tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11798311106115263102024-03-05T19:33:39.637-08:00It's Just Me
Life as I see it -with all its frills and fancies, sometimes threadbare, sometimes overwhelming- poignant and charmingilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-77840881665114008152017-02-12T03:07:00.000-08:002017-02-14T19:28:50.467-08:00A Rainbow At the End Of The Road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A neonatologist M, a writing mentor K, an on-the-verge-of-published-writer-now-published R, a trained singer cum linguist Kay, an ace blogger Mr P and an anxious traveler vacillating between motion sickness and absorbing the landscape Me.
Apart from the common destination of a writer’s retreat in the Himalayas (
sounds exotic? It was!), we had one tendency in common. It was the penchant
for bursting into a song in all possible scales and tune trajectory with any
uttered word. The second common factor though was a nightmare, Mr P hadn’t bargained for as if being the lone
representative of his kind wasn’t bad enough. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The six of us began our drive from Haridwar to Guniyala, a </span>sleepy<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> hamlet in <a href="http://www.onefivenine.xn--com%20%20uttarakhand%20%20chamoli-ep9tra/">Pokhari tehsil</a>
of Uttarakhand. It was pitch dark at five in the morning as the vehicle left
Haridwar and moved through the <a href="http://www.rajajinationalpark.in/">Rajaji National Park</a>. Five heads lolled from
side to side trying to catch up on remaining sleep before the sun peeped up
over the rolling peaks. But apart from the driver Karan, K wouldn’t retreat into slumber. She had been on this
route umpteen times to know every bend, every bush, every tree </span>en-route<span style="font-size: 12pt;">. It was
a wonder she did not stop every now and then to say hello to the landscape and
all the mobile and immobile denizens of
the countryside.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“People! You have to be alert now because we are going to
come across that first view of the river Ganga as we begin our climb. It is one of the most ...” she goes on sitting at the edge of her seat straining against window pane.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No response from the other five sleeping members. Me, I
was having a hard time holding back the contorting stomach that threatened to
spill out and spread embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The best thing I like about this journey is how you get
to see the Ganga in all her moods..” K was at it, exhorting, cajoling and reprimanding us in turns for the lack of enthusiasm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All she received was appropriate interjections of polite grunts and sighs . And then I couldn’t take it
anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Please stop the car…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I just about
managed to bend over the edge of the road. By the time we reach the first pit
stop we had stopped once more, no thanks
to me. Furniture were still being dusted, some shutters were yet to be heaved
up. Worried at how was I to reach Guniyala without inviting the looks of disdain from my
co passengers, I joined the others in strolling over to the other side of the road.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Pit Stop And First Glimpse</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">That is one vision guaranteed to infuse energy and well
being in any traveler! We drank in the rushing water of the river running along in the morning silence and bird songs
blowing in the breeze! We waited and watched the birds dip and glide over the
water, perch on the branches on the banks. Waiting for our breakfast to arrive,
fiery red specks of palash on the corrugated roof of the shop across the road
caught my eye. Yesterday’s flowers had given way to new blossoms marking the
beginning of a new cycle. A change with every turn of the wheel.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palash On Roof</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When we took off again, sunshine had wriggled its way into our vehicle. Conversations picked up, eyes moved out to drink in the
passing landscapes and I was strapped in as the co-driver. Mentally I had
picked up some dust from the front <a href="http://www.ceat.com/blogs/index.php">CEAT tyres</a> and touched it to my
forehead. A trick I was taught long ago by a kind driver on our way
to Shillong. Just another one of those rituals they believed in, like reversing
if a cat crosses the road or saluting the steering wheel before switching on
the headlights when dusk creeps in. He
believed the dust from the wheel stopped the motion sickness. By now I was desperate
to try out anything. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A quick stop at <a href="http://www.euttaranchal.com/tourism/teen-dhara.php">Teen Dhara</a>, just short enough to gulp
down a glass of its famed masala nimbu paani, is a ritual any traveller on this road vouches for. Just like the sheds selling Maggi in most mountainous trails. Somehow Maggi never tastes the same in the plains. We were making steady progress with Karan's consistent driving skills. He was not in a hurry to reach our destination which
gave us ample relaxed nerves to enjoy the scenario with our hearts and stomachs very much
in their rightful places. Quiet in contrast to some others zipping on the curves. We were secured enough to belt out one song after the other. Driving is an art
really.There is to be just the right amount of pressure on the brakes anticipating
a break in the speed, the smooth shift of gears, the build up of the speed and
sticking to the permissible limit. Ask me.The slightest inconsistency has me throwing up especially
the clutch- brake dreadful duo, lurching the vehicle in jerks and spurts. A smooth drive is when the passenger's mind takes off from the road and spreads itself in the surroundings, conscious of thoughts rising up one after the other.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devprayag</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We stopped once again. This time to peer down at <a href="http://www.euttaranchal.com/tourism/devprayag.php">Devprayag</a>, the first
of the Panch Prayag in Uttarakhand. A temple stood at the confluence and its steps
led down to the merging waters of the Alaknanda and Bhagirathi rivers. Watching
the two Himalayan Bulbul perch on a frail branch, I realized there is something
calming about gushing water of a river. The tiredness, the anxiety seemed to
ebb away and join the waters down below and the river bundled them up before carrying them away from me. This break proved to be wise in more ways than
one. K suggested I take the wheel and give Karan a break much to the
consternation of the others including Karan although he kept the perfect poker face. We still had a long way to go, another hundred kilometers or so, and I did not seem reliable exactly. On hilly terrains the time can stretch
way beyond what is accepted in the plains including the hazards of stopping at
every picturesque bend. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Himalayan Bulbul And Alaknanda</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The wheels so far had filled me with dread as to how was
I to survive the trip. It had me wondering about the return trip so much at the
end of three days, that I had a good mind to rent a hut there on the hill top forever. But the wheels under my control now filled me confidence, letting me enjoy the show. I chipped in with my share of the tuneless singing along with the more tuneful ones. That’s when the thought struck me! Here I was, away
from my family, away from all the domestic issues, on a road trip with acquaintances turning into friends and travelling without any
roles attached. With every turn of the wheel was a revelation waiting to be explored. Each of us is <a href="http://www.ceat.com/blogs/index.php">born tough</a>, we only had to rediscover this mantra.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Layers And The Flow</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Gradulally the road liberated me and the <a href="http://www.ceat.com/blogs/index.php">CEAT tyres </a>turned the
way I steered. A white blinding patch caught our attention and we decided to
stop. Reaching the destination was no longer a priority. We did not want to
miss anything the journey offered. We were collecting gems for posterity. It
was a stretch of river beach, pristine in its white sands. From the water rose a few boulders, sunning themselves in the blazing sunshine, displaying
with pride each layer it had accumulated over the ages, holding its own even in the flowing
water. I could have sat there for hours together, just watching the river and
the rocks. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lofty Himalayan Peaks From Guniyala</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The songs came in wild abandon from behind. I was a happy
traveler now but also focusing on the road. With my liberation from misery I
also had a responsibility of ferrying my friends in safety. Karan, much
experienced on this route, in the co driver’s seat was stable and alert.
Whenever the traffic increased near little towns I followed his calm gestures to
avoid tricky spots. How the weather had changed since morning in this moving vehicle! By the time we wound our way up to Guniyala, the mountains changed for me. It opened its arms and stretched out to reveal the lofty peaks of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Badrinath">Badrinath</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kedarnath">Kedarnath</a>. It revealed a rhododendron forest, a grand show of thundershower and a spectacular burst of the rainbow! That is how I have remembered this trip ever since - the rainbow at the end of the road.</span><br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-48787192237045995932016-09-22T23:20:00.000-07:002016-09-22T23:20:30.234-07:00Parental Pressure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The machines manage to furrow my forehead which, under abnormal conditions of life without them, are quite capable of remaining crease free and taut ( Well! Almost. Baring aside the faint hints that reveal the number of years on this earth). The more apps, and social platforms and connections announce their arrivals with much fanfare, the furrows constrict till a headache comes blazing down. </div>
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As if that was not enough, I now find myself in a serious identity crisis dragged in by the pinging deluge crashing through the smarter one. Of all the failed roles in life, the one role I thought I had managed to barely scrape through with passing marks, was that of parenthood. That feeling of relief lasted for as long as I could remember, raising my two with complete autonomy over their academics. I felt liberated hanging on to the mantra "your studies are your responsibility. I am done with mine."</div>
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And with that one stroke, I bought my freedom from hovering near their study table in the evenings, checking their notebooks for missed work, projects, assignments and all the paraphernalia that comes with schooling. Of course, they would find me around for serious doubts or discussions on ideas that made them wonder. But I drew the line there. </div>
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Then the school decided to have Whatsapp groups for parents. And that's when I lost my confidence coming under serious 'parental pressure'. I wallowed in the fact that I had failed my children. The best mother award certainly would not come to me.<br />
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A small voice inches its way forward,<br />
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<i>Was I even competing for it?</i><br />
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I push it aside.<br />
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<i>Go away, silly! The fact remains that I did not do enough</i>.<br />
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The voice is a leech, hanging on by the skin.<br />
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<i>And what did you not do?</i><br />
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That voice asked for it.<br />
So I turn around and lash at it like a cyclonic storm in the Bay of Bengal would hurl the waves onto the unsuspecting shore.<br />
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<i>I barely lifted a finger after my child was absent for a day while the others were frantically pleading for the missed work to be whatsapped. Every evening there is symphony of pings, of mothers in a choir looking for the right answer for particular questions. Did I even bother to find out, what was in the syllabus? </i></div>
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<i>When the rest of the parental world, (some of them or all of them, I don't even know the ratio), was worried stiff about how much pressure the children came under when they had to submit homeworks twice or thrice a week, was I even concerned enough to voice my alarm?</i><br />
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The voice persists .<br />
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<i>Were you alarmed?</i></div>
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<i>No I wasn't,</i> I agree, my voice dropping a notch lower. </div>
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I regain steam and continue flailing.<br />
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<i>I hadn't even noticed that I was supposed to be running a parallel school at home, noting down extra information, setting question papers. And then lamenting children have it so tough in life!</i><br />
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<i>You did not?</i> the voice asks in disbelief.<br />
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<i>And the last straw that broke my camel hardy back was when the school sent out a consent form to be signed in the month of August for a school trip in December. It was to be their first out station trip! After seven years in school! ( If you are counting from prep, that is) It was a trip for three whole days!</i><br />
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<i>You did not sign!</i> the voice is excited.<br />
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<i>No! I did worse. I was one of the first to sign!</i><br />
<i>So?</i><br />
The voice is a little tired by now. Seems to be exhausted battling the pressure running in my vessels.<br />
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<i>Where was my maternal instinct? My mother hen protection cackle? I did not bother to voice any apprehensions of the 'bachchas ' going without their mommies and daddies! </i><i>And in a bus!</i><br />
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<i>Er...it's okay...they are grown by now,</i> the voice attempts to console but the tiredness clearly audible and its grip loosening over my skin.<br />
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<i>How would they lug their trolley bags? The little ones! And it didn't enter my thick skull, the numbskull that I am, till someone pointed it out in the group.</i><br />
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The voice has gone silent.<br />
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<i>And then like Tinnu's mother,</i> my final wail goes up, <i>WHY DID I NOT VOLUNTEER TO GO ON THE BUS TO KEEP A LOVING EYE ON THEM!</i><br />
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There is silence.The voice slumps and drops off as far away as possible from my skin.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-62494118565667669342016-07-18T00:56:00.002-07:002016-07-18T04:46:37.815-07:00Beltola Bazaar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A woman who was selling raw turmeric and fiddlehead fern, shyly smiled away from telling me her name. It was the strange string she had around her neck that caught my attention. It was a string made of bits and pieces of dry roots, she said, to cure her of jaundice that she was ailing from. She was confident of this remedy advised by the village quack. The others in the village had been cured when the string that was stuck to the neck loosened and expanded till it slipped down from the body in three days time. It was necessary for her to come to Beltola Bazar, jaundice was just a minor irritant, she said. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaKkUUJwG_nTQQnnmHvynwSUTeknDv8m7ar9SK9kFKMSRCApx94s9Es6hSVf8X1mCG9sCHuecBrH3BVnBMS0GP2LggGQWC70Or8EklZyyvOUfnzeCLQarsdGXwjSkFkFpEnpnI0_0ByNl/s1600/IMG_20160612_084403166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaKkUUJwG_nTQQnnmHvynwSUTeknDv8m7ar9SK9kFKMSRCApx94s9Es6hSVf8X1mCG9sCHuecBrH3BVnBMS0GP2LggGQWC70Or8EklZyyvOUfnzeCLQarsdGXwjSkFkFpEnpnI0_0ByNl/s400/IMG_20160612_084403166.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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Stepping into a local market is like slipping into a wonderland. From the cloistered,organized shiny shelves of departmental stores, stocking all the exotic ingredients and food products that money can buy, it is disorienting at first to find oneself in the sounds and sights of a bazaar. For some unknown affinity, Beltola bazaar in Guwahati has always been my bench mark for markets. During a tenure in Leh, my mind harked back to the greens of Beltola bazaar; chancing on farmer's market in a few European spots, I wondered about the simple mechanized display and wrap up of the market as compared to the manual lugging of vegetables at Beltola; or the visual blitzkrieg of Bangkok markets and discovering a nieghbourhood market that was so similar to the ones back home; or the roadside ones that spring up on a designated day; the mounds of onions at Devlali , the list is endless.<br />
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Beltola bazar dates back to the days of Ahom rule when it was a trading hub for all the ethnic communities in and around Guwahati. Beltola was a protectorate of the Ahom Kingdom whose ruler assisted the Borphukan ( title given to the Governor of Ahom Kingdom stationed towards the west of Kaliabor river looking after Lower Assam). Once, this part of Assam was briefly occupied by the Mughals but who were sent packing by Lachit Borphukan in the Battle of Xaraighat. Since then Beltola was a protectorate kingdom under the Ahom rule and then the British till India gained independence. The present Beltola Rani's residence is very close to the Beltola Bazar. Rani Lakshmipriya Devi who died in 1991 played a pivotal role in keeping the traditional market alive emphasizing on the need to encourage the multi ethnicity presence and trading relations that had been continuing since ancient times.<br />
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Beltola Bazar never fails to amaze me with its people, the friendly banter with the vendors, the array of fruits and vegetables and the ones reminding me of childhood that are said to be disappearing from the face of this earth. There is a bond between the seller and the regular customers borne out of familiarity. In every trip of mine, I make it a point to visit this market, ostensibly to pick the special lemon (Kaji nemu), the fiddlehead fern and the ghost chillies to carry back to Delhi. But that is just an excuse. I love the rows of vendors displaying the vegetables in neat piles. More than that I love coming across unfamiliar items that give a glimpse into the food culture of a community. On a couple of occasion , I've picked up these ingredients to try out the recipes these women have parted with. And they have led me onto interesting culinary journey in my kitchen. <br />
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These vendors are mostly women who travel all the way from the Garo and the Khasi hills and nearby small towns, bringing with them the produce of their back yards, farms and little vegetable plots. Sometimes a few of them collectively ferry the village's or their neighbourhood's fruits and vegetables to the big city. They bring in some of the best green vegetables, a variety of colacasia, bamboo shoots, banana flower, rattan shoot, pineapples, oranges, poultry and eggs and whole lot of indigenous ingredients.<br />
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Their journey begins a little after midnight, starting from their villages to the nearest transport hub and then to Guwahati. Many a times, they travel precariously perched on a heap of sacks through the night in small vans. The moment they arrive at the crack of dawn, the middlemen hover around them offering them as low price as possible. Some of the gullible are taken in and succumb, while the seasoned ones can hold their own.<br />
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The market begins as early as five in the morning and used to continue till late in the evening until a few months back. However a recent administration order requires them to wrap up by ten in the morning on Thursdays and by noon on Sundays. Ostensibly to ease the traffic, this direction from the local administration is causing considerable discomfort to the small sellers. They now have to wrap up right when the business picks up. The administration, in fact, with a little imagination could play up the multi ethnicity role and it's historical context to turn this into a tourist attraction.<br />
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There can be space for all, both the aseptic malls and the vibrant local markets. I have always felt that it is a local market that gives a true feel of the place, its people and their lives. Beltola Bazar being no different.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-29731941588527118202016-07-15T11:01:00.000-07:002016-07-15T11:05:23.548-07:00Sonoka Hamlet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I left the others behind while they stood there
discussing the condition of the road. The rocky hillock had a blanket of thick
vegetation. A large rock rested precariously against a much smaller one threatening
to roll down a bald spot. The uneven path beckoned with an eerie silence. From
where it took a bend I could see a natural gateway of two boulders. There were tales of rocks hurling down all of a sudden. Or stories of cruising in air like missiles. We were in
the Mayong region of Assam, famous for tales of black magic. And Sonoka is a village, tucked away that is accessible through a narrow dirt track ridden with pebbles and stones. The village opened out to the silvery wrinkled sheet of the Brahmaputra on one side. And on the other side a bow shaped hillock stretched out, shielding it from an outsider's gaze. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last evening a friend had suggested Sonoka, a picturesque
village here boasting of the perfect sunset. Amidst all the boisterousness of a
school reunion, we decided to explore it on our way back. Walking through the
gap between the two rocks now, I found a narrow dirt track snaking parallel to the silently flowing
Brahmaputra. A lone egret watched from the periphery of an ancient forest. The
room waiter last night had sworn that the people here no longer practiced the
ancient art of black magic. Such spectacles were last seen almost sixty years
ago. But there were whispers of sorcery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">If I hadn't been listening to stories, I would have found the nook perfect to spread a mat and watch the river endlessly or tread into the forest that held back from a distance. The silence was deafening. It was hard to believe that a city was growing helter-skelter, spilling over from its limits just forty </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 18.6667px; line-height: 21.4667px;">kilometers away. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The others had caught up with me by now. Just as I got
into the first car, two men on bicycles appeared on either sides of the car. I
had not noticed <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>them before. One of them discouraged us
vehemently from going ahead citing a dangerous ditch. The other stopped by my
side and whispered not to listen to him saying no one trusted him in the
village ahead. A scene from a comic book flashed. Two tiny creatures perched on either shoulders. One with a halo over its head and the other with a pitchfork.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unheeding we drove down the dirt track confident of
reaching that elusive Sonoka. Suddenly the cars almost bumped into each other. A wide deep
ditch yawned from where we had halted. Heads with confused voices poked out of
windows. It was going to be a while for the seven vehicles to reverse and turn
around on the narrow lane. The sun was fast slipping into the waters. The
cyclist who had cautioned us, stuck around to guide us through. I looked at the
path on the other side of the ditch. Far away in the distance was the faint
promise of a homestead of Sonoka. And a cyclist rode on without once turning
back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px; line-height: 21.4667px;">This post was written for <a href="http://writetribe.com/get-your-writing-groove-back/">TWTFOW#5</a></span></span></div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-31836423043127833092016-07-14T10:21:00.001-07:002016-07-17T04:00:44.894-07:00Sunrise and Xihu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We beat him to the spot today. In the last two days, Mita <i>mahi</i> and I have found him swaying and dipping the fishing net into the brown water of the Brahmaputra. We were a trio in companionable silence, waiting patiently to be obliged. He, for fish. And us for the perfect sunrise on the Brahmaputra. In our last two attempts, we arrived a little late to find the sun a few notches above the horizon. <br />
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Today we watch him silently walk down the slope towards the water, with long poles over his shoulder. Putting his things down, he assembles his fishing gear. Two poles are positioned as a cross with a string holding the middle. A net comes out of his bag and its four corners are deftly looped to the four ends of the poles. Holding the third pole from the center he gently dips the billowing net into the water.On the first day he had shown us his catch. An assorted lot of small fish, enough for one meal.<br />
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It is a favoured spot by the circuit house on the bank of the river. We had arrived in the dark today, hoping to catch the sun emerging from the water, almost chased by stray dogs manning their territory. Sitting on the rocks with cameras ready, the sight of the river is soothing, almost tranquilizing the weary soul. The sinews relax and the edginess of anticipation dissolve and seem to be carried away by the water. Some debris float down in the distance. A crow flies and perches on it. Soon a few more join and enjoy an early morning free ride in the river. And just when they seem to have moved far away from their nest, they fly back to the bank till another one comes carried by the current. Like children running and climbing behind vehicles that come into their village.<br />
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The sky lightens a little towards the east. The horizon has a thin layer of grey. We keep our fingers crossed. Both Mita <i>mahi </i>and I. The fisherman continues with the dip and the sway. A boat comes in from the other end with two men precariously trying to balance it along the shore. It comes quite close to us and then moves away to the other end. Looking out at the vast water the mind expands to let in the thoughts along the time line. Of the past and the present and what the future holds. Mita <i>mahi</i> fills me in as to how these waters abounded in river dolphins when they were young. Ferrying in the country boats, it was a delight to see this lovely mammal jump around. Until only a few years ago, it was possible to buy fish from the fishermen right in the middle of the river while one commuted across the river. Who would believe those stories now, she asked.<br />
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The fisherman patiently continues his motions with the net. He is yet to catch any today.<br />
Do you get to catch Hilsa now?<br />
No, he replies, I get them only in October when they swim up from the sea to lay eggs.<br />
That's quite a distance they swim upstream from Bay of Bengal to spawn, I note .<br />
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The horizon doesn't look too good with the thin layer darkening. The dawn has brightened further and our apprehensions are confirmed. The sun emerging from the water remains hidden behind the layer of clouds. On my last day at Goalpara, I missed the perfect sunrise yet again. I look around to take in as much as possible of this quiet spot. The silver grey water is faintly rouged up. And suddenly there is a sound of parting water. A grey body juts out tossing and turning in the water quite close to the rock where we sit.<br />
" Dolphin!" I squeal.<br />
Mita <i>mahi</i> whips her head around just in time to catch another jump of this lovely animal. We are speechless. Even the fisherman grins looking at where it had splashed.<br />
"<i>Xihu</i>!" he says quietly. There is not a single fish in his net. Mita <i>mahi</i> smiles, so they are still here she says. We wait for some more time. The sun peeps out from behind the clouds. The perfect sunrise eluded yet again. But the <i>Xihu</i> gave us hope for another time. <br />
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This post was written for <a href="http://writetribe.com/">TWTFOW#5 </a><br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-57747533790240639972016-07-13T01:47:00.000-07:002016-07-15T09:33:07.865-07:00Umkar - Living Root Bridge In The Making<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The road seems to be having a hard time staving off the rapidly
growing thick vegetation straining in from both its edges. Given an ounce of earth on the tarmac they would
probably spurt the next length of grass. There isn’t a soul in sight save the
birds and the thickets on either sides. By now we have pretty much adjusted ourselves
to sudden sighting of little streams behind dense foliage or a small waterfall
gushing down the sides. Albeit poorly.
We are on our way to Siej village in Sohra to marvel at what this area is best
known for. The Living Root Bridge. And
the Umkar Root bridge is one in the making ever since the original one was
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We park the vehicle near the village school as instructed
by the resort we are lodged at, and get ready to walk down a few steps to where
the bridge is. A lone pineapple grows by the long steps that go up from where a
matron materializes and descends to collect the fee . “ Camera? Mobile?” she
asks, her lips stained with <i>kwai</i>.
Having paid the nominal amount, we descend the flight of steps on the
other side while she goes back to wherever she came from. A teenager sits in
her verandah watching us go down. Wet soggy leaves lie strewn on the wide steps
and we need to be careful lest we reach
our destination in humpty dumpty style. It is the season of jackfruit ripening
and as if to prove a point we come across
a few splattered on the steps. The trees are shaking off the last of
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The walk down to the Umkar bridge takes just a few minutes
in contrast to the superstar of its ilk, the <a href="http://www.cherrapunjee.com/living-root-bridges/">Umshiang </a>double decker root bridge
. We hear the water gushing down much before reaching the point. And there it is. Roots twisting and turning , entwining
and braiding across a stream that is jumping off the rocks. They are trained
over the rocks midstream and for the rest of the way have a bamboo scaffolding
to support the new roots, pushing them into the required direction. </div>
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It is an eye opener to see the roots of the Figus Elastica,
a type of rubber tree, first dig deep into the ground on the bank taking shape
so as to find support. The villagers guide the secondary roots, across and all around to lend a strong support
and also to create the bridge. Bamboo poles are tied and positioned horizontally overhead leading
the tender root to the other side. The villagers of Siej aim at engineering a double decker. It would take them another two decades or so before
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A still photography team from Singapore is positioned on the concrete bridge running parallel to the natural one. A root
bridge ideally takes 15 to 20 years to grow and survives for many years. There
is a wealth of wisdom in the Khasi forefather's understanding the quality of the tree growing by streams helped by the heavy
rainfall. It took a considerable time of their life span to see their project
fructify and yet they continued to build bridges for the future generations.
Bamboo or wooden bridges would rot and give away in a few years time but a
living root bridge would only grow stronger and sturdier. </div>
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The first few tentative steps on the Umkara bridge we take soon
gives way to happy and delightful paces. But only till a little more than
halfway. The roots are still tender and in the process of growing and
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Buoyed by the world waking up to these bio engineering
marvels, villages in Sohra are creating these bridges to cash in on its
popularity. Like the one in Siej, where the aspiring double decker project is
looking at more tourist inflow when it is ready. At least what they are
exhibiting has not damaged nature in any way. They have only shown to the world
how nature gives for generations if handled well.</div>
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On our return the girl in the verandah asks us where are we
from. Her brows rise when she understands Delhi. We have a little language problem
trying to share a conversation. She keeps hollering for her father
and brothers, who are busy slashing the undergrowth and caring for the fruit
trees on the slope beside her home. She is looking for the right words. It’s a humble
home she lives in. A flight of steps leads up a high plinth and disappears into
the dark doorway. There are many more bridges to be built.<br />
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This post was written for <a href="http://writetribe.com/3-ways-to-get-and-keep-readers-attention/">TWTFOW#5</a></div>
ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-24127311134960761742016-07-12T09:50:00.000-07:002016-07-13T10:20:38.627-07:00Mayong And Black Magic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Don't look anyone in the eye neither should you throw your gaze left or right. I for one, am not going to risk that" advised Mintu who was driving us down to <a href="http://www.north-east-india.xn--com%20%20assam%20%20assam%20wildlife-kl9vla/">Pobitora</a> famed for dense population of the one horned rhino.</div>
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"If I am turned into a cat, I assure you, I will still find my way back home to Goalpara, even if I have to drag myself through" he jested. Pobitora was an hour's drive from Guwahati in the Morigaon district. Mintu's concerns stemmed from the countryside we were driving through which was Mayong, the cradle of India's black magic practice.</div>
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Turning people into animals and plates stuck to their back to cure aches were a few instances of normal occurrence of Mayong, according to the whispers. But then what else would one expect from Mayong, touted to be the capital of Black Magic of the country. I remembered little tit-bits of how people referred to
Mayong in an oblique way in their conversations. That if anyone partook a bowl
of tea in any household of Mayong, chances are that he would leave with the
<i>peera</i>, a low wooden stool stuck to his rear. This was one of the most common
sayings. There was a time when it was
said that every household in Mayong practiced magic and people from far and
near came here to learn the art. Rumours are that it included PC Sorcar Jr. Even in
the annals of history there are references to Assam as the land of sorcery and
black magic. Raja Ram Singh when directed by Aurangzeb to march towards east, sought sufi saints and Guru Tegh Bahadur to accompany them as protection against sorcery. There is an interesting note of previous encounters by Shihabuddin, who chronicled Mir Jumla's march to Assam province.<br />
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"...<i>No one who entered this country ever returned and manners of this country were never known....the people of Hindustan used to call the inhabitants of Assam sorcerers and magicians....They say that whoever enters this country is overcome by charms and never comes out of it."</i> (A History Of Assam by Sir Edward Gait)<br />
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It is the vagaries of time then, this magical aura submerged never to rise again. Ironically the present generation, who are well
in the clutches of JK Rowlings Hogwarts, Voldemort and Harry Potter, remain
ignorant of a magical past of their land. Mayong remains a vague idea and not a
real existence on the geographical map. </div>
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Mintu cruised ahead on the road, his aim being to reach the
resort well before darkness fell. Vague stories floating down
from memory coloured the landscape we crossed. A beautiful thicket
lining one side of the road had many teak trees and dense undergrowth. Rocks
and boulders jutting out from within made me think of possibilities rising out
of the stories. Suddenly they seemed eerie and I looked hard for any evidence of the past. The villages we crossed seemed normal with people going about
their everyday chores. Nothing magical there. Quite a disappointment actually!</div>
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The resort organized a magic show that evening, probably
cashing in on its lost history. Nothing extra ordinary there. I asked the
staff, who were locals, about any occurrence that was out of the
ordinary ambit of life. They were quick to wash off their hands.One of them smiled sheepishly, “ Frankly, our
generation has not taken it up seriously. There are very few of us who would
have taken the lessons of this craft. There are strict rules to be followed which
becomes difficult to abide by, in the present conditions when there is a family
to be fed.” </div>
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And as if to compensate for the disappointment writ large on
my face he hastily adds,” I’ve heard stories from my uncle who says he has been
a witness to some of them. On one occasion there was a duel between two wizards
and they saw fireworks and balls of fire as they tried to counter each other’s
spells and hexes. But we haven't seen magic here as far as we can remember.” </div>
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Stories again. And yet there is proof of a magical past. A
museum put together by local effort displays ancient scripts bearing chants, charms and hexes. These have been collected from the homes of the people here in order to preserve them. One suspects that people haven't really given up all that they inherited. </div>
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Sitting there amidst the lush paddy fields, in a nicely done up resort right next to the Pobitora sanctuary, very few seemed interested in the formidable past of Mayong. It's glory and tales of enchantment eluded the present and remained amorphous in the real world.<br />
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This post was written for <a href="http://writetribe.com/blog/">TWTFOW#5 </a></div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-57011668767205860082016-07-11T09:53:00.000-07:002016-07-11T21:46:35.732-07:00Sohra<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cherrapunji">Sohra</a> is a place that will play peekaboo as you drive along the road ribboning down Shillong for almost 60 kms. The hills will ensconce you now or suddenly disappear behind a thick layered veil of clouds and tease with just a portion of the road visible ahead. But you know you are on safe grounds because the journey is through a table top and the edges are way off the road. Snaking through the meadows in multiple shades of green, the clouds welcomed us into their folds and showered us with rains. In any case this was what I had come for, chasing the rains. </div>
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Through the rain washed window panes, blurred landscape rushed by. I could make out a stream flowing or jumping off a rocky ledge in the meadows. A settlement passed by, people moving around unhurriedly with colourful umbrellas, an integral part of their existence. The rains had stopped as suddenly as it had begun as if to let us have a good look around. We passed pretty Khasi homes with just one or two little windows on either side of the front door. No matter how humble the home was, there were no compromises on two aspects. Cleanliness and curtains. Every window, whether it was of a roadside kiosk, a shack, or a home had pretty curtains on their windows. And cleanliness? There was not a piece of wrapper within sight even within the compounds of their homes. Woven baskets hung from tree trunks or placed by the road was a common sight. And the roads forever had a washed look. A string of laundry was staked up on a bamboo pole, left to dry in the breeze. Even from the distance I could make out they had been scrubbed clean. I wonder how do they dry the clothes with rain pouring in every now and then? And then I see some women attired in Jainsen walking down to a stream with yet another pail of clothes. </div>
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The owner of the resort we stayed in, claimed that entire Sohra once had an abundance of fruit trees and probably that's where the name came from "Soh" meaning fruits. And then came the British who couldn't quite get it right ( as is evident from the spate of renaming them throughout the country) and referred to it as Churra. The Bengali <i>babus</i> who assisted the British in administration further added '<i>punjo</i>' to indicate a cluster. The local name Sohra changed to Cherrapunjee. The slopes of the south Khasi hills looks out at the vast watery Bangladesh. For the people of the adjoining Bangladesh plains, it made sense to turn this side rather than trudge a long way to the nearest city. Sohra was a hub of fruits market and the local people had trade relations with neighbouring Bangladesh. "People here flourished then. But now they have left for distant places in search of livelihood" she claims. Tracks that connected the hills with the plains are overgrown with years of disuse. Strangely even the fruit trees started disappearing and the locals were looking at a grim future.<br />
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For all its lush greenery and rainfall, Sohra doesn't yield itself to cultivation. The traditional practice of jhum cultivation has robbed the land of its green cover. The incessant rains have added to the woes by washing away the precious top soil. A dark rocky surface juts out in many places from the greenery, lending a heightened contrast to the verdant cover. </div>
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This region stands on a rich deposit of limestone. And soon cement factories sprung up to extract and utilize this resource. It provided respite to the locals in terms of employment and stable livelihood. Although, there are many who continue to sell off the produce from their homestead to supplement the wages earned here or at distant land. I crossed a cement factory and on the other side was a small wooden bridge that led to a row of buildings in the distance. The sky was overcast taking a respite before the next downpour. The undulating landscape was lush and fresh as only the rains can bestow. And for an instant, I wondered if the women were going to step out of their homes and wait for the men to return from the factory shift. would they hand over their earnings to the women before walking in to take a bath and sit down to a hot meal? Strangely, Richard Llewyllen's How Green Was My Valley surfaced. But that was South Wales and the coal mines. This is Sohra and cement factory. And yet there is an echo. Probably my imagination of a Welsh countryside coincided with what stretched before me. </div>
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Sohra continued to charm me with it's quietude and clean air. The only sounds were that of the breeze rustling the leaves, bird songs or the rain falling in a steady pour. When the shower stopped for a while, I sat on the bamboo bench and looked out at the ridge opposite. Wisps of tinged low clouds hovered over the valley. </div>
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"They have taken away our title" the owner of the resort had said. The ridge on the other side under the clouds was Mawsynram, wearing the crown of being the wettest place on earth. Did it make Sohra any less beautiful? Did it rob it of its quiet charm? Did it make the numerous waterfalls plunging down the cliffs any less majestic? </div>
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I made a promise to myself, I shall return to Sohra once again and again. For that is what it does to you. Seeps into your heart with all its simplicity and stays on as a warm thought.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-85925971304152590612016-07-09T22:46:00.000-07:002016-07-11T21:44:54.919-07:00Tin Man Of Police Bazaar Shillong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Navigating the crowd at Police Bazaar in Shillong is exasperating especially on a weekend. You might smirk then, what was I doing there if I found it so sapping? My answer would be, have you tried getting out of a promise made to a teenager who was tugging at your sleeve because she wanted to pick up trinkets? So I did what I do best in such situations, purse up my lips and go with the flow. Am I glad I did! For at the end of the road was a pleasant and novel surprise that had me going back to the spot.</div>
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The surprise came much later. First there were the cries to be disentangled from, to buy the luscious plums and starfruits or carambolas, and the various assorted stuff that the hawkers were pushing. Then there were the two strap sandals in many colours bought at Rs 100 per pair. Reminded me of college days when we picked them up for Rs 20 a pair. Both sides of the street were lined with string of vendors and behind them rows and rows of shops. And between them was a flow of human beings moving both directions, some abruptly stopping and impeding the momentum. It was no different from popular market places of cities.<br />
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We stopped at a shop displaying trinkets and realized we were in the wrong place for khasi jewellery. Someone suggested Leudah or Barabazar. But I had no patience or the inclination left to explore yet another market. And just as I lamented about trudging our way back all for naught, I recognized music entering my disturbed state. Long forgotten Hindi melodies blaring out of a speaker. Nothing amiss here. And then I noticed the source of it. A Tin Man!From Wizard Of Oz?<br />
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Hanging from a string was a grinning Tin Man with plastic containers, aluminium pots and steel bowls, ladles and plates for company. Steel ladles for limbs, a grater for the torso. spoons as eyes, a bowl for a hat to cover a skull for a face, it beckoned all with it's music, apparently belted out from the torch it was thrust with to act as a mic. It was at home with all the crowd milling around while its creator dusted his wares, readying them for customers.I stood there not believing my eyes while the crowd moved on without giving it a second glance. It must have been a regular sight for them. I was curious and watched it from every angle. "Where's the music coming from?" He pointed shyly at the taped rear of the tin man.<br />
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Jasbir Arora<br />
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Jasbir Arora who has been here for generations is a content man, making a comfortable sum selling his plastic, aluminium and steel utensils and containers. It was his idea to assemble his mascot out of the stuff he was selling. Sitting at home, one day he thought of creating something from the spoons and the ladles lying in his basket. One thing led to the other and soon he had a man fashioned out of the kitchen items. He then taped an 'ipod' to the back to add the music.<br />
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" During Christmas, I make stars and Christmas trees too" he added as if embarrassed and yet happy with the attention his tin man was receiving. Now that would be an interesting assemblage of kitchen utensils!<br />
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During the drive back to Guwahati, it was the Tin Man that played on my mind and his creator Jasbir Arora. What ingenuous talents lie unknown in the corners of the streets! <br />
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This post was written for <a href="http://writetribe.com/community-the-heart-of-blogging/">TWTFOW #5</a><br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-51102990769927980912016-07-06T04:26:00.002-07:002016-07-06T04:38:02.696-07:00Eid At Nazira<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is Eid once again. And once again I'll try to recreate the <i>pulao</i> and the <i>korma</i> that Haque <i>mami</i> treated us to, every year during this time. But in all my attempts, it has never arrived anywhere close to the one that stayed in my memory. When there is mindless and barbaric violence in the month of Ramzan, I fall back upon the memories of a similar time that spread warmth and brotherhood in the 'Eid mubarak' hugs. The repercussions of a political aggression to establish economic suzerainty gone horribly wrong in one part of the world has escalated and snowballed with maniacs and insane riding the tide. And yet as the holy month of fasting draws to a close, I reach out across space and time to reaffirm my faith in bonhomie that was once an integral part of the social fabric. </div>
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My earliest memories of this day is that of standing in front of the Bajaj scooter and feeling the wind rush against my face, while my father in a skull cap rode to the Idgah outside the oil town ship of Nazira to be the first ones to wish his friends who had been fasting for the last one month. Rows and rows of men in spotless white kurta pajama offered namaaz and then turned around to hug each other. And that vision stayed as an epitome of Eid festivities. The next few days were filled with an air of excitement and anticipation of goodness just as any other festival would bring with it. My friends would be in their crisp new clothes, eyes shining and generally adding to the atmosphere of effervescence. The indulgence of<i> ittar</i> that was dabbed onto my inner wrist and behind the ears made me feel all too important. For perfumes were not meant for children at home. My only interest was in getting to gorge on all that mouth watering delicacies that loaded the table. There was the aromatic <i>pulao</i>, the subtle melt in the mouth mutton <i>korma</i>, succulent chicken roast, <i>bhuna gosht</i>, the fish, the different types of <i>sevaiyan</i>, served with bamboo shoot pickle and lemon pickle to balance the rich fare.</div>
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Outside the oil colony, Nani waited for us to have the Eid lunch together. While Moti mama got busy running to and fro the market, Nana regaled us with anecdotes of his younger days. That's how we were taught to address our parents' friends, as <i>mama</i>s and <i>mami</i>s or <i>mahi</i>s and <i>moha</i>s. And that's how I guess, we became one big family. Nani with her flawless skin is long gone but I continue to remember her as a plump cuddly warm woman always dressed in spotless white mekhela sador with one end of her sador covering her head. When we dropped in on other days, she ensured that I was treated to some freshly laid eggs from her coop in the backyard. </div>
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Then there was Zaheer mama's home across the Dikhow river that flowed through Nazira past the homesteads on one side and the town on the other. Part of the excitement of making the trip was the boat ride and climbing up the embankment. Tucked away on the other side of the river behind a lush growth of hibiscus, henna hedges, pomegranate, bananas, plums, a rich vegetable garden that took care of the daily meals and with areca trees standing tall amidst all,that thick tropical growth, was the simple home that welcomed us with aromatic fragrance down from the river slope. </div>
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Since there were so many it was decided to share a meal together at one place at a time. So Farahba, Fanaz, Hasan, Maina and I played outside Sabina and Samir's house while we waited for Haque mami to serve us lunch and the grown ups laughed and shared jokes inside. These were nothing more than an extension of our evening play time together when all the children of the neighbourhood gathered to play irrespective of their age. Only, during this time there was an added air of festivity after the first air of self consciousness of the new clothes, evaporated. Soon the lingering fragrance of <i> ittar </i>was<i> </i>rush of sweat<i>. </i>Dinner would be hosted at Farahba's house and so went on the festivities for many days till a meal at every house was ticked off. Religion was a part of the banter. "Oh! Please hide the big one! We have 'Hendoo' friends over today for a meal!", brought out guffaws and giggles.</div>
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While they fasted, Eid was synonymous with sumptuous food as far as I was concerned. Like for every other festival, I associated it with particular food prepared for the occasion. </div>
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If it was Durga Puja, it had to be <i>khichudi</i> with <i>begun bhaja, laabra and bilahir tok</i>. It tasted it's best when devoured under the <i>puja pandal</i> along with hundreds of others. The best <i>dahi vada</i> was had at our neighbour, Singh uncle's house during Diwali. We never got to eat the Holi lunch, having stuffed our stomachs with the <i>dhokla</i>s at Patel uncle's house, the <i>murukku</i>s and <i>bajji</i>s at Rao uncle's. Even the prashad of bundiya and bhujiya during Vishwakarma puja had a taste that never felt the same anywhere else. During Bihu, our home would be flowing with guests and mother piling up the fluffy <i>luci</i>s and<i> butor daail</i> with assortment of <i>pitha</i>s. </div>
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Things were too good to last. A wind was blowing across Assam, gathering force and was turning into a tempest. What began as a student's movement against apathy and gross negligence of the State towards the immigration issue, soon caught everyone and sucked them into the vortex, irrespective of religion, caste and creed. The tempest enetered Nazira and roused up the local officers of the oil company. That small motley group of local officers was broken into and transferred to different parts of the country. The festivals were never the same again. Especially not Eid.</div>
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And for days after, I badgered my mother to reproduce the fare. But it was never the same. Today I remember all of them, some have left, some have moved on and some have retired from the mayhem. And yet when Eid comes every year, a part of me looks back at the small town of Nazira and I feel grateful to have experienced and lived in what seems a mirage now. Here's to all of you who have enriched my life and to all others who can believe in what has now become a fairy tale - Eid Mubarak! And once again I shall try to recreate Haque mami's <i>pulao</i> and <i>korma</i> for my children with the hope that I can hand over a time when things were much different.</div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-6715104583942347582016-05-06T01:27:00.000-07:002016-05-06T01:32:39.341-07:00Bacchus's Other Child - Rohi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It was Bacchus leading the way to all the hot spots of the country, where the nectar was revered and loved. A short tenure in Nasik, the wine capital, was enough to set aside <i>zunka bhakar</i> and pick up the recipe for... not Maharashtrian delicacies but wine. Come grape season and my first lot of wine was ready to be bottled. Despite <a href="http://www.sulawines.com/">Sula</a> vineyard ensconced not very far, homemade wine was what excitement was all about. Excitement? Well, you had to meet Coonoor's Mr <a href="http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-features/tp-metroplus/in-the-garden-of-eapen/article3186413.ece">Eapen Jacob</a> (God bless his soul) of <a href="http://ilakshee.blogspot.in/2014/04/ooty.html">Beulah's Farm fame</a>, to understand the reverence with which this spirit is concocted. A winding path hugging the Nilgiri hillside, had visitors returning with Cheshire grins plastered on their faces. Reason was, of course, Mr Jacob and his famed hospitality. He reminded me of the indulgent grandma who coaxed guests to try her amla pickle, the mango pickle, the mixed vegetable pickle, the lemon pickle and all the other conceivable pickles. Mr Eapen Jacob was the gentleman with a soft smile and a sway as he stood and passionately described each of his babies. He was the perfect host who offered twenty different homemade wines for tasting, before visitors came away with those grins and armful of bottled nectar. That's what they meant to him. Nectar.<br />
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The first time the warmth of the nectar spread was in an Assamese village in Golaghat district where we were invited for a meal of the newly harvested crops ( Nowkhua). The host served a bell metal bowlful of the finest <i>rohi</i>, a sweet, clear, pinkish liquid, and stepped back with eager anticipation. With every sip, the warmth spread and world became a much happier place. Sitting on the mud plastered floor on wooden <i>peeras</i>, with skewered meat and fried fish fresh from the backyard pond, surrounded by golden paddy fields, life was so much simpler. That I was still in college helped in the daydreaming.<br />
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Last year's visit to Upper Assam took us to an acquaintance's house near Silapathar. Through a neat and clean sprawling courtyard, the ripe pomelos almost touching the ground, and an array of herbs and vegetables growing in the backyard, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mishing_people">Mishing</a> family greeted us like old friends. And there I met my old forgotten friend, <i>rohi</i>. Yes, the excitement welled up. And I acknowledged that <i>rohi</i> had indeed refined her presence in these parts. She was a sweeter and lighter version of the one in Golaghat. She had indeed grown elegant. For the first time I also saw where she came from.<br />
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Rice is boiled and allowed to ferment for a stipulated period with '<i>pitha</i> ', a rice cake with yeast and herbs. It is this '<i>pitha</i>' that makes all the difference to the '<i>rohi</i>'. The proportion of the ingredients is generally a trademark of every household. Although we did find these '<i>pitha</i>s' by the sackful in the local farmer's market, they say the ones made by the grandmas are the best. To the cauldron with the fermenting rice, some herbs are added to dissuade fungus formation in this humid tropical parts. Ash of burnt hay and straws are also mixed to this. Once it is ready for filtration, it is poured into a funnel shaped basket. The first clear liquid that seeps out from the bottom is the <i>rohi</i>, the finest quality of the lot. Once this is collected, more water is added in the subsequent lot. But they do not enjoy the same finesse as the <i>rohi</i>.Technically speaking, it should be termed as rice beer and not wine
since it is made of grain instead of grape. But the end result so
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So how do I describe <i>rohi </i>to the uninitiated? Well you could say, champagne is the smarter sparkly exotic cousin who went to a finishing school and was exposed to a better market. <i>Rohi</i>, on the other hand is the elegant beauty lost in the shadows of the local ramp, waiting to step out of the wings and take center stage. And one day I hope she will get her dues. Cheers till then! <br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-71022652348526995812016-04-11T00:22:00.000-07:002016-04-11T00:24:27.658-07:00Writer's Retreat at Birdsong Cottage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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They emerged from the folds and fissures, shy at first but soon frisky, happy to have been nudged out of oblivion. Out in the open, the specks stretched in the sunshine basking in cogitation; developing into seeds for germination, pushing out the plumule to the limitless firmament; unfurling tenderly, growing extensions confidently, exploring myriad trails, filling up gaps with details, infusing life into the last tip. They clasped hands with the gossamer of bird songs and whispers of the silver oaks rife in the air. The stories soared to live lives of their own.<br />
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We stopped by the ledge on the narrow trail leading up the hillside, waiting for the six stories to emerge from the tapping fingers and pens. A rising melody of hope and innocence from the terraced fields below, the faraway sounds of life in a hamlet, the tweets and warbles of winged denizens, rustle of the leaves and snow peaks in the horizon played out their part in a world that was so disparate from the worlds we came from. The six of us. With tales waiting to emerge from umbra of urban life that we were gradually divesting ourselves of. While I seemed to struggle with every exercise, that pushed and pulled at every filament in the cranium, from the rest of the group tales seemed to spill and ready like the locals who stopped and twinkled into our cameras, challenging with their winsome smiles to capture the stories etched on their faces.<br />
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A morning session at the rhododendron forest by the hillside, bursts of scarlet on a verdant canopy, light dabbled with the contours leaving a dappled forest floor, carpeted with spent leaves, tiny elements of moss wadding and climbing up the trunks. A breeze announced its arrival long before it caressed us and ruffled up the leaves. Stories tumbled out from behind the dark branches and took their place in the spotlight clearing, preening, pirouetting and teasing. Its strange how tales trooped out and took form in the semi darkness of the lounge. Faint memory of conversations, an idea hanging in the morning air swooped down and wove into narratives, criss crossing six lanes. Children in white and blue, trooped down to the nearby Anganwadi, giggling and spinning their own yarns, sweeping and cleaning before the teacher arrived, waiting for a new letter to open up their world.<br />
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Lounging outside the <a href="http://birdsongnbeyond.com/experiences/a-himalayan-sojourn">Birdsong Cottage</a>, letting our thoughts swirl around the swallow's path, our gaze remained fixed on the serrated horizon. Bulbous shades of gray clouded over the snowy peaks of Nandadevi, Badrinath and Kedarnath. White streaks lighted up the prologue to a spectacle, as true hosts itching to show the delightful nuances of this world to visiting seekers. Drums rolled in the ashen fluffs merging tumultuously to darken in patches. Sheets of rain tumbled down veiling the ambers, russets, the olives and the verdure in sheer mist, thickening at times and diaphanous at others. Hail plummeted the roof and the earth, rendering all living sounds redundant. It compelled to be heard and all other words turned meaningless. We stood there watching the divine spectacle unfold in all its glory, childish joys silenced into awe. The crescendo rose with thundering claps when light fell on a patch of rooftops pushing its way through the rain, moving to a hillside making visible pearls of raindrops against the gray sky. As if on queue, the show stopper emerged and stretched across the sky in all its splendour. Each band distinct and clear and yet merged seamlessly to paint the sky with shades born of light split through the tiny drops. Urban landscapes had only offered a part of the Whole. And here we stood gaping at the beauty of the Entire. Before our eyes the second one emerged from the corners and all that was heard were gasps of the seekers, awestruck into wonderment.<br />
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An afternoon was spent rambling around the <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/104306379806437382862/MountainMist">Guniyalakhal</a> village, eyes feasting on the pretty slated homes cradled on the hillside, surrounded by emerald terraces and forests. Amused eyes peered out and followed the bunch of city dwellers, ever ready to soak in the sights and sounds. A few shy smiles and soon stories were swapped. They bore the common thread of yearning - for a world of aspiration reaching out from the coppiced hills and for a world lost under the herculean concrete jungle. Each side envying the goodness of the others world, brushing aside the deprivations.<br />
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Before we realized, our time was up. Three days of unbridled exploration, teasing prompts to trickle out creativity and melting into the surroundings. We followed the river back the way we came, through its three confluences, the pristine white beaches tugging at us to stop, just one last time before the mundane swallowed us up. It cascaded and gurgled, then it changed its demeanor and saw us off at Haridwar like a composed guardian sending off her ward.<br />
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Some memories of the trip:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Verditer Flycatcher</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birdsong Cottage</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Home</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warm People</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bend On The Hillside</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snowy Peaks Enroute</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild Daisies</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhododendron Forest</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rudraprayag</td></tr>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-52756051514972428592016-03-14T00:00:00.002-07:002016-03-22T20:14:47.591-07:00Aligarh And A Few Thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">( Image Courtesy : <a href="http://www.india.com/showbiz/manoj-bajpayees-first-look-in-aligarh-intriguing-enough-302817/">www.india.com</a> )</td></tr>
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This post played in my mind for a while before I decided to key it in. It released many thoughts like the atoms and molecules of thawed matter which I found it prudent to type out before they froze into a cold oblivion. Aligarh, the movie, opens on a foggy note carrying two people across the screen quietly against the backdrop of a 'civilized' urban landscape. The rickshaw stops at one of the those innocuous buildings, that bear the stamp of daily wear and tear, cracks and smudges that silently speak of the business of life. A life that trudges the many lines and boundaries drawn, without ever stopping to wonder about the existence of those demarcations.<br />
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The irony of it all is the location of the movie - a university that was established to spread education and prepare the mind to receive new ideas populating the world and deliberate on them. Here, it could be any of the universities in the country and not just be confined to Aligarh. Sadly, the spread of education over the years and reaching the 21st century, it has not made us accept or understand all the sections of people who provide the nuances to a society. These harmless nuances, or the deviance is what provides for a complete understanding of the human kind. The movie throws out many uncomfortable questions at all those who dismiss the 'other' choices as unnatural. It raises doubts over our tendency to rationalize our non acceptance and discomfort, hurriedly hiding behind the garb of morality. It also makes a mockery of our insecurity over imaginary issues that could rise out of the 'deviant'.<br />
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I also have been guilty of a creeping sense of unease with news reports of homosexual incidents. Maybe in our collective conscience, we all are unforgiving of choices that differ from those of our own. They are quickly glanced over lest we are pulled into sexual quagmire that could have the potential of disturbing our moral judgement. It is a shady part of our world which we would like to remain just there - in the shadows. The titillation and sensationalism done with, we move on to the next lot of news - news that would be more tangible and relevant for us normal beings while hoping that our children will not lay their eyes on such prints. The last one, I presume, is what drives most of our fears - to not be tainted by being a family member of one such 'deviant'. <br />
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And that's where, Aligarh the movie, finds fodder. Aligarh transcends beyond its location on the map. For, there is an Aligarh in all of us. An Aligarh that dictates the terms for the choices within the predetermined allowances. Aligarh is also the set of norms that have been instilled in us through the ages to perpetuate the idea of society; to herd the people within the set norms. What we forget is the herd is made up of individuals, rational thinking individuals who would like to choose an alternative. It could be an issue that we all relate to like Deepu Sebastian, constantly at loggerheads with his father, for the career choice he makes even within an acceptable area of choice. When the ambit of choice extends to sexual orientation, we clamp it down as forbidden and immoral. But who decides this? And why?<br />
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Society invades every private space like the camera barging beyond the walls that separate the public from the private. Society snakes in undue liberties like the land lady's daughter who uses Deepu's room in his absence for her tuition classes. Society pervades every thing to the extent that it dictates the terms by tagging everything with a label. And that is where another problem lies. As Siras laments bewildered when asked whether the man taped with him was his lover, " I have a problem with that...it's a beautiful word..." Even if I do forget the exact sequence of the words uttered by the character, its essence remains that of sadness of pinning labels to this flowing human emotion of love. While many of us would be too hemmed in to realize our distinctiveness, there would be a few who would question this very labeling - labeling every human activity, emotions in the correct prescribed combination and straitjacketing into aseptic shelves.<br />
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The building where Prof Siras stays is the dwelling of socially accepted couples, with families leading 'normal' lives. The building itself is in a heritage portal of learning that carries the heavy mantle of 'enlightening' and preparing the next generations. On the contrary, the education that seems rampant in the country has only helped to produce an assembly line of social products, raising more and more walls where 'others' are not welcomed. The 'others' may well continue to live in secrecy, cloistered in their loneliness and fear of persecution. I felt this highlighted in the scene where Siras nurses his drink cooped up in the ram-shackled officially allotted quarter, lost in the melody of Lata Mangeshkar's "<i> aapki nazron ne samjha.</i>.." The depth of his pain glinting out of his dark eyes, eloquently captured by the camera and a resignation to a world of secrecy behind the walls. Prof Siras at least had a space to recede into till he was rudely pulled out of it.<br />
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Walls cannot hold back beasts of voyeurism or vested competitive politics. They will barge into bedrooms. They will be used to twist and implicate 'others' to further their own vested interests. They will stand in groups as curious onlookers to gather juicy tidbits for gossip sessions. They will also barge into funerals thrusting the mike into the bereaved family's face asking inane questions. They will not allow for dignity in death while the pyre crackles in the backdrop.<br />
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Unlike the other hijack drama I watched, wetting tissues and wiping the face before the lights went on, "Aligarh" the movie left me with a strange sense of hollowness. The movie set the thoughts rolling, introspecting and empathizing with the protagonist and the millions he stood for. Extending the thoughts to all the ' others' in our social sphere - why will we not allow for others to come out and feel the world in their own way? Why will article 377 not allow them to experience " the grass under the feet"? Why must we check for certain identification marks before we can accept them in our midst? At a metaphysical plane, is the Whole a homogenous cosmos or a cohesion of motley shades? </div>
ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-11839589596167415242016-01-27T20:41:00.001-08:002016-01-27T20:50:01.488-08:00Assamese G Spot - Part II - Socials<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Assamese wedding" src="http://im.hunt.in/cg/Assam/About/Profile/Culture/ab.JPG" height="255" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.assamonline.in/About/Profile/Culture/Assamese-Wedding.html">Courtesy Assam online</a></td></tr>
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If you survived the G talk in my <a href="http://www.ilakshee.blogspot.in/2016/01/assamese-g-spot-part-i.html">last post</a>, let me pick up the thread and lead you through the rest of the scene. Our food talk is an everyday affair and not reserved merely as a Bihu extravaganza, that comes twice a year. Thrice to be precise. The second one that gets sandwiched between Bohag and Magh, is the quiet one when farmers are praying for a good crop as the cycle moves to the finishing line. But then weddings are a festivity that are annual affairs and provide the gluttonous excuses, except for that inauspicious bracket between mid December to mid January. The invitation cards pile up, diminish and pile up in a continuous cycle. As do the strips of antacids, laxatives or the ofloxins trying to keep pace with the various modes of gastrointestinal motility. Come to think of it weddings and gastronomy are uttered in the same breath. Just when one is ready to leave, rustling in the silks, perfumed and powdered, a neighbour happening to be at the gate, would inquire, " <i>Biya khabole neki</i>?" A literal translation of this social small talk would be, " Off to eat in a wedding?" Not to attend, mind you.<br />
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In addition to generating conversations that would go down to next generations, weddings also induce sartorial blocks that could spiral into major crises and melodrama.The common refrain being the lack of an attire that has not been seen in the circuit for some time. But that's a different cue altogether. Let's get back on the G track. So when you are dying to loosen that petticoat string after attending a <i>juroon</i> or a <i>biya</i>, and remove the first safety pin from the neatly pleated resplendent <i>mekhela sador</i>, the catechism needs to be attended, initiated by the ones who could not attend.</div>
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" So what did they arrange for?"</div>
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" The usual..."</div>
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" Meaning?"</div>
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" The fish,meat, and all that..."</div>
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" What of fish and meat?"</div>
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Take a deep breath.</div>
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" So there was one chicken fry, mutton korma and fish kalia. Then <i>butor dail, mixed sobji</i> which no one ate, then there was fish steamed in banana leaves, <i>murighonto</i> with gourd, malai kofta. Then there were the <i>tikkas</i> and <i>kababs</i> for snacks, it was finished off with hot jelebi, ice cream, rabri, pudding..."</div>
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The listener's eyes sparkle and he goes back to his meal of rice, <i>masor tenga, dail, bhaji</i> and chutney. But the food talk will continue...<br />
" Uff! I still remember Bhaiti/ Maina's wedding. What food they served! And what variety in fish and meat!"<br />
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If you are not on a wedding hopping spree, there are always the social calls to be made. This used to be the norm till a few years back. Any visit, even if it is for five minutes, will elicit the curious,<br />
" What did they serve?" God forbid if it happened to be just tea and biscuits. That household will continue to be the butt of all jokes behind the curtains and over the fences. The bar for such fares has stood steadily at <i>lusi, alu bhaji</i>, a few sweets and home made or ready made namkeens, home made pickle of either of amla, mango, chillies, olives. radish, mixed vegetables which have come from the backyard. This is accompanied with a nice yellow omellete with onions in a runny middle made in mustard oil. Once you are finished with the soft <i>lusis</i>, round it up with steaming aromatic tea made with garden fresh tea leaves that is supplied by a cousin twice removed from the aunt's husband's side. Or anyone else from the meandering line plotted in the family tree if you don't have an immediate one employed in the Gardens.<br />
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When we take a break from the gluttonous path, we cleanse our system that has gone delicate, with an alkaline dish, <i>khaar</i>, atleast once a week, made of a particular banana peel. And voila! We are back on track! Actually that's where the vehement declaration of Assamese identity came from, "<i>khaar khua Oxomiya!" </i><br />
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Food has more than nutritional functions to perform. If any conversation is transforming into a debate and escalating into a heated discussions with the mercury rising, just drop in a line about a particular fish you had, or a dish you cannot remember the name of. The atmosphere will go all mushy and mellow enough to be squashed into a soft lump of <i>bengena pitika, </i>a version of mashed brinjal. But let me warn you that the discussion could still get aggravated especially if it hinges on the method of preparation.<br />
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Now that we celebrate every conceivable occasion and have embraced all the other festivals, the calendar must be full of rounded dates and menus. And a brain spilling over with all that gourmet memories. Last I heard, there were instances of <i>karva chauth </i>making its way<i> </i>into some homes. It is only a matter of time before they find ways and means to circumvent the austere rituals.<br />
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So if you have finished reading this post and are wondering why was it filled with all the food talk? Well! What do you expect from a true blooded Assamese or should I say <i>khaar khua Oxomiya... </i>I am still smarting from a tele conversation. I had mentioned to my mother about someone's visit to my place. Pat came the query, " What did you serve?"<br />
" They were in a hurry. So just tea and some namkeen..."<br />
".............."<br />
A stony silence. And then broken by a,<br />
" ....not even some <i>pakoras</i> you made?"<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-88521331418936436092016-01-20T21:21:00.001-08:002016-01-20T22:49:48.985-08:00Assamese G Spot - Part I- Bihu Talks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image result for free images of assamese food" height="274" 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" 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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">( <a href="http://www.assamonline.in/About/Tourism/Food-of-Assam.html">Picture courtesy Assam online</a>) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If you have come to this post expecting enlightenment on a community's discovery of carnal pleasures, you are not far from the truth. Only, the G-spot here is the one that evokes <b>G</b>astronomical orgasms. Whoever generated that reprimanding idiom "eat to live and not live to eat", had surely met an Assamese or lived amidst a host of them till he could no longer digest all the food talk. He must have come away from that land of <i>lahe lahe</i> scarred for life, smelling of mustard oil, dazed with the array of fish and still more dazed with as many ways of cooking a particular fish as the number of scales blinking at the sun from its back. And the meat. And the greens. And the vegetables. And their combinations on the breakfast, lunch and dinner <i>thaals. Thaals </i>that<i> </i>are gleaming and reflecting<i> </i>the diner's face in all their bell metal avatar.<i> </i></div>
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<div>
Making the ritual calls to the host of relatives basking in the lap of the homeland, especially during the Bihu festivals, is a copy paste conversation. And that is where this post rose in all its marinaded, steamed and roasting form. What follows is a transcript of a typical tele conversation made to greet during Bihu...</div>
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<div>
" Hello! Magh bihur xewa jonalu!" ( If the receiver is elderly)</div>
<div>
or</div>
<div>
" Hello! Magh bihur ulog jasilu" ( contemporary receiver)</div>
<div>
" So how did you celebrate there? Did you have the U<i>ruka</i> ( Bihu community feast) last night?"</div>
<div>
" Umm..yes.. just a few of us got together for the evening. It's a working day here you know..."</div>
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" Oh! No holidays? Don't they have something like Lori..."</div>
<div>
" Yeah,but Lohri is a day before Uruka. So..."</div>
<div>
" So what did you eat?"</div>
<div>
" The usual some fish, some meat..."</div>
<div>
" <i>Sitol </i>and <i>patha</i>?"</div>
<div>
" No, no <i>sitol </i>fish, it's difficult to get that here. We had <i>rohu</i> and chicken instead of mutton."</div>
<div>
" Oh..."</div>
<div>
" And today, did you have <i>pitha, laru, doi sira</i>?"</div>
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" Err no..."</div>
<div>
" Oh..."</div>
<div>
" Is <i>Peha</i> around?"</div>
<div>
" Yes, he is sitting here right next to me. We are sitting around the <i>meji </i>having <i>pitha, laru</i> I made with <i>til</i> and <i>gur</i>...Last night he brought a two kg big <i>sitol</i>. It was a very good fish, full of oil and very tasty. Then I made mutton dry..."</div>
<div>
" Hmmm...can I talk to <i>Peha</i>?"</div>
<div>
" Hello! Happy Bihu!"</div>
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" Happy Bihu <i>Peha</i>!"</div>
<div>
" So did you have <i>Uruka</i> there?"</div>
<div>
" Yes, yes,kind of..."</div>
<div>
" So what did you eat? We had <i>sitol</i> fish and mutton your Pehi made so fine..."</div>
<div>
" Yeah, she told me"</div>
<div>
" Did you have <i>pitha, laru</i> today?"...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Next call made to a maternal uncle.</div>
<div>
" Hello! Happy Bihu!"</div>
<div>
" Oho! Happy Bihu to you too! So what did you do for Uruka?"</div>
<div>
" Yeah,we kind of got together and ate..."</div>
<div>
" What did you eat? <i>Sitol</i> and mutton?"</div>
<div>
Sigh!</div>
<div>
" No. We had <i>rohu</i> and chicken."</div>
<div>
" Oh! Our neighbours made some excellent kalia with the <i>sitol</i>, we also had some fried pieces on the side as snacks sitting around the fire...and your mami made some excellent mutton in an iron <i>kerahi </i>on wood fire... "</div>
<div>
" Nice"</div>
<div>
" Then Pona landed up with fine pork meat which we skewered it over fire... Ah! It went off very well yesterday." </div>
<div>
" Good. That must have been quite a feast...What about your acidity?"</div>
<div>
" Ah yes!What about it! I had some antacids. We are having <i>pitha, laru</i> in front of the <i>meji</i> now. Did you get any <i>pitha, laru</i>?"</div>
<div>
" No. Just made some coconut <i>laru</i>.."</div>
<div>
" Good good. Here talk to Pona..."</div>
<div>
" Hello Happy Bihu! So what did you do last night..."</div>
<div>
Gritting the teeth and pulling the hair out. Strand by strand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so went the next call to mother's brother, and the one to husband's aunt, and the one to the husband's mother's aunt's daughter, continued with the neighbour who happened to be sitting there, and the aunt's sister whom I had not seen but who happened to be there.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
So when the dry cleaners called up to deliver my package, he got a dose of the conversation,</div>
<div>
" How was the <i>sitol </i>fish and who made the mutton..."</div>
<div>
"Madam? Err.. is this 9********?"</div>
<div>
"...and the <i>laru</i> must have been tasty..." Suddenly I am jolted out by the sound of numbers.<br />
"Yes? Who is this?"</div>
<div>
" Madam, I am calling from the dry cleaners..."</div>
<div>
"Oh! Okay...yes...tell me?"<br />
<br />
Be warned. If you are calling up Assamese friends during the Bihu season, you might be asked about the victuals that went down your gullet for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Do excuse the poor soul who is probably still dazed by the deluge of gastronomical tele conversations with folks back home.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-87974484492070221402015-12-31T19:05:00.000-08:002015-12-31T19:39:55.840-08:00The Books And The Wishes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The book waited with the smell of fresh ink trapped between its unturned pages. Another climbed up it's back. Then another. Till they built up into a stack of books. All waiting for mastication. Each of them had been brought with much fondness, with thrill of anticipation of a tete-a-tete. </div>
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They waited patiently on the shelf while the chores spun their barely visible threads. In dimly lit evenings they peekaboo-ed when the lights went on to fetch a file containing bills, a new pack of pencils or the medical report. A wistful smile went their way, a quick brush with the fingers, an assurance of their presence. Hoping for 'the one day' when they will all be savoured. Will 'the one day' arrive, curled up by the window while the rain danced outside sending in stray sprays? Or that summer evening while the Rangoon flowers assailed with its heady fragrance? 'The one day' could well begin with the wintery slant of the sun rays while the orange segments burst into a tangy freshness between the teeth. Or an evening maybe snuggled under the quilt.<br />
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The ominous hours passed by and the pages remained unopened. Dormant lay stories of different worlds that tumbled around as the earth cruised ahead in its journey. Wisps of ideas caught in verses remained frozen. The time to open up to new ways of thinking was yet to arrive. Mere points and shaded regions in the atlas waited to be transformed into places offering unique experiences. Pico Iyer, Joyeeta Sharma, Anuradha Roy, Cyrus Mistry, Debopriya and Saurav, Markus Zusak, Hiren Bhattacharya, Zia Haider Rahman, Bono, Waheed... They waited with their voices muted. As did myriad other mental notes, things to do and the ever lengthening bucket list. </div>
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Somewhere between chaos of the internal and external cosmos, jostling amidst the crowded days, and ever demanding urban living, the books held on. As did the things to be done. Resolute in their silent persistence for attention, waiting to emerge from the shadows of procrastination. The journey had begun, unnoticed, without an opportune moment marking it. Stealthily, a page had turned. And then a few more. Before realisation dawned, only a few pages were left. The books finally heaved a sigh of relief. They, after all, were going to see the light and feel the air.<br />
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Time had taken a bend in the corner. A new year was waiting to carry the baton forward. Like those pages waiting to be leafed through, hopes and wishes of the muffled self too waited to be unfurled. But the pages had turned. So will those jottings in the bucket list. They too will see the light of the day. Everyday life will continue to spin its entangling web. To remain unfazed and reach beyond those tensile silken threads would lead to newer paths and stories. Paths that will make the journey more meaningful and fulfilling. For that, the first page has to be turned...</div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-86121721191841326272015-12-23T05:35:00.000-08:002015-12-23T05:52:57.355-08:00Bells And Trees On Cards<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Oriental motifs of curls, paisleys, little tendrils were sketched on Christmas bells. Two leaves of mistletoe with red berries adorned the top of the bell ( a mistake many didn't realize till late). A huge golden bow with its trailing ends hung from the sides. Come Christmas and the art periods in schools were busy with the single activity of making Christmas cards on art books. The more industtrious of the lot attempted replicating a Santa Claus. But bells were the most popular on drawing sheets followed by the tree. Some where vaguely the mistletoe hovered mostly as a filler.<br />
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Back home from school, more bells and Christmas trees were made on white chart papers cut out for cards. And more mistletoes. Nobody had the vaguest of idea why the parasitic twig found it's way into Christmas notions. Of course very few knew, in the pre Google era, that they lived off apple treees and oak trees. But they were aware of romantic allusions of standing under the mistletoe. Wasn't Betty forever trying to get Archie and herself under it so he would be compelled to kiss her?The only other reference to this twig was of course, by <a href="http://www.asterix.com/the-creators/rene-goscinny/">Goscinny</a>. That was when he alluded to the pre Christian era. His character, the Gaul <a href="http://www.asterix.com/the-a-to-z-of-asterix/characters/getafix.html">Druid Getafix</a>, was mostly found emerging from behind oak trees with a golden sickle in hand. For mistletoe growing on oak trees was a rarity. It was the most essential ingredient of his famous magic potion, and had to be cut with a golden sickle. Most of this reference got burried under peals of laughter that his characters generated starting with Dogmatix to Cacofonix. Fed on the other popular 80s comics, a whole generation grew up lapping up white Christmases; of Moose dragging the yule tree for decoration; Veronica showing that chink of generosity in her haughty demeanor; the entire Archies gang singing carols against a white landscape; of brightly wrapped gifts under the Christmas trees and a general atmosphere of festivity, joy and charity...<br />
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Friends who went to Missionary schools came back with stories of Christmas carols. Those who didn't, listened awe struck. There was a mystical feel to the Christmas festivities in a land where celebrations of festivals were over the top, flamboyant and well...very familiar. The quiet warmth of Yuletide were confined to a few who went to churches, midnight mass and waited for gifts in stockings. For people spread across a land where December meant pleasant sunny climes in tthe coasts or foggy cold days in the plains, a whitewashed landscape with a thick icing of snow on sloping rooftops held a charm of the unseen. That there were many hill stations in India that saw white Xmas was an exotic idea. Travelling to places other than home towns had not yet caught the popular imagination in the pre liberalised India. If anyone did go to the hills, it had to be summers. </div>
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The idea of Xmas began with the alphabet book as a toddler and reinforced with the Archies and Hallmark cards. Or the Helpage, Cry and Unicef ones for those who were conscious of doing their bit. And these images continued to be replicated on art sheets and chart paper cards during the season. What excited, was a sense of partaking in a festival in whatever way it could be emulated. a festival that seemed distant and elusive. What began with cards, gradually moved to listening to carols, bringing in the tree, the gifts under them, the roasted chicken and the pudding. What started off as a tentative feel and acceptance of a festival that very few grew up with, had burst into a joyous anticipation a week prior to its advent. A Santa will be sauntering at most street corners of the city or walking around the malls. The Chinese Xmas trees in all sizes and their ornaments will be tumbling out of every store and Kirana of the neighbourhood. Children will continue to draw mistletoes with red berries not realizing they are actually hollies. And that mistletoes have rounded spoony leaves with yellowish white berries and hollies are prickly leaves of shrubs with red berries. </div>
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But who cares, as long as an occasion brings people together and spreads warmth and cheer, the right leaves or the correct order of rituals doesn't matter. Mrs Sharma's son will be tugging at his mother's pallu, " Ma, I also want a Christmas tree". A small plastic tree will be packed in a jiffy and pushed over the potatoes and the <i>phul gobi</i>s in the shopping bag.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-3111404463906874112015-12-10T09:26:00.000-08:002015-12-10T22:09:20.472-08:00Responsible Travelling Building Relationships<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I waited patiently while he wrapped the curio in an old piece of paper. And then he looked under the counter, inside a box, asked his neighbouring stall owner and finally found what he was looking for. Fishing out a polythene bag he dropped my ceramic memorabilia into it.<br />
" Thank you, but I'll not need the plastic. In any case these will travel safely in the suitcase" I said returning the offensive thing.<br />
He gaped at me for a few seconds before blurting out, " I am sorry, I thought you were Indian..."<br />
" But I am! "<br />
It was my turn to look confused.<br />
" Well...you see...Oh! Never mind! "<br />
Then curiosity got the better of him.<br />
" All Indian tourists ask for this. Why don't you want it?"<br />
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It wasn't a flattering observation but he wasn't wrong. We have been guilty of walking out of shops, plastic bags dangling with the goodies because it was convenient. As many bags as the number of shops visited.<br />
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Littered streets and loud crowds. Ugly concrete structures pierce out of hill slopes and barricade the sea side. In all the cacophony and visual chaos, the charm and the very identity of a place is hammered, built, boarded and gagged into a homogenous backdrop. It is sad to see Mussorie, Shimla, Darjeeling, Goa, Kovalam remain just a heavily made up belle desperately trying to peddle her charms. Their fault? They were stretching out their limbs, allowing the sun rays to kiss the hill tops, slide down their valleys, letting the lapping waves send them into a blissful slumber in the warm sand. Until the roving eyes discovered them.<br />
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<b>Respect In A Relationship</b><br />
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There is a wide chasm between lust and love. It is the absence of respect in the former that reduces any relationship to cinders. <b>Travel is a relationship forged in many ways</b> - with the journey, with the place, with the people. But most importantly, it is a relationship with the self in the ways it nudges the many facets of the self and the many thoughts that bubble up.<br />
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<b>A responsible traveller is like the seeker who will tip toe around the bend and watch the place unravel and 'be'.</b> There is no demand to 'show' it's wares or to please all and sundry. A responsible traveller will accept it the way it is and not expect it to change with a plush hotel here or a night club there; authentic North Indian food in Rameshwaram or the perfect <i><a href="http://www.tarladalal.com/Sambhar-3578r">sambhar</a></i> in Pahalgam. Respect for the local people, their lives, their culture and their cuisine is the key to a traveller's enrichment. It is like being nourished with healthy seasonal food rather than the quick titillation with fast food. While the latter will have you hungry again filling you with empty calories, the former will have you satiated for a long long time, working to heal and fill your body with nutrients.<br />
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We have travelled. And quite a bit. With each journey we have grown as individuals and probably turned a wee bit wiser. Where once we were happy to take in the sights and taste of a new place, thumping our backs for having ticked off yet another name from our travel list; that list is of little consequence now. We would rather let the place, any place, work its way into us and unfold it's charm in the many unique experiences it can steep us in.<br />
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Having driven down the Indian West Coast once before, t<b>he best way to do this, we have discovered, is to hop onto a public transport.</b> The ride from Mumbai to Kudal on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konkan_Railway">Konkan Railways</a>, through the many tunnels in the Western Ghats and chugging by the red roofed hamlets, has been one of the best so far. On another trip, an impulsive change of plans before reaching Amsterdam took us on a delightful cycling spree in Kinderdyke with the ancient wind mills watching us indulgently. It was a metro ride from the Rotterdam railway station to Zuidplein, from where we boarded a bus to <a href="https://www.kinderdijk.com/">Kinderdijk</a> through the Dutch countryside. Chatting with the Korean student, lumbering down with us in the bus, who was keen on exploring the Northern Italy rather than the touristy South Italy; watching a senior couple cycle their way around the place; we promised ourselves to grow old exploring the world. It is these little twists in the journey that add that zing to a travel experience making them memorable.<br />
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Walking around Malvan, a corner of a nondescript fishing village opened up a sliver of the Arabian sea with fishing boats passing by, reflecting the sunrays off it's white hull. Sitting down there my open book lay idle it's pages ruffling in the gentle sea breeze, the mind wandering here and there, bouncing off the waves. Or the time when the ears picked up the faint plaintive melody, carried over the cold barren fields near the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemis_Monastery">Hemis Gompa</a> in Ladakh while we stamped our feet to keep ourselves warm in the subzero temperature. We have not barged but quietly <b>let ourselves into these different worlds that hold so much of truth, beauty, and if you listen carefully, a whole lot of wisdom. </b><br />
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<b>Next time you plan a trip, remember to keep some time aside for walking.</b> If you are an early riser, this is the best time to 'feel' a place as it quietly emerges and sets the canvas for the day. You may find an interesting nook to explore which could have easily been missed in the crowd. Walk along the shore in Havelock, jump around the rocks or spend some time lying on a low branch looking out into the sea. Walk into park in Thiruvanantapuram and listen to a carnatic recital in the jasmine scented evening. Stop by an autumn field in <a href="http://goodnewsguwahati.com/index.php/2015/11/18/a-mosaic-on-nh-52/">Dhemaji </a>and watch them reap the golden harvest in a Bodo village. There could be a small kiosk waiting with some steaming appams in Gudalur. What a pity it would be if you missed bringing all these little memories home!<br />
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<b>Adopting Homestays</b><br />
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<b>Homestays is what we look for now, </b>for it offers a slice of local life that no other hotel can ever replicate. Allowing an existing accomodation to take in guests, lies easy on the conscience in the fact that additional structures were not built to add to the burden. Come to think of it. In fact, <b>the existing hospitality conglomerates could take up homestays as viable and sustainable projects. </b>Places that are opening up to the travel circuit, the conglomerates could adopt a few homes or a village, upgrade and make comfortable to accomodate guests. An extra income for the local people, an exotic experience for the traveller and a worthy CSR for the hospitality chain! Best of all, those ugly structures are restrained from popping up.<br />
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While the onus lies on the traveller to choose and plan so as not to disturb the existing social, ecological and cultural balance, <b>the service providers too need to be sensitized on this important aspect of travel. </b>On our trip to Malvan, we had booked ourselves into a homestay in the middle of a fishing village. While we had the entire Malvani home to ourselves right on the beach, we were treated to some of the sumptious local cuisine by Vishal, the caretaker, and his mother. On one instance when we did try out an eating joint in the town, one that came with rave reviews, our final verdict was that nothing could beat the home cooked food. A famous restaurant chain of Mumbai popular for its Malvani cuisine, came nowhere close to the lady's <i>sol kadhi</i>, to speak of basics. These words immediately pepped up Vishal's mother who was pretty let down after we had ventured out.<br />
" Why do you spend so much money on that outside food? I give you freshly cooked meal here at home..."<br />
And that was the end of the matter. One such finger licking meal, had me traipsing to her kitchen to figure out what she did to the ingredients that had us asking for more. So with live demo, the spices that went into that unique touch, the exact way to mince the condiments, I came back armed with a couple of authentic Malvani recipes.<br />
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Lazy evening conversations with Vishal revealed that the people in the town have been trained in their existing skills to participate organically in the tourism sector. In addition to fishing which is the main occupation, they earn extra by providing services to the visitors. That night we slurped down some more of the delicious Surmai curry, <b>happy to be contributing a drop into the sustainable ecosystem. </b><br />
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<b>Encouraging Local Craft</b><br />
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<b> Part of this ecosystem is the local handicraft that tell the stories of its people</b>. Hordes of tourists have been seen lapping up woollens and garments in the famous hill stations not realising that these have arrived from the plains travelling up the same route as they did, from places like Ludhiana. And worse now, those plastic hats and toys that come from China. A bit of research before the trip will tell, the availability of raw materials of a place and the things made out of them. A Toda embroidered product from Ooty, the little black wooden men from the Andamans, the brass lamps from Thrissur or the robust hand knitted yak wool socks from Leh will keep their hearths warm and the conversations going in your homes.<br />
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Down the years, we may want to return to some of these places to rekindle the relationship and go back feeling nourished. To find them empty, bereft of a soul whimpering under all that jazz would be tragic. The worst we could do is to raise clones while the best we could ensure is to let each destination breathe and grow as unique individuals. Little conscious efforts is the beginning of responsible travelling. It doesn't take much time to develop it as a habit. Before you walk out of the hotel room, er... did you drop your bath towel on the floor after the first shower? Or use a fresh plate for your buffet meal after every sampling? </div>
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There is a whole wide world waiting to be loved. All it needs is to be nurtured with responsible travelling.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">“I am blogging for </span><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/2015/12/01/your-ideas-on-responsible-tourism-can-win-you-a-fun-trip" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">#ResponsibleTourism activity</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;"> by </span><a href="http://www.responsibletourismindia.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">Outlook Traveller</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;"> in association with </span><a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">BlogAdda</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">”</span></div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-42524792517039755122015-11-23T23:44:00.000-08:002015-11-23T23:44:55.570-08:00A Mosaic On NH 52<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>And if you are in no
mood to go through the whole process of brewing rice wine or apong, you could pick yours from those plastic bottles of all
shapes and sizes. Temporary bars had mushroomed. Men huddled sitting on their
haunches in groups under the afternoon sun sipping the wine. Some of them shied
away seeing the camera. A woman refused to be clicked, giggling and bringing
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Please click <a href="http://goodnewsguwahati.com/index.php/2015/11/18/a-mosaic-on-nh-52/">here</a> to read my travel post for <a href="http://goodnewsguwahati.com/">GoodNews Guwahati</a>...</div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-58779363421573564222015-11-16T23:44:00.000-08:002015-11-17T03:03:34.576-08:00Manneken Pis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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She was shocked! The waffle she was nibbling on had just been pissed on. The others had giggled and run to escape the trajectory while she looked at her sodden waffle sheepishly. He only had his cherubic looks to thank for the adulation he received despite the unpardonable antic. And the fact that he was just 24 inches tall. And that he was in bronze.<br />
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He gets away with the mischief for the many life saving legends behind his existence. The soldiers loyal to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Godfrey_III,_Count_of_Louvain">Duke Godfrey III of Leuven</a>, a two year old toddler, had him put in a basket which was hung from a tree to inspire them in their battle against the troops of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Godfrey_III,_Count_of_Louvain">Berthouts</a>. As would happen to a toddler blissfully unaware of the grim games the adults play, the young lord relieved himself from where his basket was suspended from the tree. It is said that the jet fell on the enemy soldiers who then lost the battle. </div>
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Then there is the story of the rich merchant who had come visiting with his family. His young son went missing and a search party was formed which finally found him relieving himself in the corner of a street. As a token of gratitude, the merchant had the fountain statue built for the townspeople. </div>
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Another version is that <a href="http://www.brussels.be/artdet.cfm?id=4000">Brussels</a> was under siege. To break the resilient defenders, the enemy had planted explosives on the city walls. A little boy urinated on the fuse and thus saved the city and it's people.<br />
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Interesting lessons we learnt on the uses of the leak. Walking down the Rue Charles Buls from the Grand Place, the aroma of waffles greeted us from the many kiosks. The eyes feasted on the delicate Belgian laces from the other side of the glass windows. That was all the price tags allowed us to indulge in. We lusted and sighed at the exquisiteness, keeping our waffles behind us as some of the windows instructed us not to savour it along with admiring the laces. Tourists were slowly making their way to a nondescript looking corner.<br />
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A creation of Heironimus Duquesnoy the Elder, the Manneken Pis was originally sculpted in 1619. Despite the more exotic neighbours like the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Place">Grand Place</a> and its <a href="http://visitbrussels.be/bitc/BE_en/monument/787/hotel-de-ville-de-bruxelles.do">Town Hall</a> with all their architectural grandeur, the little guy is the symbol of a Belgian's characteristic rebellious spirit and of self mockery. His famous urinary trajectory is traced back to the sixteenth century when he played an important role in the city's distribution of drinking water. Relinquished of that function long since, the adorable toddler was adopted as the city's humour mascot. Having been stolen many times, the original statue rests safely in the City Museum, housed in the Breadhouse, along with his wardrobe of more than nine hundred costumes accumulated over the centuries. I suppose that could give any woman a complex. The costumes are donated by various organizations and nations. The manneken is dressed in different costumes to either honour an organization, nation or to attract attention to an issue.<br />
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A crowd had gathered around the little fella. It was time to have his costume taken off at the end of the day. He was stopped from urinating into the fountain basin. A small ladder went up against the pedestal and his guardian ( an appointed employee of the municipal) stepped up. The ceremony culminated with an affectionate peck on his cheeks for a good night's rest. The poependroeger costume he was wearing for the day was taken off slowly, folded and kept aside. Incidentally, according to a folklore poependroeger is the group that carries the giants during the <a href="http://www.meyboom.be/">Meyboom parade</a>, an ancient tradition where a tree of joy is planted to commemorate the victory of Brussels over a beer tax dispute with Louvain.<br />
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<span style="text-align: left;"> That was when he decided to let go on the onlookers, the waffles and the fries people were munching on. He doesn't get naughty everyday so you maybe safe and dry. If you are lucky to be visiting on special occasions, you may be served with cups of beer or other beverages or simply get your munchies soaked in whatever he decides to relieve on that day. </span></div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-819173213920890282015-10-30T05:32:00.001-07:002015-10-30T05:32:09.006-07:00Stories The Elements Tell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ravan has long been reduced to ashes with fanfare and fireworks. The fair grounds carry the silent echoes of a rejoicing people. The Durga Puja pandals have come down revealing a deserted ground bearing the countless footprints of thronging crowds. The skeletal framework that upheld the festivity, stands stark and reluctantly dismantled.<br />
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But the beaten grass once again raise their heads and share stories with each other.<br />
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How they danced! Did you see the <i>Dhunuchi</i> in the evenings? I could swear Ma herself twitched her toes and tapped her fingers on the trident! I almost forgot to lie low and got up to jig with them...</div>
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Hmph, I saw you flattened out again, cried its sibling peeping out from behind mother's broad back. The women were the best lot. Attired so gracefully in their Balucharis and Dhakais, elegance merged with the <i>dhaak'</i>s rhythm, whispered a blade from the adjacent tuft.</div>
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But you have to grant it to the <i>dhaakiya</i>s. It was their prayers pulsating through their drums, that brought together so many dancing toes, observed a grave yellowing blade who had seen it all.</div>
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The wind caught the whispers and swooped down to join in.</div>
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Loitering around the streets admiring those bright coloured swords, bows and arrows, I was unceremoniously being pushed about by the crowds rushing from one place to another, squeezing the life out of me. Gathering together of whatever air was left, I thought of resting a bit in one of those quiet homes. Was I glad I did!</div>
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The blades of grass swayed and turned to listen to this new story from the wind.<br />
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There was this tiered stand with clay toys neatly displayed. Each one proudly taking its place. The dashavatars, the ashtalakshmis, the kalash, and other Gods and Goddesses, on the top rungs while the mortals with their worldly attachments were on the last.<br />
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Yes, and it was a first for that young couple. A family steeped in music with ancestors playing the veena for the Gods in the Srirangam temple... It was transcendental when the family came together in the evening. The resting veena and the flute in front of the golu sprang to life. Such divine music!<br />
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The cloud floating by, hovered over all. And I have seen something too. Up in some of those apartments, a small earthen lamp glowing under a newly planted tulsi sending up little prayers. When I looked into the distant horizon from where the sun heralds a new day, a farmer was out in his fields at dusk lighting an earthen lamp under another tulsi and a lantern in the fields.<br />
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Yes,yes! Rustled the grass and the wind, it was for the Kati Bihu that comes in quietly and the farmers pray to protect their crops just when the grains had started ripening.<br />
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Oh! That must be it then! said the cloud with realization dawning and went on to add... On Dusshehra, quite a throng had gathered outside this temple. Rolls and rolls of bright flower garlands sat piled up while the <i>nadaswaram</i> and <i>thavil</i> rose to a crescendo inside. Silk saris rustled paying obeisance and the jasmine strings on the oiled braids spread an overpowering fragrance. On the pavement was an old man, a smile lighting up his furrowed face, selling some of the most delicious <i>murukku</i>s that were fast vanishing from his stuffed brown cloth bags.<br />
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The moon had crept up quietly from behind and thrown its gossamer veil all around.<br />
Four days after that when I had floated out in my full splendour... you know how it is on certain days when you get carried away with all that joy around... Many people were waiting to usher in Lakshmi. I shone down brightly, so she wouldn't lose her way in all that maze down there.<br />
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Aren't you tired from all these festivities that keep dragging you to the center? Chimed the little star that had moved afar so others could see it. It wasn't exactly exhilarating to be lost in the moonshine and trying to assert its existence.<br />
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I am, smiled the moon indulgently. So when I take my break in a few days, you can enjoy the show of stars showering from the ground. A million lights will brighten up the place and some of those will try to emulate you and attempt to reach you.<br />
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Yeah right, bristled the trees. The next day, those of us in the concrete jungles, will be choking in layers of smoke and gasping. Just like that strangulated river, reduced to being a zombie. More dead than alive. The dew drops were weeping down my leaves the other day, telling the cruel stories of places where they came from.<br />
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Everyone was quiet. The wind dropped lower, and ruffled the grass and the leaves. Don't worry. The sun will fight valiantly and shine down on us. Till then we will wait bravely....they nodded wistfully.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-61764822451269180592015-10-18T23:44:00.000-07:002015-10-18T23:44:39.504-07:00Ushering In Autumn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A multicoloured liquid bindi case. Small tubes arranged in a circle on a plastic base. Each filled with red, pink, blue, green ...a cap with a wand. Two dozen silver bangles or bright coloured glass bangles. Tube balloons twisted and shaped into flowers and animals. Pinwheels that rush into a burst of shades with the breeze. Tiny lips blow on whistles, interrupt the melee in various notes and pitch. Shiny pistols crack with the turn of the chamber. The red roll of ammunition sitting pretty in tiny round papercases with a pink paper cap. Chatter of the people, squeals of delight, bawling tantrums and Bollywood music rise above all the din. Only to be lowered when the priest take the stage. Our grandmothers did not endorse idol worship but no one stopped anyone from joining the festivity... Memories from a childhood faraway.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Liquid Kumkum Bindi: 11 Color 2gm Each" height="240" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/31HzHPXPuCL.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/31HzHPXPuCL.jpg">Courtesy www.amazon.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The hypnotic beats of the <i>dhak.</i> Heady fragrance of the incense smoke. Dhunuchi dance bring out smiles and and gather the audience. The elite few rush around with round pleated satin badges stuck to their chest. A badge of pride for some and awe for others. Endless rounds of meetings for these in the committee. Evenings spent under the empty half done pandals. Important organizing matters stray into this and that. Sometimes these badges work wonders to push that puja thali ahead in the queue for the favoured few. Coy glances stolen. Rosy hopes rise within. The evening cultural function. Hurried dinner at homes and rushing to take the best seats. The local artistes croon out one song after the other till warned by the committee to stop hijacking the show. Some latch on till abruptly asked to vacate the stage. Shouts and and smart repartees from the ownerless voices at the back. Checking out crispy new saris and dresses rustling like the autumn leaves. New shoe bites lend that ache and limp. Desperately looking for an empty chair or anything to perch on. Endless stream of the devout and those on the look out. Matrons of the neighbourhood gossiping and complaining of what the world was coming to. Dishing out earfuls to those in the committee for the mismanagement... Youth, a receding memory.</div>
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Idols no longer hold the attention. Come to think of it, it never did. Apart from the aesthetics. It was always the festivity. Watching the events unfold as if in a loop. Different places, strange faces. And yet the same, all over again. The cynical distance and disdain for the extravaganza lose out. Anandamela, the most awaited part of the four day exrtravaganza. Aroma of home cooked food from the <i>bhodroloker bari</i>. Smiling at familiar faces, exchanging pleasantries with acquaintances.<br />
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When the earth cruises ahead in its planetary path, extricating itself from the smothering embrace of the star, the dews gently adorn the grass once again. The mornings promise of gentle days. When that maddening fragrant assault of the xewali or the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nyctanthes_arbor-tristis">coral jasmine</a> takes over the senses, a smile within lightens the soul and is assured of better days.</div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-53116062248485035212015-10-16T00:38:00.000-07:002017-02-12T21:22:51.620-08:00Docuzentrum In Nuremberg - Ruminations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It was a trip to Nuremberg two years back and so a visit to one of its infamous relics was inevitable. The Nazi Party Rally Ground. Entering the <a href="http://museums.nuremberg.de/documentation-centre/">Docuzentrum</a>, a part of this massive area, we sought to expand our perception of what we had studied in short paragraphs in the history classes.<br />
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The Holocaust and The Diary Of Anne Frank were (as it is to this date), synonymous for school students grappling with the ideas of persecution and genocide, from within the confines of a class room far removed in space and time. Reading into the pages of The Diary of Anne Frank, the heart lurched and empathized with the young girl trying to weave a normalcy while keeping hopes afloat, in her confined world during the holocaust. Later turning the pages of Leon Uris, the triumphant escape of the persecuted in boats, buses and retaliations, a time different from our secured lives, a people so like everyone else, left many thoughts hanging in the air like the rings of nicotine laden smoke. Carried away with the gripping celluloid war dramas, we took vicarious pleasure in the daring escapades of the the persecuted while cheering lustily for the allied forces victorious strategies.</div>
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Most of it was a glossy poster. The lucky ones were just a pitiable number where the actual figure of the holocaust piled up at eleven million. Eleven million Jews, Roman gypsies, homosexuals and the mentally and physically disabled.</div>
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Shining in the epithet of the imperial city in its past, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuremberg">Nuremberg</a> had lent its name to a few infamous actions during the Nazi days, that went down as the black days of modern history. In the maniacal pursuit for the great German empire with a pure race, in whose veins the Aryan blood flowed, the 1935 Nuremberg Race Laws legitimized the Nazi theory of the pure Aryan race. The second largest city in the Bavarian region of Germany, Nuremberg was the chosen spot to inspire the Germans with their lost past and revive and spearhead a Pan German idea of a nation. It was this city that had the privilege of being a free imperial city with a flourishing trade and economy, famous artists and artisans by the thirteenth century.<br />
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Nothing could be more ironical. Nuremberg was the birthplace of the great Renaissance artist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albrecht_D%C3%BCrer">Albrecht Durer</a>, to whom the quote " If a man devotes himself to art, much evil is avoided that happens otherwise if one is idle" is attributed. Nuremberg was the chosen city to build the Nazi Party Rally ground. And by a man whose early days were spent in the quest to be an artist desperately seeking acceptance into the Vienna Academy of the Arts. <a href="https://www.artsy.net/artist/albrecht-durer">Albrecht Durer</a>, born centuries earlier, was not to know the ruins that his city was reduced to post WWII, following the genocide perpetrated by the once- upon -a- time struggling artist, Hitler. <br />
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Nuremberg in the Bayern region of Germany, has transformed its infamous past into a factual representation of events, turning a section of the erstwhile Nazi Rally Ground into a documentation center. The northern part of the Kongressehall, to be precise. The high ceiling halls containing the solemn space within - the corridors , small and large rooms - bears testimony to changed times. Where it was once built to display and awe with the Nazi show of power, post war it remained a shell of its intended glory languishing in an uncertain future. For it was difficult for the inheritors to acknowledge and accept their past that weighed heavy on their shoulders. Many other such relics were either hastily converted for day to day utility, broken down leaving no signs or left to the mercies of time. But the Rally Ground was a different matter. It was a colossal plan spanning an area of eleven square kilometers. That was a size impossible to ignore and wish away.<br />
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Nuremberg's<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"><span style="color: #545454; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dokumentationszentrum Reichsparteitagsgelaendeion ,</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span> Docuzentrum, beside <a href="http://www.reichsparteitagsgelaende.de/englisch/dutzendteich.htm">Dutzendteich</a> lake, now stoically chronicles the ascent and the subsequent downfall of the Nationalist Socialist Party in a manner bereft of bias and sentiment. It places the euphoria stoked by the idea of the Third Reich within its historical context - the whys and the hows of mobilizing support for a Nazi Germany. In a show of might and built to overwhelm the people, both within the country and also abroad, the incomplete Nazi Rally ground's sheer dimension is mind boggling. A congress hall with a capacity of 50000 people, a Zeppelin field, a war memorial, marching ground that could host 4,00,000 spectators, the Great Road almost fifty meters wide...Imagine the ecstasy of pride spilling out from those stands when they witnessed the humongous body of soldiers neatly arranged in rows and columns with tanks, artillery and others during the military exercises staged for all to see! Built under the supervision of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Speer">Albert Speer</a>, the rally ground had been host to six annual Nazi rallies between 1933 to 1945. History lessons have told us how Hitler utilized this idea of grandness to impress and overwhelm people with show of might. The Cathedral of Light played an important role during the rallies. More than a hundred anti aircraft search lights throwing up high beams up to almost ten kilometers into the sky were stationed around the spectators. The vertical beams set up a grand enclosure for the participating throngs. Later these were shifted and utilized to detect allies aircraft that would then be brought down by the dreaded flaks. Every structure was built to dwarf the individual presence but collectively it was to fill them with pride in their past and being part of a hallowed experience.<br />
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Walking up the narrow metallic flight of stairs into the Docuzentrum,we later realized, the pointed metallic structure protruding from the entrance was part of the piercing arrow concept running through the northern wing of the Kongressehall. It has taken Germany quite some time to emerge from its denial mode, to that of acknowledgement and acceptance of the dark legacy and be able to present it factually under the shadows of what it was intended to be in the hey days of the Third Reich. Left with the colossal structure post WWII, it was finally decided in 1994 by the city council of Nuremberg, to turn it into Docuzentrum. A competition was held in 1998 to attract the best design. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G%C3%BCnther_Domenig">Gunther Domenig</a>, an architect and son of a judge in the Nazi regime, came up with the winning idea of running a glass and steel arrow corridor piercing through the North wing of the Kongresshalle. A pun on the Nazi architect Albert Speer. The nineteen exhibit points explained with the aid of audio guides, use the conventional method with documents, a few memorabilia, the many photographs with old film clips thrown in between.<br />
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Within the stark interiors of brick walls, glass and steel, a short film begins the tour showing a present day scenario of a young boy skate boarding with a grand building in the backdrop. The camera focuses on this backdrop and melts into its past taking the visitor to history. Some of the pictures are life sized covering the wall from the top to the floor. In one such, Hitler seems to be walking up the steps, on a wall with dramatic lighting creating an eerie effect. Few broken pieces of Nazi memorabilia are displayed in glass topped pits in the floor. A bronze bust of Hitler peers out sternly. It is but one of the mass produced ones, encouraging people to place them at homes, in the propaganda swept frenzy for the Fuhrer and the promise of a German empire. A 1940 edition of <b>Mein Kampf</b> rests in a case. Each of the structures in the rally ground are explained with respect to their utility and construction. <br />
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It took almost three hours for us to walk through the " Fascination and Terror" exhibition that ended with clippings of the Nuremberg Trials. A short railway track behind a glass, on our way out, was a poignant reminder of the millions massacred. The train was the favoured mode to transport out the victims. The track is strewn with pieces of paper. Each of these papers have a name written on them - of the victims executed in the Nazi reign. To accommodate all those names, the track would have to be at least four kilometers long, it said.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-62154702221933675432015-09-20T08:46:00.002-07:002015-09-21T09:50:47.453-07:00Dear Mr Chetan Bhagat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTICVtvdphNmv0oB2t7w52uWtuUbarM3ei255Ae5P182BPXwRW2" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTICVtvdphNmv0oB2t7w52uWtuUbarM3ei255Ae5P182BPXwRW2" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Times Of India</td></tr>
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Dear Mr Chetan Bhagat,</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Every morning when
I turn the pages of the newspaper, I expect to be enlightened and informed by grey matter way above on the ladder, of those
who wield the pen. And this bright
sultry Sunday, as I turned the pages, <a href="http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/The-underage-optimist/its-time-to-analyze-orop-with-our-head-not-our-heart/">TOI</a> column <a href="http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/The-underage-optimist/its-time-to-analyze-orop-with-our-head-not-our-heart/">Underage Optimist’s headlines</a> screaming of <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_Rank,_One_Pension">OROP</a> grabbed my
attention. Being a fauji wife, but naturally you had my attention for those full five minutes till I finished
reading it. That’s how long it took. Then I went back to it again. And again. Just to understand and
swallow the fact that a national daily that boasts of being the best in terms
of number of copies being circulated, actually published your opinion on a matter
over which you have no expertise whatsoever. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On that matter, we
are at the same level. I mean, the matter of subject knowledge. So, could I just
deconstruct your column so as to understand the informed pearls of wisdom spewing from the black print.If I had been a teacher or even a customer service trainer,
you would have scored a perfect CGPA 10 for beginning on a positive note with melodrama
laced at the edges. You have talked of sacrifice and how the Defence is the
only sector that is shown in a positive light by our beloved Bollywood. And I
shall come to this later, I promise.</div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. </span></span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal;">How</span> is OROP a misnomer? That the <a href="http://qz.com/431682/indian-army-veterans-are-going-hungry-to-protest-modis-broken-promises/">veterans</a> are
fighting for one pension for the respective ranks irrespective of the year of retirement,
has never been under the cloak. Or is it that you realized the core issue when
you decided to write this article? When you say that the general
perception on the issue is driven by sentiments
such as, “ <i>They guard our borders so they must get it</i>”, are you trying to
throw alms into a begging bowl?<o:p></o:p></div>
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No one is holding a bowl here, Mr Bhagat.
The veterans are only asking to revert to a practice that was already in place.
Why and how this practice ceased, maybe you could research a bit (for a change)
and enlighten us on it in your next column. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->You claim “ …<i>After
all those who protect our borders must be treated well. OROP was seen as
something that meant soldiers were treated well. Hence, you better give
OROP, and now</i>!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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( Did you seriously conjure up this
sentence!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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This agitation did not happen one fine
day when the veterans decided to sit for
a picnic at Jantar Mantar during the oppressively sultry days. It was borne out
of false promises and hopes raised over the last forty years ever since this
bone of contention has been represented
in various capacities. The picture that you see today is that of
frustration raising its head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal;">3. </span></i><!--[endif]--><i>“ People who wanted to do an objective
analysis had to scurry and hide in a corner….” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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No, they did not have to, Chetan Bhagat!
Objective analysis has always been welcomed by the Forces. But armed with facts
and figures and no skeletons hiding in the cupboard. There should be no space
for objective analysis without all the facts on the table. How else do you
think wars are fought? Or strategies formulated in the war games ? It is objective
analysis. They think with their heads and not with the hearts. However, these
very forces when they are called upon for humanitarian missions perform
extremely well. They think with their head and the heart, Mr Bhagat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal;">4. </span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Do you think it worries the Forces personnel
whether the status “ <i>Army good,
politician bad</i>” will be maintained after this? That soldier at the border will
continue to trudge cross country at more than 10000 feet in Arunachal Pradesh
and sleep in the open so he can set up a post for your security; or stand at 23000 feet surrounded by snowfields in Siachen and come down with medical issues that
would be a reminder of the tenure for his entire lifetime (for your information
Mt Everest is at 29000feet) ; or sit
inside an armoured tank without an AC when the outside temperature is above
fifty degrees Celsius. Was that the AC humming when you wrote this article?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal;">5. </span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->“ …<i>we have
OROP for defence why not for our paramilitary and police</i>?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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You have been a bad boy, Mr Bhagat! I will
tell your mamma that you don’t do your
homework well. The OROP issue has its basis on the retirement age of defence
personnel. The paramilitary and police
personnel retire at the age of 57 to 60 years while a soldier’s retirement age
is 35 years. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->And since you have defaulted on research, how
about telling the world through your column that exactly how the defence
pension of Rs 60000 crores per year gets
divided between the actual defence personnel and the civilian defence
officials. Please add to it that how the Rs 12000 crores that you tout the
exchequer will be burdened with every year will actually be mitigated in five years
time. The latter figure, by the way, is a backlog of the payment due for
non-implementation of OROP for the last so many years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal;">7</span><span style="font-stretch: normal;">. </span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->“ <i>These funds
are given out with no output obtained in return?“, “ …to pay the officers more
or the jawans more?”, “ …more money be spent on veterans or more hospitals for
veterans? “</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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There speaks a true investment banker! Looking for the best horse to bet on.
Thank you, but the soldier had already put aside a part of his money into the ECHS
scheme (Ex Servicemen Health Scheme) at the time of retirement so he could do
the rounds of Military Hospital in his old age. The doubts you think aloud are
best kept under wraps till you understand the whole system and the
complex web woven for years<i>.”…many
sectors don’t even have pensions</i>” -
Where do you live Mr Chetan Bhagat? We are talking of Government
services here. Incidentally, many of these services also have a Provident Fund scheme where the
organization also contributes to the
employees fund. On the other hand, a
soldier maintains a EPF/DSOP where he is the sole contributor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like I promised in the beginning, Mr Chetan Bhagat, I shall come back to your opening lines. The defence
fraternity humbly accepts and is grateful to Bollywood for showing us in such glowing light, receiving the hoots and
whistles in a dark hall and making money out of it. Taking note of your
condescending tone ( for I did get a stink of it), when a soldier dies he oozes
blood and not ketchup. Do you send out a
prayer when there is a cas evac ( casualty evacuation) so the injured soldiers
are flown to the nearest MH in time for
medical attention? Do you fight snow storms to reach out to the
grievously injured in the glacier so his life can be saved? Do you fly choppers
at altitudes where they were never meant
to be flown? However these machines are employed beyond their stated limits
because there is no other way and there is no other battlefield higher than the Siachen glacier. Do you stand
by the widows when these choppers crash? Have you seen a burning bus load of bloodied soldiers rushed back to the MH
while they were on their way home for Diwali holidays after a year? Be a part of
this and then adopt a tone for your article. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And
next time I shall hope to read an informed article in your column about the
three hundred percent hike that our
esteemed members of the parliament have gifted themselves with, as also a hundred percent hike in the
pipeline this year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1179831110611526310.post-40993593988739536622015-09-15T21:45:00.001-07:002015-09-15T21:45:20.769-07:00"Customer Is King" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Customer Service Clip Art Clipart" src="http://www.cliparthut.com/clip-arts/315/customer-service-clip-art-315163.jpg" height="304" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
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Courtesy <a href="http://www.cliparthut.com/customer-service-clip-art-clipart-ReQrVr.html">Clip Art</a> </td></tr>
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Ever since we tasted blood in the early 1990s, spoilt for choice and swamped by attention, the royal customer mantle has been used in every possible way to seek the spotlight. It has been many times over that we have seen a person behind the counter fencing queries from customers who swoop down on that lone defender from every angle and with every emotion in the emoticon card. Let me take you two such scenarios.<br />
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Scene I<br />
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A visit to a local mobile network provider last evening saw a lone girl behind the counter handling four customers simultaneously. While I was seated in front of her to address an erratic network connection, another stood right behind me whining about his new connection, whether he needed to pay right then, having taken the connection. The third strides in brandishing his sim card whimpering that it does not work. The fourth wanted his documents accepted so he could legitimately jump the queue to be heard. And all this while I waited patiently to let the young lady come back to my problem since I was first in the line. I could almost see the wheels within her mind rotating furiously trying to resolve one issue per 10 rotations. It filled me with sympathy to see her fighting off these predators in various guise. When the whining and the yelling got a little too uncomfortable in that tiny cabin, I finally raised my voice enough to be heard around that 4m by 2m space that please lady if you could concentrate on one customer at a time the confusion could be sorted out much easily. This was more for those of my ilk than the young girl. And went on to add that the people behind the counters in India need to be awarded for their inhuman ability to simultaneously tackle so many customers, and most of them irate ones. She threw me a grateful look.That brought in a bit of uncomfortable silence only to be resumed ( hence proved we have a very short memory). A bulldozed conversation flowed...<br />
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"My new sim isn't working"<br />
"I'll have to check it"<br />
"I've already checked it and I'm telling you so"<br />
The girl extracts it and inserts it in a different handset. Barely a minute later she declares that sim is indeed not working.<br />
"Arey! That is what I'm trying to tell you for the last fifteen minutes"<br />
"But sir, I am attending to this lady here. In any case I have to follow a procedure..."<br />
She has barely finished her sentence when the whining one with his new toy butts in<br />
"... will I get a huge bill?"<br />
"Sir, you will get a bill according to the plan you have opted for"<br />
Going back to the forced irate customer "Sir, you will have to provide the documents and a photograph for a new sim..."<br />
"...how do I charge this dongle..." and " But why should I submit documents again?"<br />
Two different queries needed to be handled in two different ways. Despite her training I'm sure she must have felt like pulling out one's hair and smacking the other one right across his face.<br />
All this while the third customer is still trying to push his documents through every available space he can get between the flaying arms.<br />
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Scene II<br />
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The sun is sending out the last rays of the day. The vendors are hurriedly setting up their vegetables in neat piles with each colour accentuating the one next to it. The bright red tomatoes highlighting the green slender beans. The white mushrooms in blue plastic container packs sit on a heap of okras. The vendor with a <i>gamcha</i> holding up his weary trousers sitting on his haunches, is cleaning each carrot before placing them on a pile. A woman is already sorting out her okras into a basket. Another one arrives scanning the produce quickly.<br />
"How much for the carrots, bhaiyya?"<br />
"Twenty rupees for half a kilo"<br />
" So expensive! Give me for fifteen rupees..."<br />
"No Madam, even I bought them at a higher rate. I don't make much as it is"<br />
While the haggling is on a well dressed man, presumably on his way back from office stops by and takes stock of the price which the seller rattles off at one breath. As an aside he swiftly calculates the rate of 150 grams of bitter gourds that I pick. The fifth customer arrives and prodding the vegetables asks the price of every vegetable one by one.<br />
"How much for the carrots? "<br />
"Forty for a kilo"<br />
"Beans?"<br />
"Seventy"<br />
"Tomatoes"<br />
"Thirtyfive"<br />
Meanwhile he is weighing each of the vegetables as directed by the well dressed man.<br />
"Ginger? "The lady is still at it.<br />
"How much do I pay" the man asks pulling out his wallet.<br />
" Half a kg tomatoes say seventeen, three fourth kg gourd thirty, two hundred grams beans fourteen, one fifty grams ginger is ,...."<br />
"How much is the ginger?" the fifth customer persists while the seller is concentrating on his calculations.<br />
"...twenty rupees for the potatoes...."<br />
He is already rounding up the total sum while mentally I am still struggling with the price of the gourd and the beans despite the degrees earned inking sheets and sheets of paper over the years. The ginger woman unimpressed with the oral calculations and simultaneous batting off queries from others, moves on to another seller in a huff feeling slighted by the unquoted price of the root condiment.<br />
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ilaksheehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15988877396944840266noreply@blogger.com8