" See see, Imli!"

                                           


                                                   
                                                          

                                              

                                                                     courtesy wikicommons

         " See, see, Imli!" pointed Roma hesitantly to the tamarind tree. The other girl looked up from her heap of stones which she had collected to aim at the tamarinds hanging from the branches far beyond their reach. The ones nearest to the ground were already gone. It was one of the many trees that dotted the perimeter of the school's playground. Those tamarinds have always enticed the children, peeking through the swaying pinnate leaves. Raw green ones, to half ripe ones with their yellowing insides or the brown hollowed ripe ones with the sweet and tangy pulp. No amount of warnings during the morning assembly could ever deter the children. The mere vision of it was enough to send them into salivating raptures. It was this power of tamarinds that made Roma cry out,

    " See, see, imli!"   

    " You wantah ?" the other girl made signs like she was talking to someone mute.

    " Yes..." Roma managed nodding shyly.

   This was the first time Roma was attempting a conversation in her new school. She hated it here. She hated it when the sun rose with the sounds of water sprinkled on the courtyard of the ground floor apartment. Someone swept with the broom making an unnerving scratchy sound on the wet earth. But she liked to watch the white kolam being designed out of dots and criss-crossing lines and curves. She often stood fascinated at her window  watching the maid downstairs make elaborate ones with complicated twists and turns of the white powder. 

   " Malli poo, malli poo!" cried the flower seller every morning carrying a basket of spirally heaped fragrant jasmine flowers. Roma had seen these strands adorn every girl or woman's hair here. Well! She liked those and she liked the kolam. That was about all she liked in this new place. She hated going to school and she hated sitting in her class. She always had this impulse to run back home to her mother when she saw the green PTC 47B approaching the bus stand. She listened hard to understand what her classmates were speaking. Roma pretended not to hear their questions and when she could no longer avoid them, she answered in monosyllables. They spoke only in an English that sounded strange and Tamil. No Hindi. She was frustrated for she could speak only in Hindi and Assamese. Where she came from, these were the only languages spoken in school and every where around her. It didn't help that her curious classmates asked," Are you from China? Is Assam in China?"  Didn't they ever see a map of India? She felt alienated. With schools invariably shut down half the year in Assam, she realised she was at the bottom of the class in her new school. The bandhs, the class boycotts which they eagerly looked forward to then, had only made matters worse. She was shocked to hear her father say, " You'll have to attend Remedial  classes after school till your final exams. Your teacher suggested this."

" I am not a dumb student!" 

" No, you are not. But you have missed out on a lot. Here the students have almost completed their syllabus."

" I will not go for Remedial classes! I will not stay in that school more than I have to! I will not sit with the dull students, I will not..." she choked her eyes brimming with tears. She had always been near the top of her class. What was this new place doing to her? 

      Roma was bewildered, sad and lonely. She longed for the open clean air of Nazira. The beautiful little colony with the British bungalows, the bamboo grove, the river that flowed by the Club with the soft flowering reed grass in clusters. She longed to rush out with her friends in the evening to play; she loved the thrill of going for rehearsals for the functions that kept springing up every now and then. Why the other day, they were on stage, lustily belting out the " Do Re Mi..." that Borthakur uncle had translated into Assamese. Roma was given the high pitched "Dha Ni Ni..." in a segment of the song. What fun!

   She now lay on her bed looking out of the window of their two bedroom flat holding up the maths notebook in her hands. From the corner of the eye, she saw the clock ticking away, the hands approaching the dreaded hour of 7.30. Her time to take bath before going to school.She suddenly developed stomach cramps.She could feel  a hollowness in her chest and her stomach churning and tying up in knots.

  " Ma, my stomach is feeling weird!"
  "Weird? Where? Show me" said her mother placing her ironed uniform on the bed.
   " It's paining everywhere."
  Her mother looked at her thoughtfully.
   "Drink some water, you should be okay."
   "I can't go to school today, Ma."
   " But you have a maths test, don't you?"
Roma turned her face towards the wall. Silent tears seeped out of the corner of her eyes and rolled over the bridge of her nose, creeping into her ears.
   " I can't go to school. I don't want to go to school. I hate it here. I don't like the school....I have no friends....I have no friends...I don't understand what they say..." she sobbed rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands. Her mother looked at her and then at the doorway where her father stood with a towel over his shoulders and half lather cheeks, holding a shaving brush in his hand.
   "Get her ready. I'll drop her at school today and have a word with the teacher."


      Few weeks later, Roma sat in her after school public speaking class. She was comfortable here. All the students, like her, were not familiar with English as a spoken language. She was not afraid of making mistakes here. In fact her instructors encouraged them to make the mistakes!They recorded their speech and made them listen to the replays over headphones.She enjoyed these sessions. She felt herself loosening up gradually. Her class teacher was happy with her progress. In her final exams, she was back, not at the top but near the top of her class. The other day, after her little talk in the house assembly, which her speaking instructor insisted on, the Shivaji house captain had asked her to join the sub-junior inter house speech competition! Roma's face shone with excitement.
    " You think I can do it?"
    " You'll never know till you have tried, Roma" smiled her captain " Let me know when you are ready so we can have a few practices."


     Few years later, Roma eased her bicycle down the steps of their ground floor flat's  verandah, careful not to disturb the beautiful white kolam  that gleamed in the morning sun against the clean wet ground .
  " Romba azhaga irkuh, amma" she beamed at their maid who was gathering the broom, the bucket and the kolam powder tin.
Roma straddled her blue Hero bicycle, bought with her scholarship money, when paathi, Jyoti's grandmother called out,
" Roma, inda poo catch panna! Un venile potako!" Roma caught the jasmine strand dropped from the second floor, a ritual before she left for school. Deftly lifting a strand just above her braid, she inserted the flowers leaving it dangling on either sides of  it.
 " Nandri, paathi! Bye!"
Just then, Tripathi aunty came rushing to her fourth floor balcony.
 " Roma, come over in the evening. I'll make you some papdi chaat and plus a new maid is coming."
Roma grinned waving at both the women as she pushed her bicycle forward. Tripathi aunty, just a few months old in Madras, had trouble with the language. She was communicating mostly in sign language similar to the Sunday afternoon sign News on Doordarshan. Feeling the breeze caressing her face, Roma turned left to reach the main road, bustling with the morning school and office traffic.



 
      

Stalactites and Deities in Nau Pindiyan and Baba Dhansar

"Do sau bees hai..."

" 220 steps! Looks like you have counted them"

He gave a shy smile and climbed the muddy track along the stairs like a mountain goat while we heaved ourselves up the steps.

    We were out on a half day excursion to nearby places of interest from Katra. After a homely lunch of local favourite kadam with tawa roti and whole moong dal we drove down to Nau Pindiyan and Baba Dhansar. By the way, if you happen to be in a hotel for a long time and are tired of the rich a la carte fare, ask for the staff meal. It's simple and gives you the comforts of home cooked meals without making your tummy do the cartwheels. Their chef particularly asked me to have kadam ( kohlrabis dish) and Kalaadi , having relished the former down to the last leafy bit for lunch, I decided to have the latter with the evening tea. 

   After a drive of fifteen minutes towards Reasi, we stopped at Nau pindiyan. Picking up a puja offering and avoiding the Kashmir 'handloom' vendors (which in all probabilty have found their way from Ludhiana and other such places),  we walked down the steps to the beats of "bidi jalai le..."  blaring from one of the many kiosks. I had already started having misgivings about this place and thought it to be a waste of time. 

   I was floored the minute I saw the entrance to the cave, the first one by the gate with a huge board prohibiting photography with little cameras bearing down to make the point clear. Couple of steps led into the cave that had plants hanging out onto the mouth of the cave lending it a quaint feel of antiquity. Inside the cave were many stalactites that were given the holy aura of Hanuman, Sheshnag , whatever shapes appealed to the human imagination. Offering our obeisance at the naturally formed shivling, we walked further down the steps to another cave that housed the Nau pindiyans, I was alarmed at the narrow entrance with the roof hanging very low. Just as I stood contemplating and imagining myself  with half my torso stuck in and refusing to budge when a gentleman double my girth crawled in albeit with much huffing and puffing. Peeping down to ensure he was on the other side for I did not relish the idea of my head contacting his ample posterior, I went down on all my fours and crawled up the floor of the cave's mouth to arrive at an illuminated space.

    The small cave had more stalactites and hence more deities. The priest sitting next to the Nau Pindiyas took our offerings and blessed us on behalf of the goddesses. In a single breath, he recited the names of the nine goddesses and showed us the natural formations that represented them. I was more interested in those structures suspended from the roof hanging half way through.  The beauty of Nature's work laboured through millions of years, drop by drop, grain by grain solidly suspended from the roof of the cave was awe inspiring. It was time to stoop out through a different exit which was much easier. There were no cameras or instructions so I managed to click the exit of the cave.


                     

   

                                                                                                           
                                                                           Exit of Nau Pindiyan

     Next halt was Baba Dhansar near Karua village. a road almost a kilometre long broke off from the highway and descended hugging the hill till one reached the top of  gently inclined steps.A stream flowed along one side of the hill. On other side of the stream was a forest covered hill side with mudtracks and isolated homes. We walked down expecting a temple at the bottom dedicated to Baba Dhansar.

    We did find the temple. But what we were not expecting was the surroundings in which it nestled. Water cascaded down a crevice making a clear bluish green pool, the Karua jheel. The stream made little clear pools as it traipsed down the hill to join the river we saw on our climb down. It was forbidden to enter the Karua pool  at Baba Dhansar but was permitted in the other pools down the hill. That explained the pristine waters here. Sun dappled green moss hung over the sides. Huge ancient trees shaded the entire area with a tangled network of climbers made sturdy with age.  It was breathtaking. It was like we had arrived at some mythical,virginal place untouched by human intrusions.

                                 

The entire area was shaded with widely spread branches and the snaking strong vines. At places they gave an illusion of a verdant veil adding a touch of enigma to the atmosphere. The vine leaves looked familiar. Later I found that it was the Maloo, whose leaves were stitched together to make plates and bowls.  Serenity enveloped us with the sunlight making patterns through the leaves.That there was no one around helped to consolidate this magical feel.

                              

The concrete temple on the other side of the pool made accessible by a small bridge was the Baba Dhansar temple. The priest here said that Baba Dhansar was an ichchadhari naag whose penance of twelve years pleased Lord Shiva and so this place was dedicated out of that pleasure. There is a tiny cave, again with small stalactites beside the mouth of the crevice from where the water gushes down, that has a shivling formation that has water dropping on it through the year. There is a ledge that leads to this cave with water dripping from the hill slope above.   

                                                           Shiva cave

    On the other side of the stream behind Baba Dhansar's temple that had idols of snake god, reposed many moss covered stone slabs in  neat lines with grass growing in the gaps. These were tokens of gratitude of the many villagers whose wishes have been fulfilled by Baba Dhansar.

The stone slabs

    The sun had already gone behind the hill. It was time to turn back. We looked at the steps that had to be climbed and wondered aloud how many were there. That's when this little boy shyly chipped in.

   "Do sau bees hai..."
   Ajit did not go to school. His mother had her hands full with her two boys with their father having abandoned them for another woman. Ajit spent his day roaming around this place and the surrounding forest. We got talking as we huffed up the steps.
    " So, you roam around these jungles and splash around that pool the whole day, don't you?"
     " I don't go into that pool. There are snakes there. Many of them."
    "Snakes? I didn't see any!"
     " But I have seen. And I have also seen that two headed snake."
     "Oh! Okay so you have seen it."
      He suddenly caught a yellow butterfly by it's wings and placed it on the back of his hand to show me.
     "That's pretty but let it go. It belongs there, on the plants."
     " Yeah, I know. Look! I'll show you something else." He plucked a part of a fern leaf and stamped the back of his hand with the underside of the leaf. Grinning he showed me the white leaf imprint. He was discovering Nature and her ways at his own pace.

                       

Ajit the little friend                                                                       Ajit's proud discovery                                                                                                                                                                                

     Later over a cup of tea and my promised Kalaadi, a locally made sun dried cheese, sandwiched between two slices of bread, I googled Baba Dhansar to read the story of how Lord Shiva on his way to Amarnath to meet his consort Parvati left Sheshnag behind who took human form. Dhansar was one of his sons who invoked Lord Shiva to help defeat the demon that was terrorising the people of Karua. Later another person I met of Karua origins, mentioned the rumours of a two-headed snake that makes itself visible only to a few.

     So, was Ajit speaking the truth or was he trying to cash in on the fables that abounded in the place? And I am still wondering about the mix of stalactites, caves, cascades, caves, pristine water, myths, Gods, the forests. And I am still awed by the beauty of it all.
     

A Morning Walk In Parthal

    I found the New Year cloaking the adjoining Trikuta Hills and the distant Pirpanjal ranges in heavy layers of dark clouds. Gray veil of low clouds streamed in and out through the few buildings here at the foothills. Once during the day, they lifted and parted to reveal the glimmering snow peaked Pirpanjal in all it's sunshine glory. What a way to begin the  New Year (do excuse my melodrama)  - of discoveries at every turn and twist, of fresh perspectives to the everyday rut,  of finding the moments to sit down and enjoy a view that pops up suddenly.

                                         

                                                         
      On the first day of my second trip to Katra , sitting on the lawns of this lovely property, I've a pleasing view of the Trikuta hills gently sloping down with the many lines meandering around it taking the pilgrims to the shrine.  And a view of the Reasi-Katra road that stretches into Reasi, the district headquarters.

                                           
          The morning walks have been a pleasant discovery of the pebbled alleys of the nearby village Parthal which is probably like any other Indian village around a tourist place. Concrete homes sleepily rousing from a warm night in the quilts, languorously stretching as the early morning cool sun rays slide through the shut windows. A whiff of wood fire smoke catches me now and then interrupted with olfactory indication of bovine presence. Fire wood and twigs stocked and left drying on the roof. A few early risers fetching water from the hand pump in plastic cans. What bliss, taking in the sights, sounds and smells! We first went down a lane that took us along the patched up main road that brings in pilgrims to Katra. We passed some cozy homes with kinnow laden trees and terraced fields interspersed with orchards.

                                                   
     
 





                                                                 
                                       








   Twisting and turning the lane brought us to a field outlined with trees and beyond that, the land sloped down into a thick canopy. We retraced our steps and took a mud track  flanked by linear patches of tender green fields. Craning my neck above the crudely protected boundary with bundled up twigs, I felt myself echoing Robert Frost
       "Whose woods are these I wonder..."
Only here, I was speculating about the fields and orchards. How did their life go by? What dreams did they weave? What desires rushed through them? Did the women worry about food and what to cook? Did they hum while working in the cold preparing to warm up the hearths? Well, it is common knowledge that most economic activities in and around Katra are sustained by people's faith in Mata Vaishno Devi. Hotels and dharamshalas of all shapes, sizes and prices; the boys, men and women employed here with the many restaurants, dhabas, kiosks with Kashmiri handicrafts; the porters who carry people and load, the ponies and their minders, cab and bus services that ferry people. It is these people who walk out of the many villages like Parthal early in the morning around Katra. But life is beyond this everyday grind. It is a criss-cross of aspirations and myriad other needs.
     The lane led through another part of the village, one that had a neatly squared fence with a sturdy, youthful peepul tree in the middle, before it slipped to the right going around one side of the hill with a wonderful view of the valley below.  How many wishes wound around that young peepul tree with the white threads hugging the girth like a child holding her mother hoping for a toy! This incarnation of kalpavriksh stands, blissfully unaware of  the weight of people's desires bearing down on it.

     There, I was casting  my imagination and ramblings on this being oblivious to parasitic human faculty! So many wishes have flown from so many human minds for babies, sons, grooms, brides, jobs, cures, desires, promotions, success, a never ending list, latched onto that young tree hoping to feed from it's presumed powers. But I digress. Blame it on the crisp morning air, the looming Pirpanjal peaks rising from the lofty horizon or the view of the Trikuta hills from the village. Or the stretch of blue mist flowers behind someone's house.

    Back on the road, we took up the trail beside the peepul tree and continued keeping the slope on one side. The lane took us around the hill and stopped right in front of a house that had a towering pine tree at its gate. Below us spread a canopy of various trees as well as a couple of cactus that had grown into tree like stature. Bamboo groves aligned with the berry  mingled with a few coniferous.

     It was time to turn back for the day. A grocery shop with some vegetables, packets of biscuits, wafers, stringed sachets of shampoo was opening for business. The lady who was sweeping it's front greeted us with a sunny smile.
   "Why don't you stop a while and have a cup of tea?"
Warm invitation for complete strangers.
    "Wish we could do that. We really have to go..."
     "Just a cup of hot tea. Sit for a while!"

Maybe she wanted company. Maybe she wanted a change. How I wished I could sit and chat with her. Talk  about this and that, share our worries as sometimes we do only with strangers. But I couldn't. Just as Frost couldn't take the plunge into the woods "lovely, dark and deep..."
So I took a picture of hers and she exclaimed, "Oh! I would have prettied myself up!"
"But you are pretty as you are..."
Capturing her in my mobile, I hurriedly walked backwards and yet reluctant to let this moment pass by.

 

            

Political Musings From An Aam Kitchen

                                                        

       The results have come in as Delhi Election draws to a nail-biting end. Euphoric moments interspersed with dejected feelings. As the dal bubbles in my kitchen and I get ready to temper it with the bay leaf, chillies and  ginger (having banned the onion from the kitchen till it behaves itself and comes back to its aukat), my thoughts go up like the rising steam.

   

       So the " mango people" party seem to have made some interesting notes to take cognizance of, for the "traditional" pedigreed political parties of free India. For the first time, there was a party that stood up for clean politics and for making many of us believe that clean politics was a possibility. Thankfully they adopted the humble 'jhadoo' and gave it a makeover and a distinct identity, which otherwise was relegated to a not-to-be-seen corner. It went on to give a literal connotation to the word 'sweep' that had been doing the rounds for the past so many electoral times, in the print media as well as the news studios. Media personnel were going ballistic with the humble 'jhadoo' and its many usages. In the previous regimes, it was used to 'sweep' the scams and scandals under the carpet and hurried into the cupboards to keep the many skeletons company.

      Secondly, the "mango people" party has given humbly the 'in your face' to all the cynics and detractors who brushed it off as a fad and prophesied it's doom much before it breathed. Call me a romantic, an idealist and what have you, but the fact remains that there is a tomorrow only if you have faith. I'm sure many of us wish for a change in the political scenario. And yet we sit and wait for someone else to make those changes. Frankly, it gets my goat when politicians unabashedly and arrogantly treat the public with condescension during the next five years when in power securing their personal future, and do the rounds with folded hands and promises when elections are just round the corner.

   The Delhi Election this time, was an indication that if you act like onions and hike up your affluence quotient and making us cry with your inaccessibility , we will do just what we do to that snooty vegetable. Refuse entry into the kitchen. After all dishes can be made without the pricey onion just as we can do without the high and mighty and the haughty in politics. 

    For the first time, a party is happy to be in the opposition and not scrambling to do the political arithmetic  leaving aside its reason for coming into existence and principles so it can have a heady taste of power. Wise decision. If you want to have a vegetable on your plate with its identity and flavour intact you might just as well have that instead of losing it's goodness in a khichdi or biryani.

    However, a word of caution to the new ebullient party. Please do not let us down. For the first time we have been made to believe that an alternative is possible in politics also just as alternative medicines and practices have made inroads into people's fancy for their well being. There have been mistakes, terrible mistakes in the past.

   I remember a similar euphoric time in Assam with the historic birth and win of the AGP in 1985. The time when our "own boys" formed the Government promising a new era in politics and an end to decades of misgoverning. Since I see a significant member of the "mango people" party with a very conspicuous Assamese 'gamusa' around his shoulders, I think he already knows those valuable lessons.What happened after AGP assumed power was a treachery of the people pining their hopes for a fresh beginning. Coteries, rampant corruption, shameful flaunting of power and arrogance not just by the chosen leaders but also by those closely associated with them. Their kith and kin also seemed to be enjoying the shares freebies that came with power. So where did that leave the aam admi of Assam? Back on the dilapidated road which they hoped to renew and rebuild. 

    Here, we as the people also need to show some  restrain and self-discipline. Yes, the Delhi Elections has made the aam admi a force not to be brushed off lightly and having successfully forayed into the political scenario, of standing up for our rights in the face of political fiefdom, muscle and money power. Some introspection will clear the way we want the future in politics.

1. Are we willing not to expect our pound of flesh from the winners? For it is this that breeds coterie and corruption.

2. Are we willing to be tolerant and gracefully accept the cultural differences abundant in this country and follow a policy of 'live and let live'? Because that is what the political parties in the past have been feeding on, picking on the differences and deepening the chasms in the name of religion, region, caste, language, ethnicity. 

3. Are we willing to be self disciplined in following the rules laid down for our well being. That would translate into not jumping queues, traffic signals, looking for privileges, evading taxes and back door entries. 4. Are we willing to accept social responsibilities especially towards the weaker sections of the society? By letting them know of various schemes and their rights and right to a dignified life. For the politicians of the traditional schools have gnawed at their wounds and left them festering  with temporary bandages to be exploited every five years. 

     If we, as the people want a matured democracy, of the people, for the people, by the people, then it is time we acted as matured and responsible individuals ourselves. Is it fair to expect miracles with just your neighbour's vote while you sit at home and watch the fun. Can we expect the food brought from outside to nourish us everyday never knowing what went into it's making? 

   Ah! The 'dal' is ready and laid on the table. Time to call the family for a wholesome and healthy meal.        

     

Voting For A Change

               A few people trickled into the booths set up by the road just outside the school. By the time we finished our round of morning walk and approached the centre, the trickle turned into a steady stream. Citizens queued up to get their names verified and collect the voting slips before walking into the school to cast their ballot. The officials behind the tables, in the makeshift sheds were warming up to the task that lay ahead, the morning December chill making their fingers shiver as they leafed through sheets of voters list. An anxious voter insisted that his mother's name be struck out since she was travelling, ensuring that her vote was not misused. The old were helped in,  the young walked in with a sprite. Everyone walked towards their allotted rooms taking their place in the queue. Pleasantries were exchanged. They went out of their way to help those who looked confused and lost.

Voting had begun in a quiet suburb as in the rest of Delhi for assembly elections.

        Another place. Another time.

                So, will you go tomorrow to vote?

                Of course!

                 What if someone sees you? You know who I mean.

                It doesn't matter now. There will be many more tomorrow, just see. People have had enough of this 'struggle'. Many lives have been lost and many sacrificed for the cause. And what have we gained? The 'leaders' are snug in their safe havens with millions tucked away for their secured future.
 

The next morning was silent. No horns honking and no sound of vehicles plying. People stayed at home going about their daily chores as in a holiday. They looked out to see if anyone was venturing towards the polling centre. Streets were empty and the dogs were frolicking around. The ULFA had called for an Assam Bandh asking the people to boycott the election.

       An old man walked slowly. People looked at him as he walked past their houses wondering if he was out for a stroll. The old man reached the gate of the school. The officials manning the centre looked up from their doodles and idle talk. He walked towards them and asked them to check if his name was there on the list. One of them pushed his forefinger down the list looking for the name. He ticked his name and guided him towards the ballot box. The old man looked weary but determined. 

             " That was very brave of you, Sir."

He looked at the officer with sad eyes and  lips thinning into a wry smile.

              "My son was very brave. He died fighting for the cause. He was an innocent fool. He trusted everyone..." shaking his head the old man walked away. 

People streamed in slowly as the day progressed. One by one they made their way into the school. Women, men young and old, students who were first time voters.

               Name?

               Father's name?

               Husband's name?

               Identity proof?

               Sign here.

And so the process continued. The officers continued shuffling papers, checking lists and guiding the people. The next they spoke to their colleagues was after 5pm. 

               Name?

               Mohit Bhuyan

               But you are late ,sir.

               But it is only 4pm!

               I mean you are late, as in deceased.

               What nonsense! I am very much alive standing here before you! How can I be dead?

               Here is my identity proof.My wife and my daughter have voted. In their details my name doesn't show as 'late'.

              I am sorry sir. You will have to get this revised for the next time. Next please!

              Delhi was buzzing the last few days. And so were some other states as they went in for poll. Every action of the candidates was followed up in  great detail, scrutinized and discussed at great length. People have had enough of the scams, the scandals, political high handedness and lack of accountability. They ask for good governance now. The media worked itself up into a frenzy, scrambling to be the first in the race to predict the outcome. People were shown thronging the polling centres willing for a change.

A  footage on the television shows long shots of queues and close ups of the people. Some smiling and some  look affronted.

             "My name is not there on the voters list. I've been living here for the last 20 years."

              "My sister's name is shown as deceased. Here she is before you very much alive and kicking!"

Call it dance of democracy or people's call for a change. It is time to realise that at the end of it all, it is the grades in the report cards that will call the shots. An aberration here and there is fine. But people are not willing to be short changed, duped and assailed...

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Music and I

                                       

                                                         Courtesy Google Images
                                                           
   Having woken up later than usual this Sunday morning, I was rushing around like a headless chicken trying to do half a dozen things at the same time. Multitasking, they call it.

"Music and dance reduces stress, doesn't it, Ma?" Pahi observes quietly with The Speaking Tree supplement of TOI spread in front of her and music blasting from my mobile. For a split second I wondered if it was meant for me or was she trying to help herself given that she was on a guilt trip all of yesterday. Reason- she nearly damaged her sister's eye while playing with a flimsy  arrow that usually never went further than the bow. So after tears streaming in the house, one with pain and the other with guilt, tense moments and rushes to doctor, today seemed much calmer.

   As I sit down now with the gray matter in my cranium in some semblance of order, my thoughts drift here and there prompted by her words. Please bear with the ramblings. We have all known of music's healing powers, read about them in tomes, experienced them time and again. I have heard of students sitting down with maths while the music blared. I believe it helped them to concentrate. Having tried the stunt on a couple of occasions, I managed to get all my calculations wrong. Moral of the story, how music works for others need not be the same for me. 

  Yes, it did work in a way for me during my adolescence apart from uplifting my mood was when it drowned out my mother's 'dos' and 'don'ts'. As she continued with her unwritten script, the volume went up in notches till she gave up in exasperation.

   Now as I mature with age (I hope), I find music adding another dimension to my experiences and to the 'self'. I like the direct connect between music and me, the way it communicates to me, the way I look upon it, this beautiful and harmonious bond that we share. Delhi in the winters, has its platter full with every kind of music you want to expose yourself to, explore and discover. It may be in the confines of an auditorium, in the cool environs of an amphitheater, the schools, colleges or  relaxed chilled evenings in the parks. I especially like them in the expansive Nehru Park, Purana Quilla and other symbolic backdrops, and among them, the Music In The Park Series. In these fortunate rendezvous, I have been transported to a different realm altogether which is timeless, where everything else ceases to exist.

  Or the time when a prominent artiste is paired with another , who is no less in any way except perhaps  being in the mainstream or in finding a wider audience. The music they make, transcends all barriers and captivates the listener with fusion of different styles. The Coke Studio has provided not just the platform for such powerhouse performances but also opened a window to the music aficionados to get a glimpse of these talents , who otherwise remain as benchmarks  but confined to their regions.Well, there are the reality shows too that bring forth some astonishing amateur talents. However the purity of music in these are lost in the the alleged staged incidents, the competitive hoopla, and other such interventions. I like the music to flow, without any hitches like the thoughts, like the stream, like the swell of the waves,  the flight of the birds...
  A recent experience at the Assam Day cultural show at IITF 2013 Pragati Maidan, was one such that carried the audience with the artistes. It was an eclectic mix of bhakti and folk in the Tokari geet, the lilting  yet rhythmic Barat dance of the Tiwa people, the pulsating Jali Kekan  dance of the Karbis with criss crossing bamboo poles and of course rounding off with the ever popular Bihu. The show stealers were Khagen Gogoi, a renowned master in the traditional Bihu genre catapulted to national fame by a Coke Studio performance with Shankar Mahadevan; and Dhol Samrat Somnath Borah Oja with his award winning 'talking drums' performance. When the evening ended the bright faces of the audience, the thunderous applause,elixir for any performer, and  calls for 'encores' said it all.
                                         
   Music to me brings back memories of those Sunday afternoons many years ago when Hemant Kumar, Manna Dey, Lata Mangeshkar, Yesudas, Hemlata, crooned their way through the radio sets filling our homes with melodies as domestic warmth enveloped our days; when every artist connected with the making of the song was given due credit. Pervading the space not just within the four walls but also seeping into the consciousness and filling the spaces within. It also gives a romantic hue to those unknown artistes lost in the maze of train journeys, who have foraged for livelihood among the passengers, in their perfect soulful baul renditions rising above the din of the chugging train and the clanging iron wheels. Music also brings to mind the many evenings spent with family and cousins attempting a soiree especially during power cuts.

   On a recent trip to Brussels, music is what characterised the place for me. As we were walking towards the exit of an underground metro, we could hear a couple of strangers walking down the stairs humming, and what seemed like an impromptu jam session. And the next minute they were sitting at the base of the stairs and making some beautiful music lost in a world of notes, melody and rhythm. How different it was! No designated time, place for the music to flow and yet not intruding on others who carried on with their lives. And for that reason, I like the flash mobs. For bringing colour, spontaneity and energy to an otherwise ordinary day.

     A trip to the Scottish Highlands was heightened as the bus meandered the highway revealing some exotic panoramic views. I remember that journey vividly for the tragic saga of  the House of McDonald  of Glencoe being played in the backdrop as the bus swept past the rugged landscape.  And then there was that evening while walking down from church of St Gilles in Brussels, the street filled with people chattering, laughing with friends over drinks at the road side cafes, a familiar tune caught my ears. I turned around  desperately trying to place the instrument. And then I spotted him. The last I had seen that instrument was probably in a Raj Kapoor movie. The artiste, as they all are, was playing the accordion. And the melody was  the haunting, poignant score from  The God father. I had goose bumps and time stood still, the crowd receded into the back ground. It was the music floating all around...

  I don't know how it is with you, but watching a beautiful dance recital or listening to a music concert or witnessing any art form  of any genre is highly cathartic. Maybe the artiste with all their passion poured in through hours of hard work, reaches out to the audience at a different level, holding all the souls together in tandem with the One Soul for  just those fleeting moments...



Thank you to

www.cokestudio.com
www.wikipedia.com
www.youtube.com ballad of  Mcdonald massacre
sung by Alistair McDonald
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSxxQcVd2MU
( to André Rieu's uploaded snippet, for the haunting melody of The God father)
To Google Images and http://wallapik.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/Abstract-Music-Wallpaper-Free-Download.jpg  for the lovely image.
                          And
To all the artistes known and unknown, for having enriched our lives
 


 






    

Delhi Duty Free Shops - Selling An Experience

     There was a time when air travellers lingered on with their friends and family till the last call for security check even if it meant awkward silences, last minute instructions or plain simple small talk. Things have changed now. And we only have to thank the Irish for introducing us to the invigorating as also the languorous like the warmth of a McGuiness, whiskies; literary masters like W B Yeats, Samuel Becket, G B Shaw, Oscar Wilde ; the submarines, tractors. Add to the list DFS- Duty Free Shops at airports and seaports.

     It was Brendan O'Regan in 1950 who ushered in the glitter of the duty free shops at Shannon airport, on the secured side of the airport arguing that since passengers  are out bound to other countries, there was no point in levying taxes on the products that were not coming into the country. What started off as a common sense business proposition trying to tap a niche market for retail soon changed the international travel scene not to speak of the multi million market it created.

                                                     ( Courtesy Google Images)

    Now air travellers while chalking out their itinerary do keep the DFS area at international airports in mind. The long empty hours between flights no longer exist. Instead they have transformed into shopping sprees and window shopping. But most importantly, they have turned into experiences. In my limited sojourns abroad, I've found our very own Delhi Duty Free Shops at T3, the single largest in India, to be swanky and well laid out. Some of the stores were selling not just products off the shelves but also heightening the experience of embarking on a trip abroad especially for those on a holiday. A few of these stores were very aesthetically done up giving a glimpse of our heritage.
                                       

 Cosmetics, electronics, fashion, alcohol, handicrafts have their retail outlets at the Delhi DFS. With the increase in Indians holidaying abroad, it is the fancy beginning to a much anticipated trip. For the foreign tourists the DFS at T3 is a boon to pick gifts and memorabilia, be it handcrafted stoles, fine cotton garments, hand painted folk wall art or indulge in a last minute spa experience.

                                           
    The DFS at Heathrow and Munich, among the few that I've transited through failed to impress me. The well publicized Dubai Duty Free has caught onto everyone's imagination with it's innumerable counters of famous brands, duty free shopping festivals and the most crowd puller - the supposedly competitively priced gold and other jewellery counters. I would caution the passengers in transit to research a bit before they embark on a shopping spree. There were hordes of passengers converging from almost every part of the world as the flights homed in offloading more of them. Some strolled from one counter to the other while the others flitted in and out looking for specifics as boarding calls were announced.
                                     

   On our way to Munich, we spent much of our time browsing the stores at the Delhi DFS. Ambling through the fragrant aisles of the perfume stores sniffing and 'breaking' the aromas with coffee beans, I felt like Alice in the Wonderland of an upscale mall just as Dubai's DFS brought back images of Ali Baba and his coveted cave. The products positioned at brightly lit niches to seduce and lure the customers into shelling out a few of those crisp notes. The alcohol and the cosmetics, especially the perfumes, do offer good bargains. These are the stores that passengers visit looking for a good bargain on some world class brands.

  An anecdote once narrated by a close friend comes to mind. A group of defence officers on their way from Tel Aviv to New Delhi  hurried through the DFS area  at Dubai. By the time they reached the designated exit the team leader realised two officers were missing from the group. As the last call for boarding was made, the duo dashed their way through with gleaming eyes and sheepish grins. They had succumbed to the lure of the free sampling at the counters. Quickly swigging the free samples on the offers, they managed to reach the departure points quite dramatically with the clanging bottles in sealed packs clutched dearly in their hands just as the gate was closing.

   There is no denying that  DFS has changed the way we travel international now. It begins with making that beeline for the security check at airports for the experience to begin as quickly as possible.