Responsible Travelling Building Relationships

    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.
  " 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.
He gaped at me for a few seconds before blurting out, " I am sorry, I thought you were Indian..."
" But I am! "
It was my turn to look confused.
" Well...you see...Oh! Never mind! "
Then curiosity got the better of him.
" All Indian tourists ask for this. Why don't  you want it?"
    

     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.

   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.

Respect In A Relationship

                                       

    There is a wide chasm between lust and love.  It is the absence of respect in the former that reduces any relationship to cinders. Travel is a relationship forged in many ways - 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.


                                           

                            


   A responsible traveller is like the seeker who will tip toe around the bend and watch the place unravel and 'be'. 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 sambhar 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.

                             

  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.

Public Transport


                                                    

   Having driven down the Indian West Coast once before, the best way to do this, we have discovered, is to hop onto a public transport. The ride from Mumbai to Kudal on Konkan Railways, 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 Kinderdijk 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.


                                   

 Walk Along 

                                        
                                  

                                   

   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 Hemis Gompa in Ladakh while we stamped our feet to keep ourselves warm in the subzero temperature. We have not barged but quietly let ourselves into these different worlds that hold so much of truth, beauty, and if you listen carefully, a whole lot of wisdom. 

                                      

   Next time you plan a trip, remember to keep some time aside for walking. 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 Dhemaji 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!

                                     

Adopting Homestays

  Homestays is what we look for now, 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, the existing hospitality conglomerates could take up homestays as viable and sustainable projects. 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.

  While the onus lies on the traveller to choose and plan so as not to disturb the existing social, ecological and cultural balance, the service providers too need to be sensitized on this important aspect of travel. 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 sol kadhi, to speak of basics. These words immediately pepped up Vishal's mother who was pretty let down after we had ventured out.
" Why do you spend so much money on that outside food? I give you freshly cooked meal here at home..."
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.

                                         

                                   

  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, happy to be contributing a drop into the sustainable ecosystem. 

Encouraging Local Craft

  Part of this ecosystem is the local handicraft that tell the stories of its people. 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.

                                               

 
                               

    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? 

   There is a whole wide world waiting to be loved. All it needs is to be nurtured with responsible travelling.

“I am blogging for #ResponsibleTourism activity by Outlook Traveller in association with BlogAdda”

 





 



 

By The Window

                                                                                                                  

          The  afternoon sun filtered through  the neem tree  that grew by the window and sidled into her room. Little particles floated in the beam tossing about in the warm space. I often saw her sitting on the chair in front of the  brand new mirror that was pushed against the wall next to the window. The dancing leaves flitted across her face.  I caught her many a times looking forlornly out of the  window. Despair seeking a sliver of hope. Everyday reflected the same story. No changes. Except maybe, the intensity. There were days when she looked drained out. Spent with pain. I watched her helplessly  from the other side.  And then again there were days, when I thought she would end it all one day. Release herself from the drudgery.

          There were days also when she did not come by the window. And when she did after the absence, it might as well have been the dark moonless, starless night. But it was always at this time that she came. Late in the afternoon, when the rest of the house retired for a siesta. This was her only time. It was funny how one lay claim to something as elusive as time. Milch time, dung cake time, cooking time, cleaning time, vomit cleaning time, in-laws time, beating time, untouchable time, lying silently time while the job was being done... savagely...

          Every day was the same. Only the earth continued to move as people went about their daily lives. Nights changed to days and back to nights in a never ending cycle. Relentless summers changed to the mild autumn, cool winters and the colourful boisterous spring. And one day,  she sat in her place by the window, in the tell- tale white sari with a blank ebony forehead. Like a blank slate. The despair had given way to a calm. A calm that descends when the storm has passed. And this was where I saw the changes that take place in a life. Little printed floral patterns took up the white canvas of her sari. The patterns became bolder with passing days. Colours crept in to fill up the gaps within the patterns. A hint of a smile now lurked around her lips. The dark eyes shone with a zeal.

          One morning she sat on her chair, looking out at the chirping birds and rustling leaves. Suddenly a voice called out," Arrey! You are not late? The school bell will ring in five minutes! "
"Coming, Maji!" she jolted out of her reverie casting one last glance at the mirror before grabbing her bag. I smiled  at the happy stranger that beamed back.




This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

         

          

Game Of Blogs - Part 14- Unfolding

Team Name: Story Weavers
Read the first part of the story here.

Read the previous part here

                                                  

             The events did not quite unfold as planned. Or did it? Jennifer kept close to Tara for more than one reason. The attack at the New Delhi railway station was foiled. Thankfully. Ever since she could remember, all of Jennifer's actions were propelled by her staking her claim for survival. Even if it meant selling her soul to Ibrahim Rehman. Being beautiful and alone in the world attracted all the wolves. Even those in the sheep's skin. By the time she had the world figured out, Jennifer had none less than Ibrahim Rehman as her mentor. It was in the orphanage that she had met him first. It was the feeder for all the jihadis in the making. There were many such centers from where the terrorist organisations recruited. Only the brightest and the most lonely were marked for training. Jennifer was then sent to a college to live a dual life. They were to lie low till the clarion call came to prove their worth. 

         She had been a part  of the outfit ever since. And Ibrahim Rehman was her abba. For that matter, he was every orphan's abba. It was strange that this abba managed to keep the identities of his children to himself. For how could one explain that Jennifer never had an inkling of Kareem being a full fledged terrorist! To think that she was so close to him! She thought she knew him like the back of her hand. Technically, she was also one. But at least she didn't go around spraying people with bullets. Being trained as one and actually being one, there was a difference. The difference was in the   first  pull of the trigger. Coming  face to face with Kareem by that yanked door was a shock to her. And Tara. Could she make Tara her sacrificial lamb for the assured ticket to heaven? Tara had introduced her to a world, she never knew existed. A world where people bonded, loved and lived without Machiavellian designs. Despite her indoctrination, she was drawn to this warmth. She remembered the couple of diwalis and christmas celebrated with her family.  She had almost forgotten what it was like to be in a family. It was like the butterfly in her tattoo had come alive drinking in from the colours around. Tara had literally dragged her for these occassions, during their college days, refusing to let her stay alone in the hostel. 

    She was torn between the two worlds, a world of ruthless allegiance where the price was death and the other, a world that beckoned with life. And so Ahana, with the pen drive tucked in her pocket sought out Inspector Arjun. There were too many amendments to be made. Just then her phone vibrated. She recognized the number.

           “Ji huzoor. Agar yahaan par kuch gad bad hui toh aap ke pass toh Rani hai. You have the main chess piece in the game, Ahana. Usko apne muththi main jakkad ke rakhiyega. We both know that hamare shattir dost Shekhar koh sabse zyaada dard kaise pahunchaya jaa sakta hai.”

"Who is it, Jenny? Is it your fiance checking on you?" asked Tara without turning her head  from the hotel in her vision line.

"Yeah..." nodded Jennifer thoughtfully keeping her camera trained on the scene in front.  

"You know, you were lucky with Roohi. I still can't get over it that it was her...You should be home with her. She must be shaken..."said Jennifer cautiously. 

"I know how  you feel, Jenny, but she will be fine with my parents. She's safer  there" assured  Tara. 

  Just then a shot rang out.

It was like someone had frozen the entire scenario and captured it in a frame for a second. All hell broke loose. And then there was a volley of bullets from both directions for what seemed like ages.  Glasses erupted in splinters sending out showers of  shards. Columns of the NSG were closing in taking advantage of the confusion. It stopped as suddenly as it had started. There was a sepulchral silence. Tara peeped out from behind their crew van. Inch by inch. They were at a safe distance behind the men in uniform taking position. But the scene in front looked like it was hit by a cyclone. She thought she was dreaming. She heard it again.

    “Mummy. MUMMY!!!Red Riding Hood! RED RIDING HOOD!” 

"What the f...!"  she wheeled around to see two pigtails bobbing over a flurry of a frock running towards the barricaded area. 

Read  the next part here.

“Me and my team are participating in the ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com.#CelebrateBlogging with us.”

Game of Blogs : Story Weavers (Part 8) - Zeroing In

This post is part of #GameOfBlogs team name 'Story Weavers'. 

You can read the first part of the story here

And the previous part here

                                               

    Tara was besides herself in a frenzied madness. It was like an entire building had collapsed on her head and she lived to witness the destruction and desolation. For all her cool, no-nonsense and crisp facade of a professional, the call from Shekhar, undid the years of building up this image of hers, crumbling down the masks she donned. It was the school that informed Shekhar. His worst fears had come true. And she had been so blaise!  She could afford that luxury despite being a mother of a nine year old, taking comfort in the arrangement that Shekhar worked from home. She could pack and move at a minute's notice because Shekhar was there to look after their precious. But for how long could they insulate Roohi from the harsh world outside? And now... Roohi was thrown into an abyss straight from the cradle...Her little baby... Suddenly Tara found herself drowning in a deluge of mayhem none of which made sense to her. They were no longer detached news to be covered now and walk out with the plumes. This was real. Her Roohi was in the railway station. And she was going to be the sacrificial lamb now. Her Roohi. She rushed to their media van parked outside to catch the footage. The terrorists were intent on making this into a horrific spectacle for all to see. To drive home their terrible potency in pursuit of jihad. 

    Through blurred vision, Tara could see the masked man with a gun pointed at a child out side the station. Roohi, little Roohi. He must have dragged her out to catch the media's attention. After all what was the point of execution if there was no audience to gasp at the terror. He made her the human shield from all the shooters and the snipers. Tara slumped to the floor of the van. From somewhere deep within, a force made it's way up through all the grief and disillusionment, pushing all of them into the periphery. There was not a second to lose now. She tucked the flying strands of her short hair behind her ears and  called up her boss. She asked for a switch explaining the twist in the situation that affected  her. After patiently listening to her forced coherency, he said,

    " Right, Tara! I suggest you reach the station without the paraphernalia, immediately. The crew in the van will handle till Rahul replaces you. And you say your friend Jennifer is inside ...God knows how you managed that... but move now! Flash your card wherever they stop you and call me if you are stuck!"

 " Yessir..."

"... and Tara, take care. Have faith..."

*

Shekhar was hunched over a blueprint of the station in a van outside, refusing to look at the screen that flashed Roohi's scared face. He would never forgive them. Even if he had to hunt each of them to the last corner of the earth. He marked on the blueprint  barking out orders to those around him. This had to have the laser precision of a surgeon. Not an inch here nor another there. He could concentrate on the station now having appraised his superiors  about the two other terrorist attacks on the hotel and the BARC. Other RAW and NSG teams would tackle that. He would not budge from the station. As of now. Suddenly  the officer at the monitor motioned to him,

." Sir, there is a slight movement..."

Shekhar craned into the monitor.

"...there...can you see?...just behind that shutter at the entrance..." he pointed towards the screen at a dark body.

Shekhar noticed it. It was there. Definitely a movement. Someone was trying to inch towards the lunatic. A rush of hope flooded every cell of his being. He spoke into the walkie- talkie, alerting all the men positioned.

" Alpha calling all vectors. A movement  behind the 'bull's eye'. At the slightest hint of surprise he will turn for a fraction of a second. You have only a fraction of a second. Vector 10, you are closest. Move as close as you can and pull the child out. You will have only a few seconds before the others join in. Do not miss!" He kept the walkie - talkie on and prayed Roohi would remember to duck and run behind the lunatic. That was the safest spot. All other directions she would be a sitting duck. He was glued to the screen waiting to bark the minute that angel acted. And then he remembered. He switched the channel of his walkie talkie.

" Black out all media. Now!" 

 And across the country, the horrifying unfolding of events at the New Delhi railway station went blank. 

*

   Jennifer removed her shoes as she went into the hotel. It was such a pity, all those extravagant interiors were reduced to shambles. And to think that the rich always believed themselves to be immune to such carnage. At the end of it all everyone was at the same level. When death stared squarely at you, it didn't matter what your bank balance was or the number of countries you had travelled to or the number of strings you could pull or where the next meal was going to come from. Death was a great level player. Absolutely impartial. Didn't she know? Losing her father before she saw this world and watching her mother give away to cancer, she had toughened up from her childhood. She crawled into adulthood in an orphanage learning the vagaries of the adult world when she should have been playing with barbies. She had learnt the greatest skill of all in there. Like a trained doberman she could smell the routes to survival. 

   She tip toed into the kitchen kissing her butterfly tattoo. Her lucky mascot. It was a replica of a locket her mother wore once. She had to be extremely careful here. This was the first place those fanatics would ransack to refuel. She picked up a paring knife from the counter and tucked it under her belt. It would be difficult to hide a bigger one. Not when she was in her shorts. She could have kicked herself for not wearing her jeans. 

    She moved stealthily towards the door ducking behind the counters. She peeped out  of the glass door. No one was out there. Where had everyone gone? She didn't know the layout of the building. Climbing that spiralling grand staircase would be a dead giveaway with nowhere to hide. There should be a service elevator somewhere. Elevators were a no no. She finally zeroed down to the fire escape. She could hear some one talking now although it was not clear. It was coming from the floor above. Sidling up the iron stairs which took ages for her to reach the first floor, Jennifer stopped at the door. She strained her ears to listen for footsteps or voices. All seemed quiet. She turned the handle down little by little and made a small opening. She peeped in through the sliver of the opening. The coast was clear. Were all those fanatics stupid enough to be in one place? Feeling like the Lord himself over the helpless, whimpering hostages? She moved to the second floor now taking the emergency exit. And here she saw all the hostages pooled into the centre of what looked like a lounge. And around them were six armed masked butchers. Jennifer didn't know how many of them were in the building. Were all the hostages here or was anyone out in one of those rooms without these buggers realising. It was a chance she would have to take. She couldn't tackle these bastards on her own, a la Jhansi ki Rani style. Get your facts right, she reminded herself. You are here to cover this not dive into a major rescue operation and commit harakiri. Thank God, this hotel had just three floors sprawled across a mammoth area. She steadily crept up the stairs amazed at  having survived so far. And just as she reached the door to the third floor it opened leaving her exposed.

     Read the next part here.

“Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.”

The Screech

It was late in the night, the hostel was quiet except for a strange hum that sounded like collective chanting. To an outsider it must have sounded like some nocturnal ritual taking place in some evolved being's room. A quiet walk down the corridors with not a soul in sight, said that this hum came from all the rooms. Suddenly in the middle of the rhythmic vibrations, a screech interrupted the peace. There was silence. The screech turned to a howl petering out towards the end. It sounded like a man being strangulated to death.The sounds of chairs pushed back, of running feet and doors yanked open crowded the night. Except the door of number 107.

They opened the door to Room 107 which was not latched thankfully. All rushed in to do their bit of saving the agonised soul. And there on the bed next to the window was a Final year guy, with earphones plugged to his ears realising his dreams of a singer with his sandpaper-rubbing-on-wood voice. All the 'Saviours' teetered to a halt with jaws dropped and eyes staring in disbelief. 

The other roomies turned around from their books slowly pulling out their earplugs giving a resigned look at the 'saviours'. The singer in the room continued his screeching and squaking blissfully unaware of the changed scenario as he concentrated on Himesh's "tera tera tera suroor..." with closed eyes that bordered on ecstasy. "What!" the Final year college wrestler cum new-found singer bellowed, when he was shaken out of his trance.

Seeing so many people in his room he said with a straight face," I am destressing myself from all this cramming. Any problems?"

Shaking their heads the 'saviours' went out and Room 107 returned to their earphones. The night turned into a nightmare but there was little anyone could do. The nightmare recurred for three nights till a midget in Room 204 jumped into the fray. He consulted his roomies and came up with a prank. Every body's future was at stake with exams round the corner. 

The next day, the midget entered Room 107 with some bottle of reddish liquid. He addressed the resident Himesh, "Sir, My sister is a singer herself. The first day you sang, I was stunned beyond words! How gifted you are! I stayed awake through the nights transfixed by your scale!  Sir I remembered what my grandmother gave my sister then, to improve her voice. I hope you will take this medicine half an hour before your practice everyday."

The Himesh beamed and felt woolly with all that adulation,"Oh! How thoughtful of you! But what does it have?"

"Sir, my grandmother mixed cardamom seeds, ginger leaves..."

"Leaves? I thought roots were useful!"

"No sir, that is one of the secrets. Apart from other stuff it is ginger leaves!" the midget winked adjusting his specs.

 "Oh! I must warn you. You may feel a wee bit sleepy but that is the sure sign that it is has started working."

 From that night on, nobody used the earplugs again. The Himesh rested his voice and himself every evening after a dose of the cardamom seeds, ginger leaves laced cough syrup waiting for it to work miracles. Peace returned and so did the humming and the droning of collective chants in the corridors of the hostel.

.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

  

She Was A Born Fighter

                                                        


                                                       
                                                       ( Courtesy www.loadpaper.com)


" At the stroke of midnight..."the radio played in many homes,  as the mother laboured at child birth in a dimly lit room and chaos surged outside. When she was born, a careless midwife let her slip to the floor. And so she came into this world with a prominently bandaged head, not to speak of the other injuries on her left side and the rest of the body that would manifest later, as she grew. But grow she did, with hopes of a better future. After all she had a family who would look after her and who were proud of her. It was after many years of labour and prayers and offerings that this little life was granted.

So she grew preening at the world, teasing, and at times working hard. She learned by watching others and learning from their mistakes. She understood the values of life...of tolerance, co-operation, strength of unity, of colours in life, of richness in diversified experiences. She came out of the teething problems and the difficult growing years as a mature being. The world with its fast growing technology, fascinated her. Once she understood its hold, there was no holding her back. She knew she could deliver with an able team, if she could lay her hands on one such group. The world looked at her as a promising star in the horizon waiting for its time to debut...

But the old injuries revisited her and haunted her. They demanded her attention just when she was ready to take the giant step forward. Her team betrayed her and so did the teams after it. Yet she rallied on. After all she was born a fighter.

At 66 years of age now, she slowed down. Not for want of will but to heal her bleeding innards, the old  injury that threatened to rip her head off and her bandaged right arm. As the lady hobbled under the neon boards emblematic of "India Shining" and along the street with wall graffiti shouting "India Whining", a faint voice came to her throbbing head,

"At the stroke of mid night when the world sleeps..."

Yeah, some dream that was, she thought with a smirk. But she would fight back. After all she had a five thousand year old lineage to bank on. There must be some way out in the ancient collective wisdom of the family. She would find a way out. After all she was a born fighter.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda