Britannia and Company

                                                             

         The cat, comfortably curled up on his cushion on the counter, snoozed through the din - the clickety clack of cutlery meeting the plate; of happy and satiated stomachs echoing  in the gentle laughs and boisterous talks; more hungry souls waiting patiently under the shade pulled out to cover just that much of the pavement in front of Britannia and Co. An old fashioned board leaned against the counter, behind which a senior Parsi gentleman sat looking out into the January afternoon. While waiting for our turn to be called in, Merwan Kohinoor  made small talk like we were old customers. His nephew Afshin, at the opposite counter with the sleeping cat, finally called us in.  We stepped into the dark cavernous space filled with people, furniture, and an old world charm. Stashed with packing  material and packaged food, cupboards stood at the corners, crates of bottled coloured Duke drinks peeped out of shelves. Zarathustra, fading with time, looked out of a frame.

 Could we take pictures of this place please?
Sure! Go right ahead! Take pictures of my cat, of the place, the food, my father but not of me. Your pictures will be ruined, he said with hearty laugh while supervising his staff to pack food. Just joking, Afshin went on to add. Actually, I am a communist and we are not supposed to be photographed.

 I didn't know which to believe.

    Tucked into the Ballard Estate, that old business district of south Bombay built on land reclaimed by the Bombay Port Trust, Britannia and Co, stuck out in that colonial facade. We had jostled our way through the congested roads and traffic snarls from Goregaon East, with its eruption of concrete structures to accommodate the teeming milieu. The Ballard Estate, a reminder of the British era like many others in the country, housed the famed Britannia and Co, the last of a handful of restaurants serving authentic Parsi food. And we had endured that tiring commute from the suburb, not just to savour their delicacies but more for the experience of this place.

    Two white boards shaped curiously like coat of arms than signboards, flanked the entry. A smiling Prince William and Duchess of  Cambridge leaned out of the mezzanine balustrade, looking out at the diners tucking into their sali boti, cutlets and the other dishes arriving at the tables. A calendar with large numbers fluttered in the circulated air from the ceiling fans. A row of coloured floral tiles adorned the scruffy walls with paint peeling and an old fashioned clock kept time in a place that seemed to have entered a time warp. As we waited for our food to arrive, which was really quick, nonagenarian Boman Kohinoor Irani, the owner along  with his brother, went around the place talking to the diners. He finally shuffled his way to our table, peering through his thick glasses with a warm smile.
"Hello! How are you? Are you comfortable?"
"Yes, we are thank you! You have a lovely place here!"
As if on a cue, he motioned us to wait and went back to his place below the stairs. A plate of patrani machli  arrives at the next table making us wish we had ordered that too. Boman Kohinoor is back again with a waiter following close behind carrying our food. But he was more keen on showing us the laminated sheets of newspaper cuttings, certificates, a photo of the Queen of England among others. A practice which I gathered, he regaled all his customers with. And then with a flourish and a beam radiating across his wrinkled face he produced the sheet of acknowledgement from the Queen of England's office. We made all the appropriate sounds at the object of pride. The waiter placed our dishes on the red checkered table cloth making us lean expectantly from our bentwood chairs to take in the aroma.
With a "Enjoy your meal!", off he went to a couple of foreign tourists with the testaments of this establishment started in 1923 by his father.

                                               

    The mutton berry pulao, needless to say, did not let us down. The red pieces of the berry sat prettily on the heap of fragrant rice poorly concealing the succulent mutton under it. A spicy fare with a tart surprise. The waiter gave me a knowing smile when I pulled out the camera before the whole thing was devoured. For him, I was perhaps another one of those many over excited customers. Some of the other specialty that we couldn't possibly manage, we packed for dinner. The dhansak being one of them.  It was important for us to take in as much as we could considering that places like this were shutting shop. It was not just about the food but also about the ambiance enriched with an air of a past coupled with warm hospitality shown by the owners as well as the waiters. It wasn't difficult to notice that there were no concerted efforts to beautify the place, create an ambience or force hospitality like the new crops that would go out of their way to assemble a place like this. The difference lay in being innate like the bonhomie in the air inside. Everyone, from the owners, the waiters and the customers seemed to be at ease.


                               

   Spooning their delicious caramel custard, the eyes went around and the mind wandered a bit. The place looked like it was falling apart with its days numbered just like the fast dwindling Parsi community itself. Maybe in a world where new entrants are pushing their way in, these little spaces are trying to hold on to their glorious past of the British era. A time when they were patronized by the Europeans for their enterprising nature and the continental food they served. The menu now catered to the spice seeking Indian taste buds. The Parsis have maintained their promise of sweetening the existing society from the time they first set foot on the Gujarat shores. A community that has given a lot  and never created strife. Adapting and growing in changed scenarios is there forte and yet they remain distinct. They have  occasionally been brought into the Bollywood movie frame with all their idiosyncrasies to bring forth an indulgent smile or a laugh but their  contributions are immense in every field.

   Within India, this Zoroastrian community is made up of two sets of immigrants and largely identified by the period in which they sought refuge in India. The Parsis, from the Pars region, had settled almost a thousand years ago with their promise of sweetening. By the time the Iranis came seeking shelter from drought and persecution in their Yazd region of Iran in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, the Parsis had settled well and prospered in their adopted land. It was they who helped the Iranis to migrate and offered work in their homes and establishments. The oft repeated story of the growth of Irani cafes that numbered almost 350 at one time, is of how one evening when the Iranis had gathered to reminiscence about the land they had left behind, one of them served tea and charged them for it. These cafes soon became popular for providing good food at reasonable rates to all strata of society. It wasn't long before they became the favourite haunts of artists and writers.

  The loyal customers continue to throng the place before it becomes a casualty to changing times. Curious tourists like us stream in to experience a space that is unique in its identity and a glimpse into a subculture of Bombay.

 

   

S.C.U.B.A

               It was quiet.Very quiet down there. The only sound that could be heard was, the whooshing  of the breath drawn in and the gurgle of it going out. If it is a debut tryst with the deep waters, the silence can be quite disconcerting.  For us, it was such a relief that we  still  managed to breathe with all the thoughts of ' will--i-be-the-first-one-to-die- in-first-scuba-dive-experience'. All this while  holding on to the rope from the boat for dear life.

                                         

       The quest for the enchanting underwater life  had been fed by our delightful snorkeling experience in the Andamans, a few years back. If the surface skimming could reveal such rich under water flora and fauna, we were intrigued by what scuba diving would unleash! The colourful clown fish, starfish, corals of exquisite shades  had us eager eyed in a euphoric state of being. A determination arose silently to push the envelope further  with scuba diving. But it had to wait for a few years till we found an opportune trip to take us to the sea side once more.

                                   
                               

   It was after we literally took the plunge, it sank in that scuba diving was an altogether  different ball game or water game, if you please. The terrified  look on Hrithik Roshan's face before the dive was underplayed in the movie ZNMD. Or it might be that having Katrina Kaif as an instructor diverted the petrified mind. The time we left our resort for the waiting launch off the Bang Rak beach, the entire Koh Samui seemed to stretch out languorously after a good night's sleep. The only shutters that were up, were the all night departmental shops and the divers shops. We had stopped enroute to try out our diving gears for the right size. There are many operators here and we relied once again on Mike to connect us to the right one since his advice on travel to Koh Samui from Bangkok  had stood us in good stead. On board the Easy Divers launch, we found ourselves in a motley group of different nationalities seeking the same thrill of going down. They had tested many waters whereas we were first timers.


                                   

   Pulling away from the shore with anticipation spreading out like the sea, leaving the pretty white boats bobbing up and down, the towering Big Buddha receded gradually as we sped into the open waters. The Scuba diving site for the day was the Ang Thong  Marine Park which was almost three hours away from the shore. Since there are quite a few dive sites around Koh Samui, there are different days of the week allotted to each of them. Each of these dive sites are popular for their own reasons. It was Ang Thong Marine Park for us, it being a Thursday.  On our way, Toddy, the instructor who would be our guiding star, explained the techniques the hand signals to be used under water, the gauge to be monitored. We lapped it all up like obedient students feeling very sure that thumbs up signal ( to surface if uncomfortable) was going to be least used.
" You will hold on to each child and we will stay together, is that okay?" we nodded eagerly to his instruction.

   Feeling none less than Carl Sagan splashing in and out of water in his iconic Cosmos, the first diver I ever saw ( yes, yes I am that antique),  we jumped into the Gulf of Siam, off the archipelago Marine Park, with the weight belts around the waist, the oxygen tanks strapped behind, the mask on our face, the life jacket inflated. All the dreams of seamless dive, fluid and graceful piscean movement went up with that first splash. It took us a while to realize that the oxygen tanks were strapped a little off the center that had us floating in a lop sided manner. Fear had it's grip on us. And quite strongly. With arms and legs flaying in all directions in the most awkward  manner, we finally managed to hold on to the rope decently. Gathering our senses and wits that had run askew, it was time to rehearse the signals and to monitor the oxygen gauge and to try the equalizer. All this under water. While our two ducklings had morphed into fish, the mother duck was sending all kinds of prayers to stay alive.


   Going down, the equalizer helped the body to adjust to the pressure difference. It's a simple technique of blowing against the ears with the nose pinched, the same that we practice on flights and high altitudes. Toddy and Paul kept asking us if we were alright and it didn't take us long to figure out how important that thumbs up signal was. We surfaced many times trying to adjust sustaining under water. Toddy looked at Paul, during one such surfacing,
" I think, you and I will have to hold  the children"
I was never more relieved to hand over my children into hands safer than ours.
After many trials  and errors and gulping the sea water, we did manage to descend gingerly, stopping every now and then to equalize which did us a lot good. Trusting the oxygen mask,the tube,the cylinders and the mouth piece and the team, we learnt to let go.

  I think that was very important. To trust and to let go. To not be burdened with anxieties and anticipations. It was important to flow with the moment and relax. Our  flippers stroked the water taking us forward. Paul's gentle push guided us to the coral reef and suddenly we found  friends swimming along with us. Many tawny striped little ones emerged from around a rock and hurried of as if on an errand. Almost brushing past sea urchins settled on rocks nibbling at the moss, we soaked in the tranquil sights by the eyeful. The diffused sunlight spread a soft veil all around lending the surroundings a surreal feel. The visibility was not what we had experienced in the Andamans, but swimming along the reef and rocks with marine life going about their regular life was exciting.

  Time had it's own pace and before we knew, it was time to surface. All those minutes spent in learning to let go seemed such a waste when we could have utilized them to explore the world down there. It was time to turn back and head for the shore. A day spent exploring not  just a part of the sea but also the self.


                                       

  So would I do this again? Absolutely! Knowing well that I will yet again find it difficult to let go initially. That I managed to overcome my fear of deep water when even the deep end of a swimming pool left me in jitters is something to reckon with. Attempting such feats can send up rewarding moments such as coming across dolphins frolicking out of the  blue and so close - the privilege of finding a window to a world so different from ours. We watched Toddy silently communicate to another fast approaching boat  to cut the engine and drift because these lovelies were out playing and frisking around.  The  sight of the smooth grey graceful bodies arch out of the water followed by the glimpse of  a perfect tail following close behind is what I'll remember for a long long time.

   

Heavy Matters

Image Courtesy  Clipart Panda

 

        It was the button and the hole that did it. Of that old and comfortable jeans.  When the twain refused to meet because the kabab (euphemistically employed for the flesh), for a change, played the spoilsport, the alarm bells went ringing. Damn! Should have oriented to the selfie taking mode!  That  would have kept a check on those lards settling comfortably in the places they ought not to be. Timely selfies would have reflected that one plus one free chin; or that paunch lurking under the loose kurta. Now look what  has happened! The paunch has developed into a bulging tummy that could inspire the commuters to give up their seats for fear of a baby slithering out right there in the Metro!  The final test of course was going home and facing this hyper active mother who has remained in the same frame ever since anyone can remember. It was not fair to compare actually. It was the genes you see. She got them from her mother which somehow got lost while mine were  in the making in the womb.

   A day after arrival, a period that is deemed decent before the brickbats came in, I was expected to do the Suryanamaskar  under the watchful hawk's eye. I mean, it was supposed to be a vacation! And at my maternal home at that! Healthy sprouts were pushed my way. And a 'no rice' dictum was applied. Can you imagine having a fish curry without that heap of fragrant, soft rice in the middle of the plate? Well, fish is almost like a regular vegetable dish in a normal Assamese home. And okay, a few spoons of rice was scattered on my plate that lost themselves between the piles of vegetables and salad and the bowl of dal and curd. Tucking into it like there was no tomorrow, while the others helped themselves to more servings of rice and all the while the chants grew into a chorus joined in by the children on the same side of the table as the grandmother, " have more vegetables and dal".

 The battle with the tyres has been going the yo-yo way for quite sometime now. The morning walks are not enough, some said. Yoga, is the answer to all the maladies of this world so what are these mere adipose tissues, huh? Precisely that. Stubborn sticky adipose tissues snugly wrapped around the frame and refusing to budge like those  tenants who are every landlord's nightmare . Another gave a sympathetic look...with age it is harder since the metabolic rate slows down. Metabolism. That had to be the culprit. On a random medical check up the doctor had affirmed, so many years ago.
   The doctor's cabin is glum and sad. Wonder why is it always so. Brightening it up would be good for everyone's health, the doctor including.  Come to the point says my distracted mind.
Reading the mind the physician prompts, yes what is the problem, Ma'am?
 I must be the nth person he has prompted since morning.
Yes doctor, you see I have thyroid.
Good, he answers gravely and looks me squarely in my eyes, we would indeed be in great trouble if we didn't have one.
Right, feeling a little peeved at his banal joke I said, I think mine is a little erratic.
And out came tumbling all the woes, imagined and real.
We will see after these tests are done.
That was a few years back. Since then, when the scales lean heavily, I have a valid reason . It is that errant gland, at work or not at work, to be blamed.

   Now that the clothes are bursting at the seams and some even refuse to let me in; and the love handles are all but lovely; and the chin is threatening to give another bonus, standing on my toes, the hand reaches out to that bottle of oats that had hitherto existed incognito at the back of the topmost shelf.  Trying to acquire a taste for it, with different twists and turns, I realize after all,  oats  could taste like, well, just oats.

  Meandering through the internet, the links ramble on to that  magical secret vegetable or a fruit or a weed, whose  goodness  is stashed into a capsule promising age old secret of slimness of the Chinese, the Polynesians, and all the other '-ese', '-ans, '-eans' of the world. And those screamers,  " Doctors puzzled by an Indian Mom...", have waylaid me so many times into staring at the before - after pictures of slimmer women in trousers triple their present size, holding out the waistband to let it sink in that they actually lost all that mass with a magic pill.  Have you ever clicked eagerly at  "Ten Vegetables For A Flat Tummy", only to estimate that stocking up on the avocados, the asparagus et al would rip the household budget apart. Not to speak of the diets. They have me snapping my head off at everyone. So for the peace to prevail in the home front, the diets are kept off the threshold.

  So the battle is on still and if you have any expert tips, do pass them on. Wait! There is an sms. Maybe be one of you has already sent across a tip...
But this is an unknown number...and there is a deluge of them...
" Motapa ghatane keliye call kare 98xxxxxxxx..."


   

   

Meditation On A Drive

                                             

     It was those bunched up bright yellow pumpkin flowers that made me stop. Dipped in rice flour paste and deep fried , the ronga lau phulor bor were a delicacy that hadn't touched my taste buds for many years.   Rumu, whose cab we had hired for the journey from Goalpara to Guwahati, indulged and let me reinstate  my connection  with the land that never ceases to fill me with a warm feeling. The overcast sky threatening to pour down notwithstanding, the car came to a halt .

       This Deobariya Haat, the  Sunday market  somewhere between Boko and Soigaon took me back to another era when these were the only produce we would see. Available in accordance to the seasons, tasting right just then. A common utterance during meal times comes to mind reiterating the importance of seasonal fruits and vegetables,

“ Botoror pasoli  khabo lage…”

So we were told when the nose screwed up at the sight of gourds, gourd shoots, tender drumsticks, ripe jackfruits and all those vegetables and fruits that seemed unpalatable.  The produce of the land is ready to be consumed only at a particular time of the year because that is when it is full of virtues that benefit the body and yield best to those discerning sensors in the tongue. The colours, the sights and sounds of this little bazaar where the fresh seasonal produce of the nearby villages are brought, were a treasure of long forgotten fruits and vegetables. Where it was a part of monotonous lives in the smaller places, chancing on it was like an excitement of discovering  what was thought to be long lost.

          These little markets that spring up along the highway are the best places to source from.  Squatting in colourful mekhelas, the bright faces of the local Rabha and Garo women glisten and glow. The fresh ghost chillies that the world is raving about, tender ferns, cucumbers , banana flowers, bamboo shoots and gourd shoots, those fragrant kaji lemons… and that maddening aroma of pineapples. All organically grown. All arranged in little heaps, in groups and the larger ones kept in singles to be sold thus and not by the scales. You have not tasted pineapples unless you have walked past some of those from the Garo hills. Relishing them begins from the sweet aroma that they tantalise you with. A nick with the knife and a burst of juice trickles down. The best way to get them ready is to wash and remove the peel, core out the 'eyes', salt and wash them and then cut them into chunks over a plate or a bowl so you don’t waste the juice.

                                   

  Incidentally, this is a market where the vendors are women barring aside one or two. These Garo and Rabha women are said to be extremely hard working and enterprising , threw in Rumu as we continued our journey with our fresh vegetables in the boot of the car. He elaborated that these women are up at daybreak tackling the household chores, tending to the livestock, the vegetable patches and field. Whereas majority of the menfolk awaken just before the sun touches the zenith and nurse their homemade liquor through the day between spurts of work.

                                           

 You’ve done well to pick those vegetables here, baido, he continues. You will not regret. Whenever I've passengers on this route I always pick vegetables from here. They don’t spoil for many days unlike the ones picked from the town market. And they taste the best too. For the simple reason that they are not injected with chemicals to help them grow or ripen overnight. What were those bamboo hollows for, I ask. Are they to be filled with rice and slow cooked on embers? Oh those! Rumu explained that the women in these parts, stash a particular smaller variety of fish, caught in their jakois, into the bamboo hollows and leave it to ferment and dry on bamboo racks over the earthen stove at home. Once it is cured, this dried fish is then cooked in small amounts or made into chutneys. It is a popular delicacy and is also said to have medicinal  properties to prevent malaria in these densely foliaged parts of the countryside.


                                                   

      I looked out of the speeding car watching the distant landscape with the rolling hills and young green of the paddy fields  change it’s orientation while the nearby trees and roadside homes ensconced in the privacy of a verdant  buffer offered by the  tall jackfruit,amla, mango, areca trees, mausandas,  zipped past.  My mind went back to the little market again and again, triggering a thought here and there.

      The red bag I’d noticed in the market contained some white cotton roll like stuff. These are eri cocoons , the lady had offered.  Just then a customer had come, checking the cocoons, he tried bargaining but she was not to budge.  Weaving at homes had always been a part of daily life in Assam just as raising a vegetable patch, or cultivating a bamboo grove or fish in the pond backyard. Just enough to fulfill the daily needs of a household. Threads would be spun out of these cocoons on a wooden spinning wheel. These then would be mounted on a wooden loom resting under a thatched shed usually placed near the kitchen that allowed women of the household to alternate between their chores, cooking and weaving. Memories came tumbling down of my grandmother and my aunt in Tipling ; sitting at the loom combing in the warp and the weft; of sliding the shuttle between the threads; clicking the bamboo pedals with their feet in a neat orchestra . Basic mekhelas, gamusas and fabric emerged from these looms for the family then.

  The looms now feed the many boutiques and shops  in the towns and cities. A week back we had dropped by an NGO, Grameen Sahara, at Soigaon that was involved with many self sustaining programmes for the local people. Strengthening eri silk weaving was one of them. Right from developing a system of  providing cocoons and threads on credit, the NGO untiringly supports the local people to weave the eri fabric that has found a niche market in the western world. Their adherence to quality has earned them the stamp of approval of Silkmark.  For the uninitiated, eri is a tenacious warm silk fabric and it’s thread is derived from the Ailanthus silk worm. It is also known as ‘ahimsa’ silk since the cocoons are used after the moths leave them. You can be sure to find an eri shawl stashed in a trunk in every Assamese household that will be brought out with the first hint of a chill in the air. These have been handed down from generations, capturing and bequeathing the warmth of the ancestors in their threads, mostly woven by a grandmother or a great grand mother.

  As the car nears the outskirts of the Guwahati city, the idyllic landscape is dotted more frequently with concrete structures peeping over distant green canopies or jostling each other. The mind humours the little ideas that bubble up now and then. It is heartwarming to come across spaces that rekindles the bond with the roots. And it is heartening to see the social development efforts striving to provide a better life to the simple rural people by empowering them. Retaining the unique identity of an area while developing it to provide basic amenities and bringing prosperity to it's people without churning out concretised clones of cities and towns, is the challenge. It will be worthwhile to keep in mind that the sight of the pumpkin flowers and fresh pineapples in the roadside farmer's market with the paddy fields and the distant blue hills in the background will continue to charm the travellers in the now and forever.

      

Romance In The Park

                                        

                                                      ( Courtesy Freevectors)

    Age did not seem to diminish his energy or the penchant for wooing women. He jogged into the park  every morning strapped with a kit, his closely cropped salt pepper head bobbing over the rest of the early risers. He was seasoned, one could make out from his correct jogging shoes and the accessories. Only his shorts were a bit too brief for others' comfort. 

   The green square fringed with the amaltas, neem and a couple of teak trees was a source of freshness, entertainment and a balm for the tired eyes. At daybreak, the denizens of the surrounding tall buildings streamed in. Some jogged, strolled, walked, exercised or attempted to shake their limbs between gossip sessions and discussion of the futility of present day politics.

   There were some  old ladies barely managing to reach the park wobbling with a stick and then there were some who quite defied their age and seemed fit enough to park their legs on the back of the benches to bend forward. A couple of those women who ambled along the track talking of their daughters-in-law, never seemed to be in a hurry to excite the lards resting peacefully on their ample frame.They most likely went right back home and gorged on the parathas cooked by those very  daughters-in-law. The ring of  benches under the kikar tree, in the center of the park, was the permanent meeting place for a group of just- retired, on -the -verge -of- retiring, retired -for-decades gentlemen who strolled a couple of rounds around the park and then got down to their favourite pastime of lambasting every Government programme worth their byte in the media. And for breathers, they  shook their hips from side to side and attempted to touch their toes between topics of conversation. Everytime, their fingers barely managed to reach beyond the knees. These rare attempts were further abandoned when the discussions got juicier where they could provide their two cents worth of wisdom gained from the years of experience. 

  And so life went on in the green square fringed with the amaltas, neem and a couple of teak trees. The birds warbled to fill in with the perfect morning notes. Happy little groups, relaxed twosomes and threesomes and inscrutable singles within the confines of  invisible circles drawn around them.  She stood out from the lot  practicing her yoga  facing the sun, happy to be in her own world; letting the grass smear her palms with  dew that she massaged into her face; singing bhajans clapping her hands as though she was the only one in the park.
" Namaste! What a lovely morning it is, isn't it! " she bowed to the old couple stretched  out in the snake position on the grass.
They waved back at her.
" Oh! It is so good to see you! May God bless you! " she smiled at an elderly man in the middle of his breathing exercise. Her smile stretched to brighten up her face with fine lines that wrinkled at the corner of her eyes and lips. They waved back to her always. Sometimes engaging in little conversations. But she never seemed to stay with anyone for long. She flitted with quick steps  like the butterflies hurrying on to catch up with all the other flowers.   

   It was after she came into the park that the salt and pepper jogger usually entered, going around the track for a couple of rounds. On many occasions  he did his sit ups and push ups quite close to where she was. At first she did not seem to notice him. She went about her routine oblivious to the new pattern that was setting in. As days went by her hands quite frequently smoothed her hair. She stole quick covert looks from the corner of her eye as she massaged the back of her neck.  His arrival was alerted with an American drawl on the pedometer, "You have done five kilometres in forty five minutes! Congratulations!" While he front rolled and squatted, she walked past him on her toes and arms raised to the sky with a quick surreptitious glance at him. He watched from afar as she closed her eyes and released her breath in spurts. One day he walked upto her while she was in the middle of executing surya namaskar. After a brief conversation he followed her movements like a student learning from a teacher. He was a seasoned one alright.

   It didn't take very long for both of them to jog into the park together. Taking up their former spots on the grass, each one followed their own set of stretches. The cheerful woman and the salt and pepper jogger. The petunias around the trees were growing into scraggly, unkempt shrubs and the amaltas pods above were waiting to burst open into golden chandeliers. Everything else went on. The same set of people. The same set of indulgences. Life went on. 

  One day, the cheerful lady and the jogger entered the park separately. She came in first and went about her asanas. He jogged in later stopping near the little mound of grass while the American drawl confirmed his target for the day. He did not look at her once and continued with his squats like she did not exist. She tossed her head to the other side and continued to balance herself on a vrikshasan. He did his back rolls and front rolls while she avoided looking in his direction. She then left with a sideways glance at him and he focussed on balancing himself on the lurches. This new pattern of aloofness soon replaced the older one.

  It was one of the usual mornings. The woman  folded her hands in obeisance to the sun rising over the buildings before she sped out on a round around the park. Nothing unusual there. The familiar brisk walkers were out pacing each other. Suddenly a small group assembled in the far corner, under the neem tree. People at the back of the gathering were trying to peer over others shoulders. Someone had fallen on the track. It was the cheerful woman lying on her back with a dazed look in her eyes.  Some of the other ladies in the park had reached and urged her to rise up but she  looked around confused at the faces peering at her.

" Are you okay? "

" Come on! Get up!"
" Here, let me help you."

Everyone seemed to know her.

" Are you feeling sick? Are you giddy?"

" Come, let's clean you up"

She shook her head and lay as though it was the most natural thing to do. To lie on her back, on a walking track early in the morning. After a few minutes of coaxing and cajoling she reluctantly allowed to be helped to her feet and made to sit on a bench nearby. But that lost look stayed scanning the faces like a child searching for the parent. While the others dusted her t-shirt and sweat pants, she turned around, looked over her shoulders, craned her this way and that way. She was desperately searching.
" What do you want?"
" Do you want some water?"
She shook her head.

" Are you looking for Vikram?"

" Where is he..." she said weakly.

" He should be here, don't worry" a brisk walker said. 

" Will someone please call Vikram?" a lady suggested.
Now everyone joined in the lookout for Vikram turning their heads around to see if they could spot him.

" There he is! Vikram! Vikram!"
Two more voices joined in summoning him.

Vikram had just entered the park and had continued his last lap. His machine confirmed another five kilometers for the day as he walked up to the group. 

" Vikram, please take her home...she doesn't seem to be well..."
" She fell suddenly while taking her walk"
She clutched onto his arm frightened as though he was the last hope.
 Vikram held her hand tenderly and led her out of the park taking slower steps, wiping away the sweat on his sleeves. The group dispersed and went back to their lives.

   The amaltas trees were in full bloom now spreading a golden hue in the fringes of the park. The women still strolled and lamented about their daughters-in-law. The men continued with their animated discussions under the kikar tree. The focussed ones counted the number of laps completed. It has been quite a few weeks now but the spots by the grassy mound are now occupied by new faces bending and stretching to touch their toes. 

  

A Market In Koh Samui

   On Fridays the entire Koh Samui comes alive in Bo Phut beach  with the weekly walking market in Fisherman's village. While on other days you can ride or drive through the street flanked with shops, restaurants and bars, on Fridays just park your vehicle and stroll around the stalls that the vendors line up on the streets. You can't miss it. Ask anyone and they will guide you to Fisherman's village on a Friday evening. I shall leave the story of the lively market here for a short while. Let me begin the travel story from the top...

         
                                     

                                 
                                                           Fisherman's Village Market

       Hunched in front of the monitor for hours till the body refuses to straighten up; scouring the internet for the best options; zeroing down on the probables and then long distance discussion at length with the hubby to close a deal; is our idea of planning a vacation. Painful? Ah! But we like to know exactly where we are going and where will we be staying. And yes,our most important discussions take place over the phone...you guessed it, that's when they( husbands) are most attentive. If I need to be heard, I wait for him to leave and then make a call. Voila! He is all ears! But I digress.

   Destination  was Thailand. And we were not interested in a Bangkok-Phuket-Pattaya-Koh Phi Phi etc etc. After trawling the travel blog posts for days we finally agreed that Koh Samui would be a good place to unwind. From the many beaches there, it was Bang Po that caught our eye although Chaweng and Lamai are the most popular ones for their powder soft sand and shaded teal water. Well! Actually, it was the wooden cottage bang on the beach that nailed it and the prices. It's not rocket science to comprehend that a tourist infested area translates into shelling out more. however, it was love at first sight for me, the price tag came in later. If you look at the picture you will know what I mean. I fell hook, line and sinker for it. And once there I realized I'd found my ideal holiday accommodation. I would have traded my house keeping skills for a life long stay here.

                             

Coconut Paradise Wooden Villa

Adorable Kitchen

   We were contemplating the most cost effective plan to reach Koh Samui from Bangkok, considering that  the baht is double the rupee, when a friend, Mike, chipped in with his advice. He should know for he, an ex army officer, organizes biking tours not just in Leh, Western Ghats, but also abroad like across Northern Thailand through his Victorianz. Koh Samui does have an airport but it is the expensive Thai Airways and Bangkok Airways that flew in and out. There are overnight trains and buses that ply from Bangkok to Surat Thani. Since we were travelling with senior citizens, we opted for the easier option. He suggested we check the Nok Air, the low cost domestic airlines. Nok Air flies to Surat Thani and from their the passengers are taken by coaches to the pier and then on by cruise to Koh Samui. All  this was inclusive in the return Nok Air fare which was around three thousand Thai Bahts approximately per head. The travel time is roughly five hours from the Don Mueang airport in Bangkok to Koh Samui. Despite the many halts and changes in transport, the journey was  hassle free and easy on the pocket. We just had to board the waiting coach and the waiting cruise.

   Koh Samui let us  relax and soak in the moments of the salt laden breeze and the gentle lapping of the waves at Bang Po. The sand is coarser than the much sought after Chaweng and Lamai white beaches but it is quieter. No touristy crowd, touts and vendors taking up every space on the beach and shops lined up to distract you and lighten your pocket. Since we had a fully functional and an adorable kitchen, grocery shopping took us to a fresh market that had us surprised. A flippant remark from my father " if you are going out, get me some tamul paan" like he would, back in Assam ask for the areca nut and betel leaves, had us replying " yeah! sure!".
Picking up some eggs at the fresh market I suddenly jumped," Oh My God! Tamul paan!"
Stacked neatly in packets were green betel leaves and the nuts to go with it, complete with lime and tobacco! The Burmese vendor was so happy to know we were from Assam that he added an extra egg to our lot.

  There are many activities to keep you occupied in Koh Samui like island hopping to Ko Phangan, Ko Tao, snorkelling, scuba diving, water sports and so on. Since we were there only for three days, rushing around was not our idea of a holiday. Setting aside one full day for scuba diving, we generally soaked in the Koh Samui air, lulled by the gentle waves on Bang Po and refreshed by the lush tropical flowers and foliage heavily scenting the evening sky.

  One such evening, our last on the island, happened to be a Friday. Fisherman's village in Bo Phut, is where the action is with hundreds of lights brightening up the place. An array of food on skewers grilling and roasting, fill the air. Between the many eatery stalls are those selling curios, mementos, garments,spices, packed Thai food to carry back home, accessories, aroma oils. From five to eleven in the evening, this little place in Koh Samui show cases all  that is Thai mingled with the expat trends.

    One of the stalls caught my attention with it's wrist bands, t-shirts and other accessories in red, green, yellow and black. Looking up I saw the legendary Rastafarian gazing out with contemplation from a fluttering banner. Bob Marley seemed to have found resonance in this island with many bars belting out his reggae numbers. Some included bars themed after him. Probably having arrived with the backpackers and the western tourists, the reggae icon just stayed on in the islanders'imagination blending with their life. We just strolled around checking out stuff, friendly bargaining and warm smiles all around. So a normal bargaining scenario after we quoted our price would be like;
"Oh! Cannot Madam! Cannot!"  with the most disenchanted look on the vendor's face. Then out comes a calculator and he or she quickly types the lowest selling price for us to see so there is no ambiguity left in the communication of the right figure. The figure quoted, in turn, horrifies us and so with a smile and a pulled look (practice this, really!) we utter,
"Can! Can! Oh! Please can!"
Thus the banter continues for another few minutes till the desperate one succumbs to the implores of the other. English is not exactly a  universal language we realize, even in Asian countries. There were moments of exasperation but it was fun. In any case it was far better than Bangkok where we were literally pulling our hair apart reaching nowhere with the language issue.

      Fisherman's market is not just another mundane market, it feels more alive with the variety of stuff, shops and stalls. If there are stalls with naked bulbs to light up the wares, there are also artsy corners for a relaxed evening with a drink. There is live music right on the road or a band playing in a restaurant. Some of these restaurants are beautifully done up providing a cozy ambience with greens hanging all around and the fragrant blossoms weighed down from the eaves. You can stroll around, pick your stuff, sit down with a drink,  ramble around again looking at the curios, pick up a skewer grilling on the fire, listen to some wonderful music to soothe away those tired limbs or walk into a cute restaurant.  That's what you do in the Fisherman's village market.

    The market is teeming with people and yet there is no jostling. And believe me, time just flies and it flies beautifully! When the last of the Pad Thai is scraped from the bottom of the urns, packing up the empty cauldrons and the last of the curios and fridge magnets laid into the cartons, attempt a last minute bargain. With a smile. Clutching your goodies, grab a bottle of beer and walk down to the pier and feel some far off music bouncing off the waves...Ah! Koh Samui ! The Chinese named it well..."safe haven"...

 

 


                                   

Colourful Knick Knacks

Frangipani Hair Clips

Skewered Seafood And Meat

Bob Marley Stall

Accessories in Rastafarian Colours

A Woman's Delight

An Artist By The Road

A Green Cafe

Fragrant Rangoon Creeper  Adding To The Magic

Will The Real Mother Stand Up?

Courtesy    Free Photos

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         All the brouhaha has subsided and the declarations of love for the mothers and salute to motherhood have died down for the next 364 days. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against all the beautiful sepia toned snaps as status updates or the the notes of gratitude dedicated. I am, because I too have one. And I share her with two other siblings. And no. This isn't another one dedicated to one more mother. In fact, this post is to pose a question to all the mothers. You have had your share of limelight on the 10th of May and are mighty pleased with the attention showered by the worthy offsprings. There have been accounts of how youngsters have been emotionally blackmailed and threatened by the mothers to change their 'dp', status updates with the loving mom's snap in all social media or groups worth their bytes, short of probably fixing them on bank papers. Mothers too demand their pound of flesh to flaunt on wherever they exist digitally. Hmmm... just made me wonder whether the Mother India  avatar had changed with times. But no, that incarnation also comes in handy when nothing else works. More of that later.Well, actually these niggling thoughts have been plaguing me of late and what I elaborate on, may tantamount to blasphemy.

  Shall we recall a regular scenario of the neighbourhood park where you may have strolled in with the apple of your eye awaiting compliments at how well your genes have manifested. You have enjoyed all the cooing and the warm glances thrown at the bundle in your arms by total strangers. Back home when you have recounted the delightful little details to your neighbours or the others in the family, the comparisons cropped up. " Oh! When my Chunnu was this young, the entire neighbourhood would be fighting over each other to hold him..." In all those noddings and affectionate clicking of tongues, somewhere deep down a tiny bit of resentment crept in for having tried to hijack the attention showered on your darling. As they grow up and you get older, it only gets more obsessive. This desire to have constant spotlight on your own.  

   Or shall we talk about the time when your child was not selected for a competition or a race and that just didn't go down too well with you. Instead of saying " maybe he or she was better than you", did you say " let me go and talk to your teacher and find out"? Did you just plant the seed of cut throatism instead of striving for a healthy competition? Or the time when your neighbour's daughter got into the most sought after engineering college, did you badger your own to follow her footsteps? You want your own to stand out and yet you push them into a herd.

  And then you have sighed and recalled the great difficulties surmounted when raising them. The sacrifices made. The opportunities missed. The sleepless nights. The more you repeat the more the child grows up thinking what a tyrant he or she has been. The more he or she thinks thus, the halo around your head just gets bigger and brighter. And you have got them right there. Wound around your little finger, your creation is your entitlement. Never mind that they could have a mind of their own.  

   You would say, they are your own. They ought to be aware of every hardship faced by you in bringing them up. But then every mother is saying the same to their's. Tell me something... did the child beg to be born? Now, of course I shall not get into the details of their conception. The child came into this world because you wished it to. Well! When you did wish one of your own, but naturally, the onus of raising it lay with you. There is no  best way to raise them. How you raise them shapes them as individuals. I have seen mothers jumping into the fray when children are squabbling at play.
" Why are you not playing with my Minni?"
Children will play and children will fight. They will go back to playing again forgetting the past. Adults need to keep their eyes and ears open not their mouth. Do intervene if it gets out of hand but let them sort it out first. In most cases they do a wonderful job of it when left to their own devices. These are important life skills. The ability to sort out one's own issues instead of waiting for someone else to do the dirty job. If they have made a mistake, encourage them to accept it and make amends instead of conjuring a smokescreen of excuses. Most often the general perception is that your's is the cherubic angel who can do no wrong and the 'other' is the red horned devil. And this rosy tinted vision continues well after they have tied the knot and have had children of their own. Your child can do no wrong. Just step back a little and see that they are all children. There is no harm in embracing the 'other' child with all his little imperfections.

   Why am I saying all this? Of course there has been no dearth of illustrations borne out of your children's matrimony. Yes, yes the TV serials have only added fuel to the ghar ghar ki kahanis and the family politics theories.  The daughters-in-law are these scheming beings who  need to be shown their right places while the daughters are not to be taxed with unwanted burdens. The sons-in-law ought to be paying more attention to their wives while the sons should be advised subtlely to keep the wives in check. More so, because you have toiled hard to raise them and now the wife reaps all the benefits. This is the time when the Nirupa Roy and the Mother India incarnation comes in very handy. This play of power within the family will continue as long as people marry and refuse to grow up as individuals.

   The reason why I think on these lines is because the role of the mother is much higher than these petty skirmishes. In the light of two incidents in Delhi, all the mothers need to do a reality check. A mother allegedly incited and instigated her teenaged son to thrash a rash DTC bus driver who later succumbed to his injuries. Now the teenager's future is in doldrums. The mother forgot to learn and impart an important lesson " as you sow so shall you reap". Your actions and your reactions in a given situation will catch up with you sooner or later.

  The second incident was the 'bricking' of a traffic constable by a mother in front of her children. First the mother jumps the red light and then refuses to produce the necessary documents when asked for by the traffic police. She allegedly gets abusive and the situation turns for worse. And all this, in the presence of her own school going children. What a contradiction in the lessons learnt in school and lessons perceived in the real world! If the lady had any sense she should have owned up her mistake, shown her documents and paid the fine. If she had any courage she should have told her children that the traffic cop was doing his duty and that the law exists for our protection and safety. The children would have imbibed an important lesson in honesty, civic duty and courage what hours in a classroom would not have achieved. Most importantly she would have earned their respect.

   Is it fair to ask for a better world when you have not contributed in any way to build it? You may lament about the indifferent, callous and inhuman ways of the world but remember to ask whether you sowed  the right seeds. You may go hoarse telling the child the dos and the don'ts but they will register in their impressionable minds only what they see and perceive. So be a Real Mother and help your child to take the right step forward with a sound judgement. Don't tell the child. Show the child how you do it.