Malvan Notes - 2 - A Beach Walk

    Read Malvan Notes - 1- The Journey here.

                                   

                                                                   Chiwla Beach
                             

            A conditioned early riser, it took quite an effort to wait for daybreak when I would sneak out of the cottage and hurry down to the beach. I don't remember when was the last time I'd heard the rooster crow. The chorus of the birds around rose in a crescendo but  was soon drowned out by the cawing of the crows. Twigs crackled and the flames leaped up. An old fisherman warmed his hands stoking the fire while the water boiled in the aluminium pot. Two boats looked out at the  sea from the shed that sheltered them and watched the others come home.

                             

A Boat Brought Ashore

        Quickening my pace past the couple of homes, and the shed that sheltered the  boats, at last the sea came into view.
    "Ma, what are those holes in the sand?" the younger one had decided  to give me company while the others snored their journey soreness away. The holes in question were perfect ones bored in the beach.

  "Must be crabs..." and before I could complete "...or some little crustacean", she was hopping over those little holes lest one comes out and grabs her.

                             

                                                                  A Carved Bow 


      The Chiwla beach in Malvan is a pretty crescent shaped one, a little more than a kilometer long, lined with homes of the fishermen and  quite a few tourist accommodations. This morning, we had the beach all to ourselves except of course the fishermen. They  went about their chores  and the two of us just stood there admiring the vast expanse dotted with boats in the horizon. The boats were coming home for the day.  Small dark specks taking shape as they drew closer. The graying dawn was gradually spreading a white sheet. The waves nudged and playfully lapped up around the boats and the men who were pulling them ashore.

       One end of the beach is rocked in while the other end sports the local political leader's bungalow. One of the most striking features of Malvan is the presence  of vibrant colours. A neat row of  brightly coloured fishing boats rested on the sands and more joined in while we stood there. At a distance were the more stately and bigger boats with beautifully carved bows, sturdy and wizened with years of sailing, watching the others out in the sea like matrons  keeping an eye on the children. The colourful smaller boats looked like their next generation, sprightly and lively in their bright hues. The early morning walk along the beach sharpened the senses. The taste of the salty air, the grains of the sand massaging the soles of the feet and that sweet smell...

                                 

Colourful Small Boats

            Wait. That sweet smell...that is not from alphonso flowers... This is different.
   "Do you smell that?" I ask my daughter.
   "Ma, I have a cold"  she reminds me.
It was a light sweet fragrance and it came from  peculiar looking white flowers, only two of which rested on a shrub with long linear leaves. But it was enough to seek the attention of the passers by like us who voraciously took in the details of this new land. An early morning walk enthusiast helped me out.
 "It is the Keora flower. We call it Ketaki also. Come see, there is one on top also" she said.
Ah! So this is what gives us those bottles of Kewra water lined up on the stores' shelves. And that incidentally is the diluted byproduct of the more tedious and expensive process of extracting Kewra perfume. Later a Google search said it is the Pandanus, screw palm, screw pine tree  for the rest of the world whose natural habitat is the shoreline of tropical and subtropical regions. That is what I like about trips. It lets me discover little things that I never pay much attention to.

                             

                                                       Screw Pine Tree or Kewra


           The sun was slowly brightening up the sky from behind, illuminating the coconut tree tops with it's golden rays and colouring the little tufts of clouds into a pink hue before it finally made an appearance. It was amazing to watch this pastel shade being reflected on the water creating rosy little streaks  on the rippling sea. From  the other end of the beach, a road leads up into the land, past the administrative area of the town, to the rock garden. There was not much of rock inside the well manicured garden but a gap in it's perimeter led to one of the most enticing views of the sea. A stretch of dark slabs of rock covered the distance between the garden and the sea. A perfect place for solitude. And a perfect place to watch the sun go down.

View From The Rocky Malvan Shore

     To the right of this part is the Chiwla beach from where we walked up. And to the left is the Malvan jetty almost a kilometer away. An excited chatter broke the morning's solitude. Skipping down the garden were a bunch of  school kids dressed in their best for the  trip. Perhaps the teachers wanted to consolidate their geography lessons. It was time to leave the scene for the others to marvel at the vista spread out. The sun had already risen above the tree line. The others back at the cottage would have woken up by now. And I did not want to miss my share of the steaming hot 'ghawane chutney' and 'solkadi'.

 
       
     

Please read the next part here....An island, a fort and a legacy.
      

Malvan Notes - 1 - The Journey

 
                                          



 We spent more than ten hours playing peekaboo in the Western Ghats as the Mandovi Express snaked it's way through the many tunnels - some small and some taking a good five minutes to see the light of the day. Our final destination was Malvan, about 600 kms from Mumbai on the Konkan coast. Chugging through  the foliage, the dense canopy lay below at times or a hill side hugged us into those tunnels. A lake spread out here and there,  red tiled roofs huddled together or a stream broke the monotony. Each bend was captivating, taking us by pretty little railway stations, serene hamlets and a verdant undulating landscape.

                                                   

   We hopped down at one of those pretty, one-minute-stop railway stations, Kudal, the nearest rail head for Malvan which is around 35 kms away. Since we were a group of nine members, ages ranging from five years to seventy five years and as many pieces of luggage, there was a mad rush not to be left behind chugging away. The homestay we had booked ourselves into had catered for a vehicle to drive us back. Otherwise the mode of transportation for others was autorickshaws as far as I could see. Making our way out of Kudal we were assailed with the fresh aroma of the countryside. It was like the deprived olfactory sense seized on the fragrance of the fresh foliage. We could smell the greens all around us. Add to it the strong presence of blue mist flowers growing wild on the road side. We couldn't stop raving at the allure of the idyllic landscape that dipped and rose till we reached the top of the plateau, not knowing there were more surprises ahead.

   As a child, I was told of how the musk deer ran amok in the forest, maddened by a heady fragrance, not realizing that he was the source of it. While traversing the landscape, my thoughts flew to the musk deer when the first sweet smell  teased us gently in sudden whiffs. This soon became so tantalizing that an obsessive desire took over to identify the source. Has it ever happened to you that a hint of a smell, or a strain of a melody so teases you with it's familiarity, making you unlock every door in your memory in a frenzy, to identify it?  The driver soon put this obsession at rest. It was the good old mangifera indica blossoms from the roadside orchards rising in the gentle inclines of the Ghat. And they were no ordinary mango trees. They were the haloed, much acclaimed and revered  kinds called the alphonso, apoos ( Konkani) or hapoos ( Marathi). The alphonso thrives in the Konkan coast especially in Ratnagiri and Sindhudurg districts. The birth of this grafted variety has an interesting story. And to put it concisely, it is the result of an experiment by an inquisitive Portugese who took  mango saplings to Brazil, during one of the many sea adventures, and had it grafted with some native plants there. It came back with the Portuguese admiral Alfonso D' Albuquerque  in the 'alphonso ' avatar and found the perfect  home in the Konkan coast.  Never having seen an alphonso in my entire life, I reveled in the sweet and seductive fragrance of the blossoms.

  Malvan is a taluk in the southern most part of Maharashtra, in the Sindhudurg district on the Konkan coast. The driver had already informed us of the etymology of "Malvan". There are two versions to it. The first refers to the abundance of salt in the region where 'maha' means great and 'lavan' means salt. The second derivative has phonetic  origins of 'mad' ( coconut trees) and 'ban' ( garden),  from the abundance of coconut trees in the region. Goa was just 90 kms away but we were in no mood to entertain the thought of dropping by. The tranquility of Malvan was what we were seeking while the rest of the tourists flocked and filled up every available space in that tiny coastal state. We were told that Malvan and the 6 kms away Tarkarli, were most sought after during the New Year's eve. By the time we had arrived on the second day of the New Year, the crowd had mostly gone back or moved ahead to Goa which suited us perfectly.  

               

      With a smile and a happy anticipation of what lay ahead, brought on by the sights and the smells,  we sloped down into Malvan well after dark.The roads wriggled through the many grocery stores, kiosks selling kokum and cashew, little restaurants boasting of the best Malvani cuisine along with the Chinese food. Going down through one such lane and having driven by  the gates of the Malvani homes, the sound of the waves gently crashing on the shores welcomed us to our little cottage by the Malvan beach. With tired and hungry kids, we decided not to rush down to greet the Arabian Sea that very moment and instead let the sound of the waves lull us to sleep after a thorough wash and a hearty  dinner of the local cuisine. Vishal, the caretaker, had his mother cook the most delicious prawn curry, rice, fish fry, and some more fried prawns, the taste of which had us asking for more. Although the place that we rented was termed a 'homestay', it was actually an independent traditional cottage with three bedroom set ups in a fishing village. Vishal's home, from where all that scrumptious  food came, was three houses away. His neighbours chipped in for the hospitality role.  I was already in love with this place! Such warmth and  such food!

     It is always better to place your order for the next meal much in advance since it is a small place and not much commercialized.The hosts prefer to serve food with fresh catch of the day or the vegetables available in the market since they don't stock up. And so, after much confusion, exasperation and sulks, the breakfast menu for the next day, took shape rather shakily. The city bred brats that we were towing along, wanted bread and butter, noodles and the likes! We finally put our foot down  extolling the  wisdom (with a harmless twist)  behind the adage, " when in Rome eat as the Romans do" and agreed to Vishal's suggestion for the local 'ghawane chutney', 'roti sabzi' ( as a safety measure) and solkadi.

  We finally called it a day, promising the children an entire day at the beach.


Read the second part Malvan Notes 2 - A Beach Walk.

 

    

The Missed Reunion

           It's the year end and there are nostalgic trips galore of the days gone by. The dailies look back at the year's 'moving' and 'shaking' events and the FB  is flooded with updates on small reunions, big reunions, silver jubilee reunions, close friends reunions, long lost neighbour reunions, window -to - window- unrequited- romance reunions( now with brats, fats and wider statistics), school reunions, chaddy buddy reunions...

       And here I am looking at all those updates and uploads wistfully. Yes, I missed one of those. I missed our school batch's  25th year of passing out. Why I missed it is a different sob story altogether. So miles away I was sitting and visualising the squeals and the guffaws, waiting for the updates to stream in, resigned to my fate in a typically Nirupa Roy fashion. 

     But trust your friends to prick that  wallowing-in-self-pity-balloon. Just when I was going from Nirupa Roy to Meena Kumari, there's a call from a friend ( last seen more than two decades back)  who was making all efforts to  come and meet me in Delhi prior to the reunion. And how we talked is unbelievable considering we barely spoke, by her own admission, in school! Then another one calls up having travelled from UK  for the event as did a couple more. He was making calls to all of us who  couldn't make it to Samitra. 

   Each time the mobile pinged, I pulled my kids closer to point at the snaps uploaded and took great pains to explain each of those smiling faces, the back ground and the anecdotes. I think, I overdid it. Every ping after this, the kids were seen scuttling off to other rooms and even to the balcony in the morbid cold weather. The better half of course made the appropriate sounds at the right intervals thereby absolving himself of all crimes. And all was peaceful in the home front. 

   Like a sentimental fool, the eyes went misty looking at those now grown ups barely managing to fit into the benches; the deer still doing the rounds near the class rooms; the bus stop; the tamarind trees; PT sir (  fresh from a course Down Under) who was hell bent on getting us to like the morning drills with music; the English teacher under whose look we would still squirm enough to mind our p's and q' s... How nothing had changed, only the years had added on physically!

    I don't know if it was true in the rest of the country but growing up in conservative Madras in the 80s, we behaved quite strangely with the opposite sex... treating them like untouchables. That lasted till junior school. Then we moved on to middle school and discovered they were not so bad after all. This was till the Reproductive System lesson came up in eighth standard, if I am not mistaken. All of us sat still with sheepish looks on our face, giggling nervously and trying hard to behave normally. The biology teacher walks into the class in a stiffly starched cotton sari looking sterner than usual. The lesson proceeds without any mishaps and as the details are delved into we dig our nose deeper into the pages going redder in a desperate bid to muffle the giggles. And then the cheekiest of the lot raises his hand! Good Lord! He has a doubt! And he is going to ask! We were astounded! I don't remember his 'innocent' doubt but I do remember the ice cold response.
"One more smart question from you, young man, and I'll have you right here in front of the entire class for a demo of all the parts involved..."  Needless to say, that had all of us behaving till the lesson ended.

   Twentyfive years later, the anecdotes are gems that each of us treasure. When friends sit together one recollection often triggers another and very soon all of us are rolling mirthfully. Strangely, it makes all those barriers of distance and years disappear.  So it did for me as the smiling faces looked back from the monitor. Tagging some of us ( couldn't - make - it lot), certainly had us inclusive to the reunion party.

 

The Tortoise's Journey

                                                 


  There was a  tortoise but no hare. It had to reach the first of the many finishing lines that others had crossed long time back. There were too many stops, diversions and distractions. Nevertheless, the tortoise resumed it's journey. For that's what it was essentially. A journey and not a race.

    And so has been my foray into the blog world. Why am I getting so reflective about this today ? With this post I reach the first milestone. Not sailing into it exactly but managing to crawl to the hundredth post. Like the last athlete who stumbles in long after the winners have started their victory lap. But then again this is not a race.

   For all my blogger friends, thank you for hearing me out through my reminisces, coherent or incoherent stringing together of ideas, little stories and travel tales, which I've loved sharing with you. Each time I have tapped the 'publish' button, it's been hard to keep away from the monitor pretending that 'visits' don't really bother me. When the first comment appears, all that 'cool' attitude evaporates and a gleeful child, little short of jumping and clapping hands, takes it's place.

   My hundredth post combined with the festive warmth of aromatic plum cakes, christmas trees, tiny jingling bells at the kirana shop,  the lure of the christmassy malls, the warm pretty woollens; the hastily put together little bonfires at the corner of the road to soak in the heat, is a thank you note for all the little things in life. In this journey, the first step is all that is needed to reach the many milestones. That is what I gathered from the wise old tortoise. And along the way I have discovered new windows, sights, thoughts, different worlds within this big wide world, realising there is so much yet to be done.

  But for starters, the hundredth post will do. And with the New Year quietly making it's way round the corner, there is more to look forward to, personally.

     

For All The Children

    This cold foggy morning, my daughters also left for school like million others around the world. I dropped them off at the bus stop in the dark. The tail lights of the school bus melted into the hazy darkness. They were warm with hopes in their hearts and the joy of meeting their friends, looking forward to their many activities. So did those kids in Peshawar. So did their mothers send them off that morning. And then got busy getting the lunch ready keeping in mind what the children prefer.

  But the lunch never got cooked. The hearth remained cold. For the mothers ran towards the school only to bring back the bodies after what seemed an eternity of nightmare. The cold little bodies. Cold bodies that had hugged them warm just a little while ago.

   How did they pull the first trigger? How did they hunt down the innocent ruffled heads? How did they shoot down the pair of pleading young eyes? How did they bore down on those tender limbs? Are they so stoned with fanaticism and brain washed that they failed to see what lay before them? Why come as fidayeens?  Is it because they knew they could never ever live with the cries of the hundreds, the red spraying all around? And those who thump their chest proudly to say it was a revenge well taken? A revenge  taken on children who were taking exams, first aid sessions and career counselling? A revenge taken on children who were preparing for a life ahead?
 
    This is the second December that tears have rolled down my cheeks as I opened the morning newspaper. The first time was when Nirbhaya was brutally violated on one such cold dark day. And today Peshawar.

    If  ever there was a convention of all the animals in the world, I would be ashamed to call myself a human being. For we belong right down there in the ladder of all the species. Charles Darwin, did you say we were the most evolved? The most evolved when I, like many other, wait for my children to return safe each day?

Of Putolas, Dolls and Poppenhuis

     One of my warmest memories, is of sitting down on the cool floor of my grandmother's home in Tipling in the summer holidays and watch her put together bits and pieces of left over cloth, to fashion out rag dolls for me. The fan from the false ceiling  whirred to keep the humid air at bay. At times a gentle cool air breezed in through the open wooden doors and windows. She worked on nimbly sewing and stuffing the head, the torso, the limbs, and right before my fascinated eyes putolas (dolls) were created. My eldest mami (aunt ) chipped in to put together a trousseau for the bride and the groom and also a little mattress with sheets, a quilt and pillows. So much love and ingenuity went into making those rag dolls, giving life to a little girl's world of fantasy! 

   And then came in dolls, the plastic ones whose eye lids closed when in sleeping position and blue eyes revealed when put upright. The talking dolls were the sought after ones, seen only in the neighbour's house. And now, assembly line produced Barbies, Monster dolls and the likes have taken over with politically incorrect and then corrected versions ruling the roost where one damaged doll is immediately replaced by the next available one. That their enticing and coordinated ensembles of kitchen, trousseaus, and other accessories shred the pockets is an understatement.

   That was until we visited the Rijks Museum in Amsterdam and strolling through the galleries absorbing the  masters' creations adorning the walls we came across Petronella Oortman. Well not really Petronella herself but a miniature version of her home in the seventeenth century Netherlands. Doll's houses in those days were no child's play. They were serious hobbies of the rich Dutch ladies often the centerpiece in any living room vying for attention with the men's obsession of curiosity  cabinets. They were reflections of the Golden Age of Netherlands when the economy of the country flourished following the successful tradings across the globe. While the men's curiosity cabinet was the fabled Ali Baba's cave displaying the objects collected from their many travels around the world, the women's doll houses were an example of a perfect Dutch household. They revealed the world of a rich woman who had enough means to commission a home complete with miniature paintings, furniture, crockery and cutlery and abundant leisure time to indulge in them.

 For the last  four centuries Petronella Oortman's doll house, where every detail is made to scale and with materials used in the real world, has been a fine window to the lifestyle of the rich Dutch homes.




 

Petronella Oortman's Doll House

 A rich silk merchant's wife, Petronella Oortman had this doll house commissioned in the year 1686, the year of her marriage with Johannes Brandt. A cabinet of tortoise shell with fine pewter inlay work, it is the most famous of the three other doll houses in the Rijks Museum. There is always a queue to climb up the little stepladder to peer at Oortman's indulgence whose collection for the interiors continued till 1710.  The kind of exquisite detailed work that can be housed within the dimensions of 8.36 ft x 6.23 ft x 2.55 ft, left us gaping with wonder. Let me take you on a room by room tour of this exquisite doll house that could also be a peek into their lives. 

        

The Linen Room

The top left room, on the second floor is the linen room with perfectly crafted wicker baskets, the irons on the ironing table, the curtains, a place where the linen of the house, blankets etc are stored. Please note the linen hung out to dry from the ceiling. 

                                                               

                                                  The Box Room / The Servant's Room

Next to the Linen Room on the second floor is the box room where the servants of the house retired. In the right corner is the spinning wheel. It is said to have a chamber pot and foot warmers.

      The right corner room on the second floor, next to the servant's room is the nursery of the house with gold drapings and parrot painted screens. Perhaps in our excitement or the many people waiting to take a turn  we missed out on taking a snap of this pretty room.

Living Room

        The exquisitely carved furniture with rich upholstery, floor to ceiling murals, the paintings on the wall are all  original artwork of artists commissioned for the purpose. A backgammon table is at the centre and in the corner is a folding table with a colourful parrot painted on a black background. 

                

The central room on the first floor is the main entrance at the street level. You can see the marble flooring and the carved interiors. Don't miss the painting on the ceiling and the framed artwork on the wall! Beyond it, on the other side,  was a garden complete with a working fountain! Sadly with time, these have been lost. The living room is actually to the left of this central entry.

                                                                     Lying In Room

         To the right of this entry is the Lying In room where the lady of the house gave birth. The room is done up in red with a curtained bed tucked in at the back wall and a screen for privacy. To the right of the screen you can see the closet where the linen is stacked neatly. Silver candlestands on the walls, porcelain tea set and a crib complete the picture. This is the only room that has a doll in it whereas all the others have been lost, once again with time.

                   

                                                                 Best Kitchen

                 The house has two kitchens. On the bottom left is the 'Best Kitchen' where the owners entertained  and dined with their guests. This is the room where fine tableware is on display.  In and above the cabinet are fine detailed porcelain, all made to order in China. A pretty bird cage is hung from the ceiling on the left corner of the room. Please note the ceiling, the paintings, the cabinet doors and the floor. Delightful, isn't it?

                     

                               
                                                                   Kitchen

          Next to it is the real kitchen with a fireplace and a sink, where actual cooking was done for the family. It is said that it also had a working water pump once.


                           

                                                          Tapestry Room

         The bottom right corner of the room is the tapestry room. The walls are covered completely with tapestry and comparatively is a sparse room and  soberly done up. This was also the mourning room where friends and relatives gathered to mourn or honour the dead. 

        

    Petronella Oortman commissioned basket weavers, glass blowers, artists, cabinet makers and the lot to make miniature replicas for her doll house. It was strange that every essential act of life had a dedicated room except the room where the couple of the house retired. There was a room for birth, for the child, the cooking and eating rooms and even one dedicated to the dead. Strangely we did not see a bedroom where the lord and the lady of the house retired for the day. Was it fine sensibility that inhibited the wealthy ladies from displaying a room that could hint at their private lives? Similarly there were no rooms or doors that hinted at the presence of bathrooms or servants entry.   What made women like Petronella Oortman and Petronella Dunois ( another wealthy lady) splurge on doll houses that cost as much as a real house near the canals? Oortman is believed to have spent twenty to thirty thousand guilds on her doll house which was equivalent to the cost of a real house on the canal. Was it time hanging heavy on their hands while their merchant husbands were out travelling to distant places  ? Or was it the necessity to be ostentatious in their display of wealth as a mark of having arrived? Petronella Oortman was so taken in with her passion for the little home that she even had the noted artist Jacob Appel paint a version of it, which hangs next to the real one in the Rijks Museum.

                         

                                  Painting of Petronella Oortman's Doll House by Jacob Appel

         Later, a bit of research led to the fact that the wealthy merchants in the 17th century Amsterdam were at the peak of the social structure having once led the revolt against Spain. From then on, they influenced the government's decisions and policies rooting for those, that would encourage economic progress. These were the families that inhabited the beautiful houses on the elm lined avenues along the newly constructed three semi circular canals and the many of their links, radials and the existing canals. History has it that the Dutch  merchants were extremely enterprising and could trade in almost anything despite Netherlands having limited resources. They bought unfinished woollens from England, grains from Poland and other European countries, salt from Denmark, metal work from Sweden, wool from spanish sheep and sold them wherever needed. This was supported by a strong maritime fleet both in terms of the sturdy ships and their defence. 

      A religion tolerant country, Amsterdam attracted all the persecuted migrants and so thrived the skilled artisans of lace making, artists, intellectuals, glass blowers, jews who contributed with their exquisite work. It was no doubt dubbed as the 'market place of the Northern Europe' as it provided warehouses, insurance agents, wholesale dealers, brokers along with ship building, leasing and docking facilities.

     It is easy to imagine, a whirlwind of commercial activities taking place out side these canal homes pushing the envelope with new found places and colonies. And within the homes the ladies quietly went about managing the business and homes in the long absence of their husbands. So did these doll houses while filling up their vacant time also give flight to their imaginations? 

        Below is yet another doll house curated by Petronella Dunois. Curating doll houses was actually a fad that started in Nuremberg and caught on like wild fire in rest of Germany, Netherlands and England too. 

Doll House of Petronella Dunois

   

  

        These doll houses have let people peer at the lives and the world of the wealthy Dutch for the last four centuries. The tiny step ladder that leads up for a good view is always occupied with visitors. Later, walking along the avenues of Amsterdam by the canals, it was  surprising to see the homes of modern day Amsterdam,  with huge windows either clear of any drapes or lightly covered with sheer curtains. It felt like the owners graciously allowed the passers by to gaze and admire the beautifully done up homes with nothing to hide. They could be  boat houses on the canals or the lovely town houses with similar facades.

 

A Wait In the Salon

                               
                                                           Courtesy Google Image

     I waited patiently for someone to attend to my scraggly hair that was growing independently in every perceivable direction. It was quite an enjoyable wait though, observing the hair being streaked, lips contorting to accommodate the thread neatly plucking out those abominable little hair growing in the wrong places. What business does cilia  have on the upper lips? The look of bliss as another surrendered the feet in the warm soapy water to be cleaned, caressed and plumped up. Tired housewives looking for minutes of succour before the brats of all sizes barged back through the front doors. Stressed out working women probably making the most of a day off. Everyone looked relaxed except the aproned, nimble fingered girls working behind the chairs.The air conditioner hummed discreetly along with the soothing music being played. A faint squeak of the front door gently whispered the entry of another customer. A young bright eyed  mother walked in with a chubby and cute eight year old. The mistress of the parlour turned her chemical blond head from a hair styling she was attending to. With a smile plastered on her face she cooed, "Oh! After such a long time! So, how was your trip?" 

   

" Oh! It was good you know!" the shrill voice of the mother sang along.

" Where did you go? Thailand? " asked the mistress of the parlour taking a few seconds off her work.
" No! No! We went to Kathmandu this time."
" Ya, I have also been to Kathmandu so many times. It is always nice. Did you manage to go to the Temple?" asked the mistress looking over her rimless specs. Her tattooed arms moved expertly over the young girl's hair, snipping away a bit of hair here and there, and gesturing to one of the trainees to offer a glass of water to the young mother and the child, all at the same time.
" The trip was good and we had a good darshan at the Temple. It was only the return that was exasperating!" exclaimed the young mother in a snug pair of jeans and t-shirt, both a size too small. A thick gold chain slung around the neck was clamouring for attention. She tossed her hair back
 
  A raised eyebrow over green shaded eye lids of the mistress was all the cue she needed to spill the words that she was dying to blurt.
" You know how they are at the immigration. 'Are you bringing back any gold?' 'Please, declare any gold.' Oof! There was no respite! Did we look like smugglers or what?" the young mother declared and looked around carefully without seeming to look around, to see the effect.
 The air conditioner hummed on. The other customers were deeply buried in some old issues of the Stardust or Femina. Some had their ear plugs on. A tattoo machine was inking a rose on a supple arm.  I looked out of the floor length window at the traffic jostling by quietly, enjoying every bit of the conversation.
The young mother continued in a voice one notch higher, " I don't have to bring gold from Kathmandu. I have enough here and no place to keep. Pinky! Stop fidgeting with the dryer and jumping around!" she admonished her child who was looking for something to keep her occupied. And Pinky gave one long mournful look to her mother before going through a door to explore the room beyond. Stretched out on two of the beds were  ladies in their forties and sixties, eyes weighed down with cucumber slices over cotton swabs and faces masked in a ghostly greenish layer, in a desperate bid to bring back the glow of the yesteryears.

"... If I have to buy gold I will bring it from Dubai during that Dubai Shopping festival" the young mother continued her supposed indignant conversation with the immigration officials whom she had left behind at the Nepal border a month back.
" Hmmm, the next time  wear an imitation chain while going to Dubai and wear the real one on your return. That way they will not say anything" suggested the green lidded mistress. " So, what will you get done today?" she finally asked getting down to business.
" Oh! Today let it be only a hair wash and a body polish and massage. It is so difficult to wash and manage the hair at home. People do lose weight with the massage, don't they?" queried the young mother.
" Oh yes, they do! Only you have to be regular with it. If you stop in between, it all comes back, you know!" said the mistress taking a long hard look at the young mother, over her rimless specs, before going back to the last few strokes of blow drying the newly stylised hair.

 The young mother settled herself into a plush chair  next to the floor length window with an old issue of Women's Era. Pulling down her T shirt that kept riding up and stretching out her legs in the too tight jeans she called out " Pinky! Pinky!! Come and let aunty wash your hair and give you a massage!"