The exterior of the airport was so very different. The sloping dark brown glazed tiled roof, wooden beams running horizontally through out the breadth of the airport was a riot of orange bougaenvilla.
A's first comment on arriving in Jakarta (a week before me) was "Its just like Behrampur". This irked his brother no end! True. Small huts, banana trees, clumps of other vegetation, not unlike any small town / village in India and perhaps Behrampur.
And then yet another of those commonly done things...a small tip...and one can take the shorter route to the city on a road meant for government vehicles.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Predictable weather?
I had invited a few friends for dinner. And that was why I was in the kitchen on a HOT Saturday morning cooking, instead of vegetating like I usually do, on weekends. My maid Sarbati watched me getting hot and bothered, and said "it will rain in the afternoon".
Right. Blazing sun, not a leaf stirring. Rain? What nonsense, I thought. I finished off all the cooking by 1pm and sure enough, the skies darkened, a wind arose from nowhere and it rained heavily.
On Monday, I woke up to gloriously over cast skies. Grey never looked so good! I told my maid to make sure she had placed newspaper under the verandah doors (rain seeps in and how). She looked at the sky and said it wouldn’t rain.
When I reached office, my colleagues from Delhi said it had been raining furiously there! Here, it didn’t rain. Not a drop.
How in the world did Sarbati know? But know she did. Didnt seem like a sheer coincidence.
I had once read a book on water harvesting using traditional knowledge in Rajasthan. The Magsaysay award winner Rajender Singh successfully implemented rain water harvesting and conservation drive in several places in Rajasthan. He used the help of locals who could tell the lay of the land by looking at it with bare eyes. They would then construct underground reservoirs at the end of an incline (although from above, the land would look level). Rain water would seep through the soil and collect in these reservoirs.
An article in yesterday newspaper said that predicting meteorological events like heavy Rainfall or monsoon is a complex phenomenon due to the atmosphere being unstable and the systems dependent on many non-linear variables with scales ranging few kilometers to hundreds of kilometers. (Huh?).
How about, the met department, explore this traditional knowledge / talent and use it to predict heavy rainfall, droughts and monsoons with it, with cent percent accuracy! Now there was an idea, I thought. Would be much easier.
PS – Having written the above line, I casually asked Sarbati, when the monsoons would arrive? (The Met had forecasted 29th of June)!
"God knows when. It was supposed to start any time now (referring to the met forecast), but look it hasn’t"!!!!
Right. Blazing sun, not a leaf stirring. Rain? What nonsense, I thought. I finished off all the cooking by 1pm and sure enough, the skies darkened, a wind arose from nowhere and it rained heavily.
On Monday, I woke up to gloriously over cast skies. Grey never looked so good! I told my maid to make sure she had placed newspaper under the verandah doors (rain seeps in and how). She looked at the sky and said it wouldn’t rain.
When I reached office, my colleagues from Delhi said it had been raining furiously there! Here, it didn’t rain. Not a drop.
How in the world did Sarbati know? But know she did. Didnt seem like a sheer coincidence.
I had once read a book on water harvesting using traditional knowledge in Rajasthan. The Magsaysay award winner Rajender Singh successfully implemented rain water harvesting and conservation drive in several places in Rajasthan. He used the help of locals who could tell the lay of the land by looking at it with bare eyes. They would then construct underground reservoirs at the end of an incline (although from above, the land would look level). Rain water would seep through the soil and collect in these reservoirs.
An article in yesterday newspaper said that predicting meteorological events like heavy Rainfall or monsoon is a complex phenomenon due to the atmosphere being unstable and the systems dependent on many non-linear variables with scales ranging few kilometers to hundreds of kilometers. (Huh?).
How about, the met department, explore this traditional knowledge / talent and use it to predict heavy rainfall, droughts and monsoons with it, with cent percent accuracy! Now there was an idea, I thought. Would be much easier.
PS – Having written the above line, I casually asked Sarbati, when the monsoons would arrive? (The Met had forecasted 29th of June)!
"God knows when. It was supposed to start any time now (referring to the met forecast), but look it hasn’t"!!!!
Monday, May 15, 2006
Back to Nature
The weather was hot and dry. Oppressive. Opened all doors and windows to coax some air circulation. But in vain. It didn't help matters that I had pizzas and garlic bread for dinner. So, I decided on a post prandial stroll inside our complex. A slow lethargic amble would be a better description. The ground below was hard and hot. After just a few minutes later, I was ready to crawl back to the air conditioned comfort of my bedroom.
On a sudden impulse, I kicked off my slippers and stepped onto a strip of lawn. The slightly moist, springy grass beaneath my feet had a miraculous reviving effect on me. Now I understand why people loll around, at all hours, oblivious to the heat.
I sat on the grass and enjoyed "connecting" with Mother Nature. It was only at 11pm I reluctantly went back but only after A came to see if I was stuck inside an elevator.
I did a quick calculation and figured out that the last time I walked barefoot on a grassy lawn was probably in Assam, which I left some 25 years ago.
I was half angry, half saddened with myself and my life. In the mad whirl of life caught between home and work, I had no time for simple pleasures of walking in the rain, smelling flowers, walking barefoot on the grass. A lot of it was not entirely my doing. Kuwait was just sand. Calcutta - mostly smog.
But what about now? I have been here for nearly a year and a half.
How could I have not made more of it?
Mother nature too must have noticed my ignoring her. She has come back with a vengeance and how. Just as I was getting over my fear of the terrible earthquake of 8th October, she gave a gentle nudge once again last Sunday. It felt like some one had gently lifted the chair I was sitting on and set it back. I did panic wildly, if only for half an hour and made a mental note to look for a house closer to the ground floor.
And then, we have been having the most awful dust storms (almost like a desert storm) and last night, there was a terrific thunderstorm at around midnight. Wild flashes of lightening, the windows all a rattle. I thought they would shatter. And water pouring in through every crack and gap. I spent better part of the storm plugging holes with whatever I could find in the laundry basket.
Nature is all around, in every nook and cranny, but not quite how I imagined it would be!
On a sudden impulse, I kicked off my slippers and stepped onto a strip of lawn. The slightly moist, springy grass beaneath my feet had a miraculous reviving effect on me. Now I understand why people loll around, at all hours, oblivious to the heat.
I sat on the grass and enjoyed "connecting" with Mother Nature. It was only at 11pm I reluctantly went back but only after A came to see if I was stuck inside an elevator.
I did a quick calculation and figured out that the last time I walked barefoot on a grassy lawn was probably in Assam, which I left some 25 years ago.
I was half angry, half saddened with myself and my life. In the mad whirl of life caught between home and work, I had no time for simple pleasures of walking in the rain, smelling flowers, walking barefoot on the grass. A lot of it was not entirely my doing. Kuwait was just sand. Calcutta - mostly smog.
But what about now? I have been here for nearly a year and a half.
How could I have not made more of it?
Mother nature too must have noticed my ignoring her. She has come back with a vengeance and how. Just as I was getting over my fear of the terrible earthquake of 8th October, she gave a gentle nudge once again last Sunday. It felt like some one had gently lifted the chair I was sitting on and set it back. I did panic wildly, if only for half an hour and made a mental note to look for a house closer to the ground floor.
And then, we have been having the most awful dust storms (almost like a desert storm) and last night, there was a terrific thunderstorm at around midnight. Wild flashes of lightening, the windows all a rattle. I thought they would shatter. And water pouring in through every crack and gap. I spent better part of the storm plugging holes with whatever I could find in the laundry basket.
Nature is all around, in every nook and cranny, but not quite how I imagined it would be!
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Gold Blossoms
The heat is unbearable. Oppressive and dry. Out of the blue, a storm arrives. All the window panes rattle. The wind searing the skin of those foolish enough or compelled to be outdoors. Windows rattle. Dust seeps in through cracks and under doors and covers everything in dust. Visibility is reduced to a few metres or less.
Everyone who can is indoors. Those outdoors look barely human. Turned zombie like. I wonder if I am where I am, in Gurgaon or in some desert. Could well be but for the trees. How they blossom. Yellow, getting progressively brighter till almost golden. Baby green leaves peep out here and there. How is it possible. God alone knows. Such a sight for sore eyes.
Everyone who can is indoors. Those outdoors look barely human. Turned zombie like. I wonder if I am where I am, in Gurgaon or in some desert. Could well be but for the trees. How they blossom. Yellow, getting progressively brighter till almost golden. Baby green leaves peep out here and there. How is it possible. God alone knows. Such a sight for sore eyes.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Run Buddhia Run
On Tuesday 5th of May, 2006, Buddhia ran 65 kms from Puri to Bhubaneswar in 7.02 hours. All the news channels were full of Buddhia and with reason. He is four and a half years old.
When his father, a beggar, died, his mother sold him for 800 Rupees to a hawker. But he was rescued by his coach. He runs 50kms twice daily. And has run from Bhubaneswar to Puri more than once before. The CRPF who sponsored this last run, wants to adopt him.
He is the new “wonder child”. Now, which bit of this statement should I wonder at? That 4 year old Buddhia ran from Puri to Bhubaneswar? Or that it took him only 7.02 hours? Or he ran in the blistering summer heat of Orissa? Or that he is the youngest marathon runner in the world? Or that he made it to the Limca book of records? Or at all of these put together?
I am sure his coach is taking good care of him. But to me, childhood (and Buddhia is a child) is for other things. He probably is made of sterner stuff. But having seen the talent in him, he should be given a chance at a normal paced childhood, keeping the training for an age more acceptable. Four and a half means he is not in Class I.
I am wondering. But not in awe. I am wondering at the sadness of it all.
When his father, a beggar, died, his mother sold him for 800 Rupees to a hawker. But he was rescued by his coach. He runs 50kms twice daily. And has run from Bhubaneswar to Puri more than once before. The CRPF who sponsored this last run, wants to adopt him.
He is the new “wonder child”. Now, which bit of this statement should I wonder at? That 4 year old Buddhia ran from Puri to Bhubaneswar? Or that it took him only 7.02 hours? Or he ran in the blistering summer heat of Orissa? Or that he is the youngest marathon runner in the world? Or that he made it to the Limca book of records? Or at all of these put together?
I am sure his coach is taking good care of him. But to me, childhood (and Buddhia is a child) is for other things. He probably is made of sterner stuff. But having seen the talent in him, he should be given a chance at a normal paced childhood, keeping the training for an age more acceptable. Four and a half means he is not in Class I.
I am wondering. But not in awe. I am wondering at the sadness of it all.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Another Radio Channel
Anita had written about Radio Channels recently. Which prompted another post on the very same topic.
I listen to them daily on my way to work and back and on my way to clients’ and back. Choice of the stations are entirely upto the driver’s though. Most of them play the latest hindi film numbers. What I enjoy most, more than the songs are the RJ’s commentaries. Inane, mostly. But funny nevertheless. I also, happen to pay attention to all the ads, but that is purely from the point of view of work. Ever since I have joined Advertising, I can never watch or listen an ad without, unconsciously analyzing it.
But of late, (more than a few months actually), ever since all Airtel numbers changed and therefore began with 4 instead of 5, my direct number at work, and mine alone, mind you, in a big office with more than 150 people, has somehow, become the number to of a popular Radio Channel. Throughout the day, I get numerous calls for this channel, and during call in shows, am beset by them. And hardly anyone bothers to ask if it’s the channel or not. Instead, as soon as I pick up the phone, I get a barrage of strange answers. From men, women and children.
“Its Ajay Devgan’s father”, or “the answer is Amanullah Khan” or “Hema Mailini” or “film ka naam hai…”.
And when I say “WHAT”???
“Aap kahan say bol rahi hain?” is the response.
I get angry and gnash out, “Where are YOU calling from? Who do you want?”
“No, who are you,” says the caller.
“No you tell me, you called me?”
And so on and so forth.
The obvious answer is both I and this Radio Channel’s share the same number. Only difference being the Radio channel has a Delhi code. But the RJ’s rattle out only the number and the code and all people from outside, get an irate me, instead of the RJ.
Occasionally, if I happen to be in a good mood, I explain that they have to dial the Delhi code before the number.
In the meanwhile, it affords harmless fun, a break from the back breaking work to some of my junior colleagues. Sometimes, they take the calls.
“That is the CORRECT answer. You have won a trip for two to Disney land.”
Or they say, “Your time is up….”
And one enjoyed his role so much that he started having long conversations even asking them for song requests!!
I have tried dialing my number with the Delhi code but can never get through. The line is always busy….
I listen to them daily on my way to work and back and on my way to clients’ and back. Choice of the stations are entirely upto the driver’s though. Most of them play the latest hindi film numbers. What I enjoy most, more than the songs are the RJ’s commentaries. Inane, mostly. But funny nevertheless. I also, happen to pay attention to all the ads, but that is purely from the point of view of work. Ever since I have joined Advertising, I can never watch or listen an ad without, unconsciously analyzing it.
But of late, (more than a few months actually), ever since all Airtel numbers changed and therefore began with 4 instead of 5, my direct number at work, and mine alone, mind you, in a big office with more than 150 people, has somehow, become the number to of a popular Radio Channel. Throughout the day, I get numerous calls for this channel, and during call in shows, am beset by them. And hardly anyone bothers to ask if it’s the channel or not. Instead, as soon as I pick up the phone, I get a barrage of strange answers. From men, women and children.
“Its Ajay Devgan’s father”, or “the answer is Amanullah Khan” or “Hema Mailini” or “film ka naam hai…”.
And when I say “WHAT”???
“Aap kahan say bol rahi hain?” is the response.
I get angry and gnash out, “Where are YOU calling from? Who do you want?”
“No, who are you,” says the caller.
“No you tell me, you called me?”
And so on and so forth.
The obvious answer is both I and this Radio Channel’s share the same number. Only difference being the Radio channel has a Delhi code. But the RJ’s rattle out only the number and the code and all people from outside, get an irate me, instead of the RJ.
Occasionally, if I happen to be in a good mood, I explain that they have to dial the Delhi code before the number.
In the meanwhile, it affords harmless fun, a break from the back breaking work to some of my junior colleagues. Sometimes, they take the calls.
“That is the CORRECT answer. You have won a trip for two to Disney land.”
Or they say, “Your time is up….”
And one enjoyed his role so much that he started having long conversations even asking them for song requests!!
I have tried dialing my number with the Delhi code but can never get through. The line is always busy….
My Magic Table
I have a magic table at home. It’s a simple round cane table with a glass top. When I bought it, it looked like any other, regular piece of furniture. Once bought, it could be put to any use by its owners. I bought it as a dining table. Ha! Had I only known that, how different it would be.
First, our maid put a hot dish on to it and the glass cracked, edge-to-edge. Then, both A and I took our dinner / lunch plates in front of the TV which was in the bedroom. When friends came to dine with us, the table was too small to sit at, and so we used it for serving the dishes while we took our meals either in the drawing room or in the verandah. In case you are wondering about the crack, well, happily, it ran down the middle and I was able to cover it with a long runner!!
So what did we use it for? Well for piling things up on. News papers, bills, take away menus, files, water bottles, medicine box. The chairs were used to hang clothes…laundry, my duppattas, my tote bags etc.
When we moved into our new apartment, I made a mental note of using it as I had meant to. Also, our new place was much smaller and the table lay bang in full view of anyone coming into our apartment in the large hall which served as drawing / dinning.
But that was not to be. Strangely, despite my many attempts, it began to attract all the flotsam and jetsam in our home and lives. No matter how many times I cleaned it up, within a few hours, hey presto, a new set of things were back again on it!
This morning, I did some clearing up including the table. And yet now, some 7 hours later, I find, two bags (mine), a t-shirt, a pair of shorts (A’s), a news paper (I was doing the sudoku), a cook book I was leafing through during lunch, a cup, an empty match box, a nice wicker tray (which I have rarely used as a tray) holding three different sets of placemats (again rarely used; in fact one set still has the plastic covers on it). And oh, there is the nice glass bowl which instead of fruits, is full of little scraps of papers with phone numbers, assorted bills and what not. It held two apples a while back. But both got spoilt and had to be thrown away.
It must be the table then. It has a mind of its own. It was perhaps miffed at being bought by us, and then carted unceremoniously on a “thela” and hauled up three flights and getting scraped in the process. Perhaps, it had, while sitting to be picked up, visions of being amid a beautiful house, surrounded by beautiful things, greenery, beautiful people having candlelit, rose scented dinners with wine in beautiful glasses. And here we were. Dumping cheap take away menu, plastic water bottles, old ugly melmoware crockery, cracking it within a week. Oh ho. So this is my fate is it? The table thought. I will show them. I will make sure, they will never, be able to, let alone enjoy, even get close to having a pleasant meal atop me!!
I am alone now. My neighbour (whose verandah is within earshot) is away. I think, I will go and clean it up, speak to it gently, apologise and be generally very nice. Try and soothe it and tell it I am mending my rustic ways. And when A returns this weekend, we will, A, the table and I will begin anew.
First, our maid put a hot dish on to it and the glass cracked, edge-to-edge. Then, both A and I took our dinner / lunch plates in front of the TV which was in the bedroom. When friends came to dine with us, the table was too small to sit at, and so we used it for serving the dishes while we took our meals either in the drawing room or in the verandah. In case you are wondering about the crack, well, happily, it ran down the middle and I was able to cover it with a long runner!!
So what did we use it for? Well for piling things up on. News papers, bills, take away menus, files, water bottles, medicine box. The chairs were used to hang clothes…laundry, my duppattas, my tote bags etc.
When we moved into our new apartment, I made a mental note of using it as I had meant to. Also, our new place was much smaller and the table lay bang in full view of anyone coming into our apartment in the large hall which served as drawing / dinning.
But that was not to be. Strangely, despite my many attempts, it began to attract all the flotsam and jetsam in our home and lives. No matter how many times I cleaned it up, within a few hours, hey presto, a new set of things were back again on it!
This morning, I did some clearing up including the table. And yet now, some 7 hours later, I find, two bags (mine), a t-shirt, a pair of shorts (A’s), a news paper (I was doing the sudoku), a cook book I was leafing through during lunch, a cup, an empty match box, a nice wicker tray (which I have rarely used as a tray) holding three different sets of placemats (again rarely used; in fact one set still has the plastic covers on it). And oh, there is the nice glass bowl which instead of fruits, is full of little scraps of papers with phone numbers, assorted bills and what not. It held two apples a while back. But both got spoilt and had to be thrown away.
It must be the table then. It has a mind of its own. It was perhaps miffed at being bought by us, and then carted unceremoniously on a “thela” and hauled up three flights and getting scraped in the process. Perhaps, it had, while sitting to be picked up, visions of being amid a beautiful house, surrounded by beautiful things, greenery, beautiful people having candlelit, rose scented dinners with wine in beautiful glasses. And here we were. Dumping cheap take away menu, plastic water bottles, old ugly melmoware crockery, cracking it within a week. Oh ho. So this is my fate is it? The table thought. I will show them. I will make sure, they will never, be able to, let alone enjoy, even get close to having a pleasant meal atop me!!
I am alone now. My neighbour (whose verandah is within earshot) is away. I think, I will go and clean it up, speak to it gently, apologise and be generally very nice. Try and soothe it and tell it I am mending my rustic ways. And when A returns this weekend, we will, A, the table and I will begin anew.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
The Birds
“I feel like wringing their silly necks,” I wrote to R, them being a flock of silly pigeons that have decided to grace our verandahs. “Call your nearest lab assistant”, she wrote back. (She was a zoology student).
Last winter, a solitary pigeon sat immobile on the verandah rails for hours on end. I felt really sorry for this perhaps old and dying / seriously ill / injured bird. It was there for a couple of days before it left. I let it be, undisturbed.
That, I think, proved to my undoing. It was, I am convinced, a stool pigeon. It flew back and informed its clan who thus emboldened, moved in. Though, not all at once. Slowly, in ones and twos. Faint silhouettes, at first, on window ledges. Then a sudden rustle of wings along the glass panes, a careless feather here, a squawk there.
I should have nipped it in the bud then and there. But I didn’t. Not only had they moved in, but made their presence known.
I think, they meet every morning or at night and divided duties amongst themselves. You, you and you…shit on verandah no. 1, you two on 2. Hey you two love birds…you get to wake them (me and A) up by frenzied lovemaking on their air conditioners.
They choose their time well for this last activity. Always on a weekend. Always in the bedroom we happen to be sleeping in. (We have two and alternate depending upon the weather and or guests etc).
Not exactly the idyllic cooing wake up call…but the irritating metallic clang of their tiny feet on the aircon and general squawking early on a Sunday. How many time have I stumbled sleepily from my bed to the verandah, struggling to open the door which just happens to stick at the very moment...by then, the pigeons have finished their quickie in record time and are sitting beyond my reach, cooing maddeningly, and I think, smugly.
They haven’t spared my little garden either. I do so enjoy my first cup of tea, there, every morning. Will have to give it up soon. Bird shit all around. And different dimensions. As if they had a shitting contest the night before. You clean and hey presto, back again next morning. Each evening, when I return from work, I find feathers galore on our door mat. (None on our neighbours….and we DO clean our mats everyday much the same as them).
Their take over is now more or less complete. And how do I know this? Last night, I found ONE LARGE feather on our door mat.
I don’t think I am getting paranoid. I have seen a similar pattern earlier.
At our last residence, the pigeons had done the same things. First the silhouettes, the rustles, the bird shit. And one day, A and I returned from a weekend trip to find a funny smell. Couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. I cleaned whatever I could think of. The kitchen, bathrooms etc. But the smell didn’t go. And then my hands started smelling funny. Yukh. The tea, the food. And finally while I was taking a bath, it struck me and for a few heart stopping seconds, I actually thought, that the source of the smell was me: I was rotting.
THE WATER. “Go check the water tank,” I shouted to A. Sure enough, there was, a dead, decomposed Pigeon. Of all the tanks (there were 4), that dratted bird had to choose ours to bid adieu. And what an adieu. Yukh.
Can’t pack up and leave at dawn ala the Hitchcockian winged drama… (sill have quite a few months on the lease and this place is convenient). Suddenly, R’s suggestion seems infinitely sensible.
Last winter, a solitary pigeon sat immobile on the verandah rails for hours on end. I felt really sorry for this perhaps old and dying / seriously ill / injured bird. It was there for a couple of days before it left. I let it be, undisturbed.
That, I think, proved to my undoing. It was, I am convinced, a stool pigeon. It flew back and informed its clan who thus emboldened, moved in. Though, not all at once. Slowly, in ones and twos. Faint silhouettes, at first, on window ledges. Then a sudden rustle of wings along the glass panes, a careless feather here, a squawk there.
I should have nipped it in the bud then and there. But I didn’t. Not only had they moved in, but made their presence known.
I think, they meet every morning or at night and divided duties amongst themselves. You, you and you…shit on verandah no. 1, you two on 2. Hey you two love birds…you get to wake them (me and A) up by frenzied lovemaking on their air conditioners.
They choose their time well for this last activity. Always on a weekend. Always in the bedroom we happen to be sleeping in. (We have two and alternate depending upon the weather and or guests etc).
Not exactly the idyllic cooing wake up call…but the irritating metallic clang of their tiny feet on the aircon and general squawking early on a Sunday. How many time have I stumbled sleepily from my bed to the verandah, struggling to open the door which just happens to stick at the very moment...by then, the pigeons have finished their quickie in record time and are sitting beyond my reach, cooing maddeningly, and I think, smugly.
They haven’t spared my little garden either. I do so enjoy my first cup of tea, there, every morning. Will have to give it up soon. Bird shit all around. And different dimensions. As if they had a shitting contest the night before. You clean and hey presto, back again next morning. Each evening, when I return from work, I find feathers galore on our door mat. (None on our neighbours….and we DO clean our mats everyday much the same as them).
Their take over is now more or less complete. And how do I know this? Last night, I found ONE LARGE feather on our door mat.
I don’t think I am getting paranoid. I have seen a similar pattern earlier.
At our last residence, the pigeons had done the same things. First the silhouettes, the rustles, the bird shit. And one day, A and I returned from a weekend trip to find a funny smell. Couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. I cleaned whatever I could think of. The kitchen, bathrooms etc. But the smell didn’t go. And then my hands started smelling funny. Yukh. The tea, the food. And finally while I was taking a bath, it struck me and for a few heart stopping seconds, I actually thought, that the source of the smell was me: I was rotting.
THE WATER. “Go check the water tank,” I shouted to A. Sure enough, there was, a dead, decomposed Pigeon. Of all the tanks (there were 4), that dratted bird had to choose ours to bid adieu. And what an adieu. Yukh.
Can’t pack up and leave at dawn ala the Hitchcockian winged drama… (sill have quite a few months on the lease and this place is convenient). Suddenly, R’s suggestion seems infinitely sensible.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Obituary
Addwaita passed away on Friday. He succumbed to liver failure. And that ofcourse made headlines and that is how I learnt about it. And why should that be?
Well to begin with, Addwaita was 255 years old. At firt, it sounds incredible, even awe inspiring to note that when he was born, Mozart, Beethoven, Napoleon weren't born, America was not "Independent", England had not yet become the mighty empire it subsequently became. He lived through numerous wars including the American, French and Indian struggle for independence, world wars, voyage to the moon, and when he died, voyager had aready set upon it's 10 year voyage to Pluto.
Consider that all the while that history was being shaped, changed, he was oblivious to it all, far away from his kith and kin, living his lonely existence so far, far away, in Calcutta.
He was a giant tortoise brought by some brits from the Seychelles and presented to Robert Clive. He was not the only one. It is on record that there were three of them. Two of them died much before and so it was Addwaita who whiled his time away, alone, a prisoner at first in Clive's home in Bengal and then for the last 130 years of his life at the kolkata zoo.
The incredible awe that I felt for his longevity, very soon, gave way to a sense of overwhelming sadness.
What a terrible curse then, this tremdendous exile.
Atlast Adwaita is free...and i sincerely hope reunited with his (hopefully equally long-living kins) in tortoise heaven.
Well to begin with, Addwaita was 255 years old. At firt, it sounds incredible, even awe inspiring to note that when he was born, Mozart, Beethoven, Napoleon weren't born, America was not "Independent", England had not yet become the mighty empire it subsequently became. He lived through numerous wars including the American, French and Indian struggle for independence, world wars, voyage to the moon, and when he died, voyager had aready set upon it's 10 year voyage to Pluto.
Consider that all the while that history was being shaped, changed, he was oblivious to it all, far away from his kith and kin, living his lonely existence so far, far away, in Calcutta.
He was a giant tortoise brought by some brits from the Seychelles and presented to Robert Clive. He was not the only one. It is on record that there were three of them. Two of them died much before and so it was Addwaita who whiled his time away, alone, a prisoner at first in Clive's home in Bengal and then for the last 130 years of his life at the kolkata zoo.
The incredible awe that I felt for his longevity, very soon, gave way to a sense of overwhelming sadness.
What a terrible curse then, this tremdendous exile.
Atlast Adwaita is free...and i sincerely hope reunited with his (hopefully equally long-living kins) in tortoise heaven.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Why I can't remember the roads....
Most of my clients are in South Block (the Ministries) and the UN bodies in Lodhi Estate, and despite going their twice a week for more than a year, I wouldn't be able to find the way on my own.
My attention is focussed elsewhere...
Just the other day on my way to the Ministry, my car was at a red light...cheek by jowl with other cars, when a fat, contented cow weaved its way placidly to the front row of cars at the traffic singals and waited patiently, believe it or not, for the light to change to green. And when the light turned green, it too crossed the roads, oblivious to the on rush of cars on either side!
And then on my way back, I saw a true example of "Hamara Bajaj". A man on a bike with his three kids. One was sitting on the engine in front of him and two behind and he had tied all of them to him with a bright bandhni dupatta!!
My attention is focussed elsewhere...
Just the other day on my way to the Ministry, my car was at a red light...cheek by jowl with other cars, when a fat, contented cow weaved its way placidly to the front row of cars at the traffic singals and waited patiently, believe it or not, for the light to change to green. And when the light turned green, it too crossed the roads, oblivious to the on rush of cars on either side!
And then on my way back, I saw a true example of "Hamara Bajaj". A man on a bike with his three kids. One was sitting on the engine in front of him and two behind and he had tied all of them to him with a bright bandhni dupatta!!
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Un"Reel" Village...
India lives in it's villages. But not the villaegs romaticised in Indian films. Where the beautiful village belles go in a row balancing pitchers on their heads while the hero (often urbane and handsome) drives by singing and then falls for the prettiest one in the village, romances her through lush verdant fields. You get the picture.
The reality is (most of us are aware of this) very different. Harsh. Squalid and to a large extent, terribly deprived. Despite the harshness, the hardship, life in villages (rural areas) have moved on. There have been changes over the years. How much? I found out....on my trip to Ranthambore. The Sarisar lake was on our itiniary.
As we neared the lake, our cantors turned onto a narrow rut on a high ridge and got stuck. On one side was a low stone wall about one foot high beyond which the land sloped steeply to the lake. The other side was a sheer drop to large fields. The road was cracked at the edges and often the wheels had to pass over large gaps and finally, the cantors could move no further. All of us got down and decided to walk it on foot to the lake and back.
But what lake? It was more an enormous swamp of green vegetation and mud. And what little water was left, was being pumped out by atleast three or four small generators on the banks. To the fields on the other side of the ridge to the fields. We were aghast to see that so much water had been drained out.
We waited and took in the local scenery, while the drivers figured out how to get the cantors reversed.
Stretched on the other side of the ridge were magnificent fields. A wild (to my untutored eyes) tangle of all sorts of vegetation. Huge fields of mustard plants the fields demarcated by the direction in which the stalks had bent in the wind. Such a variety of green, yellows and browns in such a haphazard tangle. And the locals. What bright clothes, what lovely colours. Where was their village? Somewhere beyond both the lake and the fields I guess. There were the village belles in brightly coloured clothes, the goats with bells a tinkle at their throat, the fields in myriad colours. But that's where the similarity to filmi villages ended.
A solitary woman in a bright blue emrboidered ghaghra (skirt) stood by the ridge with a thick stick in her hand. Down below, were a bunch of goats grazing. And just a few minutes later, I found to my surprise, that the old woman was no longer besides me on the ridge. She had (god knows how), climbed down the steep slope (with no ruts, no visible foothold) and was herding her goats.
A little later, we passed by two young women in bright oranges and red which is so characteristic of rajasthan hunched on the edge, trying to push down a few really long (and I imagine heavy) PVC pipes down the slope.
While I recovered from my surprise of the old woman and the goat, the two women had not only got themselves and the pipes down the slope, they had gone a long way off, laid the pipes down at a distance from each other and then the two set about attaching the ends of each. Very soon, they had covered quite a distance.
Two men, (their husbands?) joined them. Eventually, they would connect upto the lake side and get waters for their fields? All in a hard days work for them?
Why wasn't I aghast at the draining of the lake and the obvious ecological damage? Well, at that moment, seeing the hard work those couple were putting in, seemed to me, justified it all. Did they have any other source of water? Possibly not. So do they sit back and watch their crops die? Could have. But they decided not to. Real life this.
Back to "reel life", village life continues....idyllic & wonderful.
The reality is (most of us are aware of this) very different. Harsh. Squalid and to a large extent, terribly deprived. Despite the harshness, the hardship, life in villages (rural areas) have moved on. There have been changes over the years. How much? I found out....on my trip to Ranthambore. The Sarisar lake was on our itiniary.
As we neared the lake, our cantors turned onto a narrow rut on a high ridge and got stuck. On one side was a low stone wall about one foot high beyond which the land sloped steeply to the lake. The other side was a sheer drop to large fields. The road was cracked at the edges and often the wheels had to pass over large gaps and finally, the cantors could move no further. All of us got down and decided to walk it on foot to the lake and back.
But what lake? It was more an enormous swamp of green vegetation and mud. And what little water was left, was being pumped out by atleast three or four small generators on the banks. To the fields on the other side of the ridge to the fields. We were aghast to see that so much water had been drained out.
We waited and took in the local scenery, while the drivers figured out how to get the cantors reversed.
Stretched on the other side of the ridge were magnificent fields. A wild (to my untutored eyes) tangle of all sorts of vegetation. Huge fields of mustard plants the fields demarcated by the direction in which the stalks had bent in the wind. Such a variety of green, yellows and browns in such a haphazard tangle. And the locals. What bright clothes, what lovely colours. Where was their village? Somewhere beyond both the lake and the fields I guess. There were the village belles in brightly coloured clothes, the goats with bells a tinkle at their throat, the fields in myriad colours. But that's where the similarity to filmi villages ended.
A solitary woman in a bright blue emrboidered ghaghra (skirt) stood by the ridge with a thick stick in her hand. Down below, were a bunch of goats grazing. And just a few minutes later, I found to my surprise, that the old woman was no longer besides me on the ridge. She had (god knows how), climbed down the steep slope (with no ruts, no visible foothold) and was herding her goats.
A little later, we passed by two young women in bright oranges and red which is so characteristic of rajasthan hunched on the edge, trying to push down a few really long (and I imagine heavy) PVC pipes down the slope.
While I recovered from my surprise of the old woman and the goat, the two women had not only got themselves and the pipes down the slope, they had gone a long way off, laid the pipes down at a distance from each other and then the two set about attaching the ends of each. Very soon, they had covered quite a distance.
Two men, (their husbands?) joined them. Eventually, they would connect upto the lake side and get waters for their fields? All in a hard days work for them?
Why wasn't I aghast at the draining of the lake and the obvious ecological damage? Well, at that moment, seeing the hard work those couple were putting in, seemed to me, justified it all. Did they have any other source of water? Possibly not. So do they sit back and watch their crops die? Could have. But they decided not to. Real life this.
Back to "reel life", village life continues....idyllic & wonderful.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Just another day...
I live in such a nice and quiet residential neighbourhood. Joggers, walkers, people pushing babies in prams, walking dogs; houses in neat rows; the occasional pretty park. And yet, people have been warning me about not venturing out alone in the dark. How silly. I thought. Of course I have been taking the usual precautions. Or so I thought.
Last weekend, A was away. So I asked M, a new kid in my team to spend the weekend with me. I do find it unnerving to be on my own in the rather large apartment block that I live. The newspapers are so full of stories of robberies and murders etc.
So, M arrived. And we had a nice and lazy weekend. And then we decided to catch a movie and if we couldn't get tickets, we could always go shopping in the malls. It is sale season. Around 4.30, sunday afternoon, we took a rickshaw, talking nineteen to dozen, and had just crossed a rather large and busy intersection when suddenly, a guy on scooter swooped out of nowhere, grabbed M's bag and zoomed off. Before I could react to what was happening, M first fell off the rickshaw and then was dragged along the road, her hand firmly gripping the bag, even as she fell. A little way ahead, the guy on the scooter let go of the bag and sped away, but not before he turned to take a look at us. His face was covered by a handkerchief. And there we were. M, on the road, terribly bruised and cut. I on the rickshaw, screaming my head off. Soon quite a crowd gathered around us, helped her up. No one had taken down the number of the scooter. There hadn’t been enough time for that. It happened in a trice. In fact, now that I think about it, the rickshaw driver hadn't even stopped or slowed down.
One chap approached us and asked us what had happened and could he help. I asked if there was a doctor around. He returned with his car and took us to a doctor. M was very badly bruised and scratched. But no broken bones. She was shaking badly. That was the shock, said the doctor.
I had been warned before by so many. Including a few rickshaw drivers. But it was something that happened to others. Too unreal to happen to me. And yet it did. I have become so nervous after this. I am walking everywhere I can, on foot, sans bag. Carrying money in my pockets, ever so often stopping to look behind me and if I see a cycle or a bike, I go right off the road and onto the sides. (Am sure people must be thinking I am mad). But what else is there to be done? If something like this happens in broad daylight, in a busy, crowded place, are we safe anywhere? Or do I just shrug and carry on? I will I guess, after a while. But for now, I am too terrified, and very upset. I had after all called the chirpy M over for a weekend. And it had been her bad luck to be sitting on the road side. I was on the curb side. She however (as the young so often are, was more worried about her broken nails and shoes! She even asked the doctor if she could carry on to the movies!!
Perhaps, this is one more sign that I am growing older (and perhaps sadly wiser and less intrepid), but it will be sometime before I can hop onto a rickshaw. But life carries on. We were not the first, nor the last. Life carries on. Just another sign of the times. Speeding cars, pollution, new viruses, power shortage, daylight robberies on scooters.....
Last weekend, A was away. So I asked M, a new kid in my team to spend the weekend with me. I do find it unnerving to be on my own in the rather large apartment block that I live. The newspapers are so full of stories of robberies and murders etc.
So, M arrived. And we had a nice and lazy weekend. And then we decided to catch a movie and if we couldn't get tickets, we could always go shopping in the malls. It is sale season. Around 4.30, sunday afternoon, we took a rickshaw, talking nineteen to dozen, and had just crossed a rather large and busy intersection when suddenly, a guy on scooter swooped out of nowhere, grabbed M's bag and zoomed off. Before I could react to what was happening, M first fell off the rickshaw and then was dragged along the road, her hand firmly gripping the bag, even as she fell. A little way ahead, the guy on the scooter let go of the bag and sped away, but not before he turned to take a look at us. His face was covered by a handkerchief. And there we were. M, on the road, terribly bruised and cut. I on the rickshaw, screaming my head off. Soon quite a crowd gathered around us, helped her up. No one had taken down the number of the scooter. There hadn’t been enough time for that. It happened in a trice. In fact, now that I think about it, the rickshaw driver hadn't even stopped or slowed down.
One chap approached us and asked us what had happened and could he help. I asked if there was a doctor around. He returned with his car and took us to a doctor. M was very badly bruised and scratched. But no broken bones. She was shaking badly. That was the shock, said the doctor.
I had been warned before by so many. Including a few rickshaw drivers. But it was something that happened to others. Too unreal to happen to me. And yet it did. I have become so nervous after this. I am walking everywhere I can, on foot, sans bag. Carrying money in my pockets, ever so often stopping to look behind me and if I see a cycle or a bike, I go right off the road and onto the sides. (Am sure people must be thinking I am mad). But what else is there to be done? If something like this happens in broad daylight, in a busy, crowded place, are we safe anywhere? Or do I just shrug and carry on? I will I guess, after a while. But for now, I am too terrified, and very upset. I had after all called the chirpy M over for a weekend. And it had been her bad luck to be sitting on the road side. I was on the curb side. She however (as the young so often are, was more worried about her broken nails and shoes! She even asked the doctor if she could carry on to the movies!!
Perhaps, this is one more sign that I am growing older (and perhaps sadly wiser and less intrepid), but it will be sometime before I can hop onto a rickshaw. But life carries on. We were not the first, nor the last. Life carries on. Just another sign of the times. Speeding cars, pollution, new viruses, power shortage, daylight robberies on scooters.....
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Been there, done that!
...And bought the T-shirt, too.
(I really don’t know how to write short posts. Forgive me).
Ranthambore, Kanha, Corbett, Sunderbans... So popular with tourists wanting to get a glimpse of the Tiger in the wild. And atleast two of these have been on the list of places I wanted to / might have / could have visited. So, when A & I found ourselves at Ranthambor, we were mightily thrilled. Without quite knowing why. Why? Because. Tigers in the wild. Endangered. People do these safaris etc.
We left the hotel at early on a cantor. I was a bit disappointed to find that early meant 7am and not the crack of dawn (somehow, more appropriate with jungles and tigers). It was COLD in the open cantor and though I was warmly dressed, my attention was focused on wrapping the blanket (supplied by the hotel) around me. As we left the hotel and the little township and entered the fort, I was wondering, am I on the right side of the cantor? Should I sit by the side? No, that would mean more dust. The huge gate built in the stone ramparts of the fort took us, into a different world.
Steep hillside, shallow drain, blonde brush (what else is that spiky blonde coloured vegetation), plants with leaves, already rust. What colour will they be in the merciless summer?? And oh my god, the Banyan trees. Gnarled and entwined, enormous and not content to just reach an enormous length, they spread their gnarled, entangled white branches on either side and often across the road as well.
The driver cum guide pointed out a wood owl sitting concealed between the bare branches of a tree, looking like another pieces of stump. A vibrant blue bird flitted past. Kingfisher? Peacocks shone blue and green among the dirty green and brown brambly foliage. The driver leant out of the cantor and looked at something. Pugmarks. Clear ones. A loud cacophony erupted from the cantor. Tigers. But they are going the other way. People stood up. Children shouted. Cameras came out. The mood changed when the driver suddenly braked. He stood up and angrily told us to be quiet. If we made such a ruckus then he couldn't hear the "call" Monkeys, birds and deer gave a distinct call if a tiger was near. We sobered and sat down meekly. The driver went in deeper and perhaps from experience, turned this way and that way, left certain tracks and chose others. Occasionally a forest guard would pass by and confer with the driver. This "area" belonged to a tigress and her two cubs. "Shush". What? What? The driver had heard a call. A call? What call? The cantor was making quite a racket. We looked around anxiously this way and that. Minutes passed by. The driver moved on. He did try his best. He took us up and down, past water bodies and right up to the swampy land in front of a lake where the cubs are hidden while their mummy went looking for food. Then we heard it. A langur gave a distinct and shrill call. A herd of deer ran past. Others in the water stood stock still, ears perked up. The driver made a curious "Hmmmm Hmmm" sound.
Perhaps the elusive tigress would come out strolling lazily. Or we'd come across it lazing with her cubs. More pugmarks were sighted. Seeing our cantor, other hopefuls would stop by and we'd all wait together. But in vain. Till the very end, I was convinced that we'd see one. Perhaps, it would be me, who'd spot it and then I (hero of the moment) would say in a silent sharp hiss, "eyes right....there it is." No such luck. We returned three hours later, covered with dust sans a tiger sighting.
That very afternoon, most of us, agreed to take another try. Perhaps afternoon was a better time. "I have a feeling we will see it", said one tiger enthusiast. Right. And so we set out. Three dusty hours later, we returned without having a glimpse of any tiger. Also, we found out, that the pugmarks we had seen in the morning and later in the afternoon were three days old. Oops. And Ranthambore was 400 sq kilometers and the tiger population was 16 and not 26. The odds of our seeing one were minimal. We felt deflated. "Its not easy to see tigers". "We shouldn't expect them to come out just for us". "People have worked in the forests for 10-12 years and have never seen one", we consoled ourselves. We still had one more day to go. A trip to the Fort and the temple was on the cards. There was also the Dastkaar centre where we simply had to go shop.
Next morning, 4 of us, 3 ladies and a couple, set out in a low jeep towards Dastakar. We had barely left the dusty tracks leading from the hotel to the main road, when some one passed by and said, a tiger had come out of the sanctuary and would be there for quite some time. "Forget dastkaar. Take us there, now, we said". And we went, our (at least mine) heart a-thump. As we neared the gates of the fort, we met more and more locals and guards who smiled and either pointed or nodded to say, yes there it is.
The road narrowed with a wall of boulders on one side. A low stonewall about three feet high was on the other beyond which was a tangle of briers and brambles. A little way ahead, the driver stopped at a spot, indistinguishable from any other on that stretch and said, "look carefully, it should be here."
And then we saw a yellow haze. We had to stand up to watch it. Yes, there she was. She raised her enormous head and gave us a lazy yellow look and then lay back again. Then it struck me. My glee at being one of the first to see a tiger was replaced by a chilly terror. OH MY GOD. There she is. An enormous tiger. 7 feet away. With only a low wall between us. And our jeep was so low, so open. We have seen it. Done. Our tiger. In raw flesh and blood. Orange and black striped. Can we leave now please?
Others were however reacting entirely differently. They were busy trying to part the brambles to get a closer look, a photo. Soon, a cantor full of tourists came. Then another car and yet another. The drivers of the various cars began shouting at each other. "Move your car. Let my tourists get a view". "No, you move yours". STOP I screamed, mentally . What if the tiger got irritated?
And then came a huge car with three people and a dog. The lady got down. All the drivers immediately screamed at them. Get back into the car and take that dog away. NOW. This is where I thought, the end was nigh! The tiger must have got a whiff of the dog and if not, would have certainly smelled my fear. Can we leave? Even if we wanted to, we couldn't because the narrow road was jammed anyways. Somehow, a thousand hours later (or so it seemed, to me), we left and were soon out of the fort. We telephoned our hotel to tell the others to get into a cantor and come here quick. Locals said that the tiger would be there for a few hours.
Sure enough, it was still there later on in the afternoon, when we were going to the fort. By now, all of us and perhaps the entire tourist population of Ranthambore had by now seen it, and yet, they were not quite done. Again we stopped. Again people stood up, took photos. The driver (a different one this time) gave a running commentary. "Now she will look (and the tiger raised her head and looked), now she will stand (and sure enough it did). Oh my god. Will the others never get enough of looking / taking photos of it?? The driver overdid himself. A young chap passed by on his motorbike. An old woman and a young girl were on the pillion. Our driver stopped them and said, "Bhaiya, Mataji, get up on the cantor and get a good view of the TIGER." Had I not been so scared, I would have given the driver a good, solid smack. Shouldn't we leave? Although tigers haven't in the recent past attacked any tourist, what’s to say they wont? They are wild and dangerous aren’t they?
Later on, the driver said he had left hurriedly (bah) because Madam-ji (that's me) was feeling mightily frightened. And the driver-hero definitely wasn't, I thought. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have, I guess, jumped into the briers and patted the tigress on the head?
So why did I go? I hadn't till then thought much about seeing or wanting to see a tiger in the wild? What would I get out of it? Why did I want to see it? A photo? A story to tell others, "I saw a tiger, I saw a tiger, na-na-na-na"? I have a few friends who are die-hard tiger enthusiast and have been parts of tiger count surveys (or whatever is the exact term). Not so for me. Honestly, I went because. Because. Nothing more.
But now, I can firmly say, that having been there, done that (seen a tiger in the wild), and whatsmore, having bought a Ranthambor Tiger T-shirt, I don’t want to ever do it again. I really don’t.
PS- All we got of the tiger was a hazy yellow stripe behind the brambles. And none of us (thankgod) had the guts to go any closer to get a clearer picture. I guess the Tigeress had the last laugh!
(I really don’t know how to write short posts. Forgive me).
Ranthambore, Kanha, Corbett, Sunderbans... So popular with tourists wanting to get a glimpse of the Tiger in the wild. And atleast two of these have been on the list of places I wanted to / might have / could have visited. So, when A & I found ourselves at Ranthambor, we were mightily thrilled. Without quite knowing why. Why? Because. Tigers in the wild. Endangered. People do these safaris etc.We left the hotel at early on a cantor. I was a bit disappointed to find that early meant 7am and not the crack of dawn (somehow, more appropriate with jungles and tigers). It was COLD in the open cantor and though I was warmly dressed, my attention was focused on wrapping the blanket (supplied by the hotel) around me. As we left the hotel and the little township and entered the fort, I was wondering, am I on the right side of the cantor? Should I sit by the side? No, that would mean more dust. The huge gate built in the stone ramparts of the fort took us, into a different world.
Steep hillside, shallow drain, blonde brush (what else is that spiky blonde coloured vegetation), plants with leaves, already rust. What colour will they be in the merciless summer?? And oh my god, the Banyan trees. Gnarled and entwined, enormous and not content to just reach an enormous length, they spread their gnarled, entangled white branches on either side and often across the road as well.
The driver cum guide pointed out a wood owl sitting concealed between the bare branches of a tree, looking like another pieces of stump. A vibrant blue bird flitted past. Kingfisher? Peacocks shone blue and green among the dirty green and brown brambly foliage. The driver leant out of the cantor and looked at something. Pugmarks. Clear ones. A loud cacophony erupted from the cantor. Tigers. But they are going the other way. People stood up. Children shouted. Cameras came out. The mood changed when the driver suddenly braked. He stood up and angrily told us to be quiet. If we made such a ruckus then he couldn't hear the "call" Monkeys, birds and deer gave a distinct call if a tiger was near. We sobered and sat down meekly. The driver went in deeper and perhaps from experience, turned this way and that way, left certain tracks and chose others. Occasionally a forest guard would pass by and confer with the driver. This "area" belonged to a tigress and her two cubs. "Shush". What? What? The driver had heard a call. A call? What call? The cantor was making quite a racket. We looked around anxiously this way and that. Minutes passed by. The driver moved on. He did try his best. He took us up and down, past water bodies and right up to the swampy land in front of a lake where the cubs are hidden while their mummy went looking for food. Then we heard it. A langur gave a distinct and shrill call. A herd of deer ran past. Others in the water stood stock still, ears perked up. The driver made a curious "Hmmmm Hmmm" sound.Perhaps the elusive tigress would come out strolling lazily. Or we'd come across it lazing with her cubs. More pugmarks were sighted. Seeing our cantor, other hopefuls would stop by and we'd all wait together. But in vain. Till the very end, I was convinced that we'd see one. Perhaps, it would be me, who'd spot it and then I (hero of the moment) would say in a silent sharp hiss, "eyes right....there it is." No such luck. We returned three hours later, covered with dust sans a tiger sighting.
That very afternoon, most of us, agreed to take another try. Perhaps afternoon was a better time. "I have a feeling we will see it", said one tiger enthusiast. Right. And so we set out. Three dusty hours later, we returned without having a glimpse of any tiger. Also, we found out, that the pugmarks we had seen in the morning and later in the afternoon were three days old. Oops. And Ranthambore was 400 sq kilometers and the tiger population was 16 and not 26. The odds of our seeing one were minimal. We felt deflated. "Its not easy to see tigers". "We shouldn't expect them to come out just for us". "People have worked in the forests for 10-12 years and have never seen one", we consoled ourselves. We still had one more day to go. A trip to the Fort and the temple was on the cards. There was also the Dastkaar centre where we simply had to go shop.
Next morning, 4 of us, 3 ladies and a couple, set out in a low jeep towards Dastakar. We had barely left the dusty tracks leading from the hotel to the main road, when some one passed by and said, a tiger had come out of the sanctuary and would be there for quite some time. "Forget dastkaar. Take us there, now, we said". And we went, our (at least mine) heart a-thump. As we neared the gates of the fort, we met more and more locals and guards who smiled and either pointed or nodded to say, yes there it is.
The road narrowed with a wall of boulders on one side. A low stonewall about three feet high was on the other beyond which was a tangle of briers and brambles. A little way ahead, the driver stopped at a spot, indistinguishable from any other on that stretch and said, "look carefully, it should be here."
And then we saw a yellow haze. We had to stand up to watch it. Yes, there she was. She raised her enormous head and gave us a lazy yellow look and then lay back again. Then it struck me. My glee at being one of the first to see a tiger was replaced by a chilly terror. OH MY GOD. There she is. An enormous tiger. 7 feet away. With only a low wall between us. And our jeep was so low, so open. We have seen it. Done. Our tiger. In raw flesh and blood. Orange and black striped. Can we leave now please?
Others were however reacting entirely differently. They were busy trying to part the brambles to get a closer look, a photo. Soon, a cantor full of tourists came. Then another car and yet another. The drivers of the various cars began shouting at each other. "Move your car. Let my tourists get a view". "No, you move yours". STOP I screamed, mentally . What if the tiger got irritated?
And then came a huge car with three people and a dog. The lady got down. All the drivers immediately screamed at them. Get back into the car and take that dog away. NOW. This is where I thought, the end was nigh! The tiger must have got a whiff of the dog and if not, would have certainly smelled my fear. Can we leave? Even if we wanted to, we couldn't because the narrow road was jammed anyways. Somehow, a thousand hours later (or so it seemed, to me), we left and were soon out of the fort. We telephoned our hotel to tell the others to get into a cantor and come here quick. Locals said that the tiger would be there for a few hours.
Sure enough, it was still there later on in the afternoon, when we were going to the fort. By now, all of us and perhaps the entire tourist population of Ranthambore had by now seen it, and yet, they were not quite done. Again we stopped. Again people stood up, took photos. The driver (a different one this time) gave a running commentary. "Now she will look (and the tiger raised her head and looked), now she will stand (and sure enough it did). Oh my god. Will the others never get enough of looking / taking photos of it?? The driver overdid himself. A young chap passed by on his motorbike. An old woman and a young girl were on the pillion. Our driver stopped them and said, "Bhaiya, Mataji, get up on the cantor and get a good view of the TIGER." Had I not been so scared, I would have given the driver a good, solid smack. Shouldn't we leave? Although tigers haven't in the recent past attacked any tourist, what’s to say they wont? They are wild and dangerous aren’t they?
Later on, the driver said he had left hurriedly (bah) because Madam-ji (that's me) was feeling mightily frightened. And the driver-hero definitely wasn't, I thought. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have, I guess, jumped into the briers and patted the tigress on the head?
So why did I go? I hadn't till then thought much about seeing or wanting to see a tiger in the wild? What would I get out of it? Why did I want to see it? A photo? A story to tell others, "I saw a tiger, I saw a tiger, na-na-na-na"? I have a few friends who are die-hard tiger enthusiast and have been parts of tiger count surveys (or whatever is the exact term). Not so for me. Honestly, I went because. Because. Nothing more.
But now, I can firmly say, that having been there, done that (seen a tiger in the wild), and whatsmore, having bought a Ranthambor Tiger T-shirt, I don’t want to ever do it again. I really don’t.
PS- All we got of the tiger was a hazy yellow stripe behind the brambles. And none of us (thankgod) had the guts to go any closer to get a clearer picture. I guess the Tigeress had the last laugh!
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Rape Capital Delhi
An article in a national daily reports that Delhi crime statistics for 2005 have only strengthened the dubious tag Delhi has had to live with for many years -- India's rape capital. There was (the paper reports) an almost 20% spurt in rape cases as compared to 2004. Every day, along with the usual report on Iraq, India's cricketing woes, and bollywood news is the obligatory para or two on another rape case.
Young girl abducted, minor raped, maid raped and most of these are cases of the women being hauled into cars and gang raped while the car roams around the city roads and then the bruised and battered woman is dumped by the road.
And yet, this past week, the top story in media is Brinda Karat's obssession with Swami Ram Dev and his purported usage of animal parts and human parts in the ayurvedic medicines that his organisation / ashram has been dispensing. I am neither for or against Ram Dev and his medications. If he is using human bones, it must be investigated. But what a collosal waste and shame that people in power, especially women, have remained mum or paid mere lip service to this horrific issue. Can we dismiss it by saying, its the responsibility of the Delhi authorities? Shouldn't women, and specially those in power do something about it?
I remember, back in France, in my french class, where the prof encouraged debates which often tended to be political. My classmates often would have scanty knowlede of India and I once proudly pointed out that despite being backward compared to the west and France, we had women in powerful positions including prime minister, chief ministers. Sonia Gandhi, Sheila Dixit, Jaya Jaitley, Jayalalitha, Mamamta Bannerjee, Brinda Karat, Rabri Devi and the scores of others women - celebritiy and film star MLAs & other party functionaries.
I no longer think its something to be proud of. What if women got thier 33% reservation for women in Parliament and State Legislatures. I donot think it will make lives of women any more better or safer than it is today. There will be more discussions on non-issues (not the domain of women alone) with more women now in a position of power, in a position to be heard of, with access to media.
Arm yourself with pepper sprays, learn some form of physical defence, avoid travelling alone, use cars...whatever. Donot expect any help from any of your powerful sister politicos.
Young girl abducted, minor raped, maid raped and most of these are cases of the women being hauled into cars and gang raped while the car roams around the city roads and then the bruised and battered woman is dumped by the road.
And yet, this past week, the top story in media is Brinda Karat's obssession with Swami Ram Dev and his purported usage of animal parts and human parts in the ayurvedic medicines that his organisation / ashram has been dispensing. I am neither for or against Ram Dev and his medications. If he is using human bones, it must be investigated. But what a collosal waste and shame that people in power, especially women, have remained mum or paid mere lip service to this horrific issue. Can we dismiss it by saying, its the responsibility of the Delhi authorities? Shouldn't women, and specially those in power do something about it?
I remember, back in France, in my french class, where the prof encouraged debates which often tended to be political. My classmates often would have scanty knowlede of India and I once proudly pointed out that despite being backward compared to the west and France, we had women in powerful positions including prime minister, chief ministers. Sonia Gandhi, Sheila Dixit, Jaya Jaitley, Jayalalitha, Mamamta Bannerjee, Brinda Karat, Rabri Devi and the scores of others women - celebritiy and film star MLAs & other party functionaries.
I no longer think its something to be proud of. What if women got thier 33% reservation for women in Parliament and State Legislatures. I donot think it will make lives of women any more better or safer than it is today. There will be more discussions on non-issues (not the domain of women alone) with more women now in a position of power, in a position to be heard of, with access to media.
Arm yourself with pepper sprays, learn some form of physical defence, avoid travelling alone, use cars...whatever. Donot expect any help from any of your powerful sister politicos.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Curiouser & curiouser
Monkey menace is a big problem in Delhi and the surrounding areas. Hordes of monkey pick up a spot / area, not to live in, but to visit, frolic, destroy everything in sight and occasionally attack a passer by and vanish en masse, just as suddenly as they appear. I had a taste of it first hand last year, (Local Fauna).Recently, as I came out of the Ministry of Health & Family Welfare, I found the compound swarming with monkeys. Small, tiny, medium and big. Hopping, jumping, walking, sitting, monkeys everywhere. These are seriously city smart monkeys and not to be trifled with. A guard, who saw me run back inside, very kindly, escorted me right to the main gates and I was thankful for his presence.
The monkeys are not to blame. More and more houses, shops, malls, offices are coming up, depriving them of their natural habitat. They are being forced to survive in a hostile overcrowded city, and have become, really aggressive.
This morning, as I was entering the ministry premises, a man cycled past me inside the compound, at a leisurely place and behind him on the bicycle, sat a Langur. It was chained to the cycle and it sat there serenely, its long tail, hanging down and in fact was trailing on the path. There were no monkeys in sight.This was not a mere chance occurrence. Believe it or not, this is a tried and successfully tested solution to the monkey menace. It is painless and brings instant but temporary relief. The presence of a solitary langur is enough to cause the most aggressive horde disappear in a jiffy. I don’t know what the logic behind the monkey's aversion to langur, but it seems to work. The resident welfare association of many a housing estate have hired the services of men with langurs. Usually, these are street side performers who earn a living from little acts involving monkeys or langurs. All the chap has to do is to walk about the menaced area with his pet / captive langur on a leash, or cycle past and hey presto, the monkeys disappear! Curiouser & curiouser, as Alice would have said.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Boys will be boys???
One day, last week, my maid turned up pretty late and though I was irritated, I didn't show it. She is after all, very sweet oldish lady. And her reason for being late, astonishing as it sounds, is produced nearly verbatim (as much as I could make out from her thick Haryanvi accent) below:
That morning, she went up straight to the 12th floor (instead of the 11th floor) and rang the bell. Most of the apartments are identical including the doorbell. A tall young chap opened the door, let her in and went back to reading the newspaper. My maid took him to be my brother in law (whom she had briefly met). As is her usual practice, she went to the kitchen and started washing the dishes wondering why she couldn’t see Mai-dm (that is what she calls me). Having done the dishes and still not seeing me, she started sweeping the floors. The young man continued reading the papers. This is when she asked the man if they had re-arranged the furniture. They probably had recently and he replied in affirmative. And then she asked, where is Mai-dm.
“Mai-dm?? There is no Madam here,” the man said.
“HOI? She went away and didn't even tell me”?? said my Maid
“What madam? We have been living here for months and there has never been a madam here”.
“HOI??? What floor is this”?
“12th”.
“HOOOOOOiiiiii, I had to go to the 11th”.
At which point she left and turned up at ours. And I presume the young man continued reading his papers.
Poor thing, she went on for quite sometime about what a dirty pile of dishes she had done and how dirty their room was!!
My maid is, like I said, very sweet if slightly batty (in a nice way) and so one can quite forgive her for turning up one floor above and doing the dishes. But the chap????? What was he doing / thinking?
There are 3 or 4 of them living in the apartment above ours. I have never seen them, but I often hear them in loud conversation at odd hours of the night. I have tolerated their weird urges to shove furniture around after 12am. And of course the dribbling of what sounds like a basketball, I have forgiven.
Boys will after all be boys. Even after 5 years of marriage, A shows frequent signs of slipping into I-am-living-in-a-dormitory-behaviour. So I wasn't too bothered by the antics of the boys (young men) living right above us. Till this maid incident.
It’s been around 4 months that we have shifted into our brand new appartment and already, there is extensive seepage in the ceilings of two of our bathrooms, just above the shower. We had duly informed the landlord and the housing society. They had in turn taken up or said they would take it up with the occupants above and see to it. And yet, the seepage grows daily. Last week, when we called up the housing society we were told that they had not once, but twice, visited the people above, repaired that seepage and told them to not pour water over it for a few days. They could have you know, there is a spare and third bathroom. But no, they either don't care or forget and wash the cement and away. Hmmmmpf.
I am sure they don't do it on purpose. It's just one of those things. They forget. I thought that I'd go and talk to them about it, kindly explaining the reason and asking for their cooperation. But after this maid, we are stuck with this seepage problem, for a looooooooong time.
That morning, she went up straight to the 12th floor (instead of the 11th floor) and rang the bell. Most of the apartments are identical including the doorbell. A tall young chap opened the door, let her in and went back to reading the newspaper. My maid took him to be my brother in law (whom she had briefly met). As is her usual practice, she went to the kitchen and started washing the dishes wondering why she couldn’t see Mai-dm (that is what she calls me). Having done the dishes and still not seeing me, she started sweeping the floors. The young man continued reading the papers. This is when she asked the man if they had re-arranged the furniture. They probably had recently and he replied in affirmative. And then she asked, where is Mai-dm.
“Mai-dm?? There is no Madam here,” the man said.
“HOI? She went away and didn't even tell me”?? said my Maid
“What madam? We have been living here for months and there has never been a madam here”.
“HOI??? What floor is this”?
“12th”.
“HOOOOOOiiiiii, I had to go to the 11th”.
At which point she left and turned up at ours. And I presume the young man continued reading his papers.
Poor thing, she went on for quite sometime about what a dirty pile of dishes she had done and how dirty their room was!!
My maid is, like I said, very sweet if slightly batty (in a nice way) and so one can quite forgive her for turning up one floor above and doing the dishes. But the chap????? What was he doing / thinking?
There are 3 or 4 of them living in the apartment above ours. I have never seen them, but I often hear them in loud conversation at odd hours of the night. I have tolerated their weird urges to shove furniture around after 12am. And of course the dribbling of what sounds like a basketball, I have forgiven.
Boys will after all be boys. Even after 5 years of marriage, A shows frequent signs of slipping into I-am-living-in-a-dormitory-behaviour. So I wasn't too bothered by the antics of the boys (young men) living right above us. Till this maid incident.
It’s been around 4 months that we have shifted into our brand new appartment and already, there is extensive seepage in the ceilings of two of our bathrooms, just above the shower. We had duly informed the landlord and the housing society. They had in turn taken up or said they would take it up with the occupants above and see to it. And yet, the seepage grows daily. Last week, when we called up the housing society we were told that they had not once, but twice, visited the people above, repaired that seepage and told them to not pour water over it for a few days. They could have you know, there is a spare and third bathroom. But no, they either don't care or forget and wash the cement and away. Hmmmmpf.
I am sure they don't do it on purpose. It's just one of those things. They forget. I thought that I'd go and talk to them about it, kindly explaining the reason and asking for their cooperation. But after this maid, we are stuck with this seepage problem, for a looooooooong time.
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