Moving On to Ink Dries and beyond

When I decided to take the plunge and bring out my first collection
of English poetry I wasn't one of the "poets" belonging to a clique
or a group, or someone with an established "voice" / reputation,
academic credentials / blog, etc.

Nor was I -- for that matter -- someone established in prose or
any other genre, a name out in the market and known to readers.

In other words, I was out and out obscure and unknown. In other
words, expecting any mainline publisher to show interest in my book
would have been a bit like wishing for a lottery.

As such, I decided to go it alone and self-publish my poetry. And I
put up Coucal Books to do the same. With the objective of bringing
out other poetry books; of poets as obscure as me.

But then, this and that has resulted in the last two years being a
bit choppy on the personal and professional front; which meant I
couldn't really do much about scouting out for other poets looking
at getting their books out.

Besides, in these two years there hasn't been an earth-shattering
awakening of interest for poetry in the minds of readers. And
though it is a bit easier to find out the "niches" of poetry lovers
thanks to the burgeoning numbers of online groups, poetry books
are still risky propositions, slow starters, etc.

So, the sum total of books brought out by Coucal in the last 2 years
is one. Mine.

And the next book that Coucal's bringing out is also mine.

In the eyes of a lot of discerning or opinionated or plain cynical
people out there this would look like vanity publishing.

I wouldn't know; I am as vain about my poetry as any poet out there
but I certainly don't write to get famous or to show you my best side
or to see my name in print.

Nor do I write poetry (or bring out poetry books) to become rich,
for that matter.

So I would like to see what I do as self-publishing, that too in the
great tradition of senior Indian poets like Nissim Ezekiel, Jayanta
Mahapatra, Arun Kolatkar, etc.

For those who can't make out the difference between vanity publishing
and self-publishing, I have nothing much to say.

For those who are interested in poetry; specifically those interested
in bringing out their poetry -- hey, Coucal is here, drop me a mail,
(or message me on FB) and we will take it ahead!

Speaking of "Moving On", I still think it was one of the best things
to have happened to me, one of the most important things I have done
in life. Since then, I have learned a lot about poetry, poets and
publishing, but I am happy to say that my passion for poetry still
stays un-quenched and I will keep at it. And as far as poetry books
go, Moving On has garnered a fair amount of readership and been pretty
well received with many readers writing in to me appreciating this poem
or liking that poem.

Since I haven't done this elsewhere ever, a big thank you to all my
readers.

Yes, I promise to keep at it and write and publish more poetry,
even as the ink dries.

December Dilemmas and drying ink

I have a peculiar relationship with December, for all of five or
more years now. I love December since it is the high-point of the
Indian winter, the weather is bracingly cool and ( I can say this
as have done a fair bit of touring) the landscapes and the vistas
when you are out on the road and in the interiors can be stunningly
breath-taking. And yet, December also means the end of an year;
and the onset of another that comes with its own attendant worries.
This December has been no different; and has added the gravitas
of bringing a lot of memories to do with Orissa (about which there
are quite a few poems in my forthcoming book)to the visual feast
that I have been enjoying in the wilderness I ramble in -- near my
place -- for birding. Significantly, in a throwaback to my childhood
days, I have yet again "bonded" with the outdoors, felt the same way
I used to when I was 11 years old and just learning what my self means
while rambling over the hills that comprise the Durgapur Range.

I may have aged in the interim but somehow the outdoors seem the same;
I could be sitting besides a Pokhuri in Orissa instead of a disused
quarry out here in Hyderabad. I could be rambling over the hills and
rice fields of my childhood, instead of these acres that flank a
military installation (and are left wild to serve as a perimeter)
here in Hyderabad. Its not the mind playing tricks, its an overpowering
surge of memories, a flood of poetry.

As such it has been bloody tough; to collect all finished poems,
rework on them, run edits and simultaneously finding time and
mindspace to write this month's, this season's. Oh well, maybe
its a good problem to have after all.

But the biggest dilemma of December has been what to call the book
and what cover image to run with. Revisiting all that I have gone
through and typing it all out here could end up splaying my fingers
even further; so let me suffice to say that it wasn't easy to decide
on the name Ink Dries. Nor was it to decide on the cover visual,
but then as I say in one of the poems in the book, "if you are ____,
there will always be time".

So there, the cover is decided and bit by bit the book's taking shape
too. And expected to be out in January 2012.



More updates to follow; for now some trivia -- yes, the photograph has
been taken by me and yes, the book has a number of poems dealing with
the "word" and with the most important tool of the writing trade, ink.

Hospital Diary

Truth be told, I worry a lot about "where the money will
come from" for this and that, these days. Blame it on being
bypassed in the employment scheme of things by phone-obsessed,
assumption happy recruiters, blame it on the increasing
realization that I will always be penny wise and pound shy,
blame it on the rising costs of living -- of things even as
plain as Idlis (that cost Rs. 15 for four!) and this and that.

And oh, yes blame it on the fact that writing poetry is not a
profession at all, unless one is looking at a payout very late
in life, when a "matured" poet like Tomas Tranströmer. Whatever
it be, the worry has ridden me hard. And as is bound to happen
when you are family, I am sure much of this has been generously
borrowed by my father, who at 67 is a retiree and has a wealth
of own monetary and other worries.

Stress and worry are the most major triggers for a heart
condition, so in all those lengthy vigils at the hospital,
I was mentally flogging myself for being a bad son, in
addition to feeling old and poor by turns.

Oh, the pain!

#######

The hospital concerned was a corporate hospital with a
who's who of empaneled and consultant specialists. While I am
no stranger to hospitals (being the chosen one to accompany
my father on his weekly visits to a sprawling PSU run hospital
in Rourkela and being the chosen one, the attendant who is
allowed to stay with the patient when my parents were
hospitalized at the afore-mentioned hospital and being
admitted myself for a minor surgery) this one was
overwhelming in its concrete, steel and glass glitter.
As also in its level of image consciousness and
presentation (from a marketing viewpoint). My father
(as a retiree from a PSU) was entitled to insurance
reimbursement, but I still wondered all through, how much
less expensive this hospital's services would be, without
all that glitter -- of the reception and front office staff
(on every floor), the men among them dressed in suits,
the women draped in designer sarees and fancy high backed
blouses, the lift attendants and so on...
But then again, when you are at a hospital that is taking
good care of your father, you count your blessings.

####

This hospital is a stone's throw from Secunderabad
Railway Station and has come up behind what used to
be the legendary Sangeet Cinema Hall and is now an
under construction behemoth of concrete, all of 6
floors high with a big crane / hoist towering over it
all, on which most of the time, I could see at least one
Black Kite. Which meant that whenever I felt like feeling
like a bird, I would walk to the window of father's room
and look out. To see either a dogfight among the kites
in the skies, or a fight for the most favoured perch
(the weighed end) of the crane / hoist or (at least thrice)
the peculiarly carnival sight of a black kite sitting
on the crane / hoist totally unconcerned (and in all
probability enjoying) while the crane / hoist did
a complete swivel of 180 degrees and then back again.
Almost like a merry go round. One more reason to respect
these majestic creatures -- the Black Kites; they don't
seem to have queasy guts unlike me, when it comes to merry
go rounds.

Bypass Blues

No this is not a blogpost about the road or about my travels. Or
for that matter my travails, though I have been worried stiff,
sleepless and scared for close to twenty days now.

This blogpost is about my father who has recently been diagnosed
with a condition that makes it imperative for him to go for bypass
surgery. Which means that we have been doing the rounds of hospitals,
looking (or rather hoping) for non-invasive alternatives and
simultaneously doing the numerous things needed to get ready for
surgery.

All this while, my worries have dogged me and contributed to (yet
another) spell of silence here on the blog. In these intervening
twenty days I have read up widely on Angina, Bypass Surgeries, etc.
and also (naturally) on non-invasive cures / remedies such as
Enhanced External Counter Pulsation. All that I have learnt would
be of help to dad as advise meant to change his lifestyle for the
better, but (though I had fervently hoped for it) what he needs as
of now is a bypass. But then all this reading up and this increased
familiarity with the terms involved have helped the worries
are still there, if in a bit more subdued and benign form and will
keep dogging me till my father gets operated on, is back home and
through with recuperation and back on his feet, to be dad as usual.

Meanwhile, I will pray for the continued health of my father
and his blessedly friendly, solidly always there presence in my life.

Om Namaha Shivaya

As grass dries under a winter sun

I am reading Whitman and I honestly don't know what to make
of him and his absolutely untrammeled, "as honest as homespun"
writing.

To be precise, I am reading "Song of Myself", a "long" poem that
defeats any attempts (not that I -- not that well read -- am trying)
to genrify or label; but is evidently a magnum opus of consciousness,
frankness and time.

Incidentally, this book has inspired (among others) other poetic
magnum opuses, other long poems like Relationship by Shri Jayanta
Mahapatra, which is yet another piece of work that defeats any
attempts to genrify or label.

But (like Song of Myself) just leaves you stunned.

Speaking of Song of Myself this is a poem that shouts out its
outdoorsiness, its location in the wide open spaces and the lap of
nature. And his ability to connect with the elements, an oracle like
ability to hear the epiphanies lost to more cultured and civilized
sensibilities.

Like when he sees and gives voice to a whole universe of soul and
meaning when he writes about grass. One wonders how much of this is
about the poet uncovering basic truths (that given time, mood and
similar approach you and I could too)and how much of this is about the
articulation of his own views. In a way he paints up a narrative in
which the canvas is both a landscape and a portrait at the same time.

There are some peculiarities (apart from a tone that could seem
intimately fraternal or mildly homosexual -- depending on how you view
it) that are strikingly idiosyncratic -- usage of epsilons (four dots
and not three as is the norm these days) and a treatment that blends
the grandiloquent and the pedestal-seeking in equal measure. But then,
this is Walt Whitman, and in all probability that profundity, that
uninhibited wealth of wordiness is what made him the trendsetter that
he is.

Incidentally, this poem was untitled and part of the book Leaves of Grass
(the very name indicative of the poet's amazing eye* as a naturalist)
and was self-published him when he was around 35. Fittingly enough, the
cover has a sketch of the poet, looking very rugged and outdoorsy and
very much part of an age that did not bother too much about sunscreen
(with a high SPF factor, mind) or hair dye.

Fittingly enough (from a reader's perspective) I write this as grass
dries all around me, turning golden brown by degrees -- from a rain-fed
green -- and the sun loses its burning intensity, turning evenings into
dapples of golden light.

The right time for indulging in profundity for drawing portraits and
landscapes.


* -- Do I mean "depth of field" ? Ah, well....

Song of Myself (6)

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?....I do not know what it is any
more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child....the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphyic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of grass.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from
offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colourless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end
to arrest it,
And cease the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward....and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.


By Walt Whitman from Song of Myself

Blogger doesn't let me insert space breaks, my apologies!

Neighbourhood

On the narrow steps leading to our gate,
the pakoriwallah from Bihar is often found
kissing an anonymous woman at night.

Amazing act. My parents switch off the sitting-room
lights whenever this happens. The car beams show
them up -- one unbroken secret silhouette.

The steps invite other actions. The local fakir some-
times lies there, coloured like a ditch, and passers-by
might climb to have a better look at the orange trees.

But this is different. The soft-spoken pakoriwallah
smelling of his pakoris, his half hour island of
defiant passion on the steps of somebody's house,

while around him everyday: the brash freeloaders,
the kick in the groin, the familiar words of abuse
spoken in an unfamiliar language.

By Anjum Hasan, from Street on the Hill, Sahitya Akademi (2006)

Delhi -- Vignettes of this and that

The Autorickshaws here in Hyderabad are bug like, bright yellow
and black and thanks to the cussedness and perspicacity of their
drivers -- when it comes to getting the most out of every
passenger (especially with no other dependable means of public
transport), downright infamous. In Delhi, they are a eco-friendly
green -- run as they do only on CNG -- and their drivers
are positively chatty, if in a so what "let's show this
tourist the ropes of the capital" way. And not exactly looking
at stringing you for a million bucks, either.

Must be the effect of working in the shadow of the metro, or
the fact that migrants and movers (most of the auto drivers are
from Bihar and U.P., the archetypal Bhhaiyas) aren't exactly
there in the same league with local hicks when it comes to driving
a hard bargain. Or, for all I know, considering the volumes of
Autorickshaw users in Delhi, they get enough bakras and fight shy
of tangling with a Ray Ban wearing south Indian looking fellow
speaking in unaccented Hindi.


#$#@&^

The Delhi Metro is surprisingly seductive and far more efficient
and user-friendly (with amazingly polite and courteous staff) than I
expected it to be. Cameras cannot be used on the platforms (I
did not know and was merrily clicking away in one of the entrance
tunnels, but all that an armed policeman -- security is tight but
more or less non-invasive -- did was to wave at me in a minor
reprimand, no tongue-lashing, no checking, etc.) but it would be
fun to do some slow shutter speed photography on one of those
"junction" platforms when the passengers are moving from one
train to another, or running up or down, indistinct motion blurs
of a city's constituents on the move.

Getting buffeted by the slipstreams of all the moving humanity
is of course part of being the city's.

Yes, I traveled quite a bit on the metro and would say that
its easy enough to use. Also, evidently it is okay to be confused
and unaware of which train you should catch to get to your
destination. A lot of passengers around me were in the same
predicament. But then, there are enough staff (and police) around
to point in the right direction, so one learns and catches yet
another metro train.

#$#@&^

Sadar Road -- which passed through what seems like a continuous
village of two and three storied, un-plastered brick houses ill
at ease with the cheek-by-jowl sprawl of being part of a
city -- was where my hotel was at. And since it was a budget
hotel (but surprisingly clean and comfortable) not that stand-out or
hat ke from the environs all
around, either.

All of which meant that I had the proverbial room with a
view -- of a two laned road (with one under repairs), vegetable and
fruit hawkers (most of them in the middle of that road, under the
shade of bright yellow and green polythenes) the "one old teak chair
and a mirror is all it takes to be a saloon" barber shops. So many
rickshaws and tongas too, itinerantly at work all through the
heat and dust, going and coming.

Then there were the Black Kites in the skies above; along with
swarms of pigeons flying in formation -- probably from one coop
to another. Surprisingly, I did not take any photographs, the
atmosphere of impersonal strangeness in the hotel room helped
along my procrastination and the angles I could mentally
compose did not seem wide and encompassing enough as that
of a narrative. And the heat and dust didn't help either.


#%$@&

I am artless, unsophisticated and very, very middle class. So
I have no compunctions about eating anywhere as long as the place
is clean and the food promises an adventure for the palate. My
lunch and dinner was right on Sadar Road in two hotels that were
more or less holes in the wall. The food was rustic, honest and
right in tune with the in-your-face character of Sadar Road
(okay, I know it leads to Paharganj which has a reputation for being
seedy, but I never ventured that side). Paranthas (and curd) for two
(A ate with me on the first day, after helping me move in and settle
down in the hotel) as brunch and then Paranthas for one as a late
lunch. The hotel was run by a Sikh who surprisingly welcomed us
with a very salesman like Namaste (totally A's doing and his
Delhiness, I said or did nothing much but pronounce Parantha
the right way). The other culinary adventure (again in Sadar Road)
was at another hole in the wall type of eatery where I had
Rajma Masala (surprisingly hot) that came with grated cheese and
Matar Paneer (served with a big blob of butter) and Rotis (small
and saucer sized and served right out of the Tandoor) at Rs. 2
each. Nice and filling and the bill wasn't even in three figures
which was a welcome salve to my middle class wallet.

And yes, I ate elsewhere too. Like near the metro stations. While
watching the rickshaws queue up in neat orderly rows. I ate food
that was as inexpensive as a rickshaw fare -- Chole Bhatureys and
Channa Kulchas -- and as simple and unpretentious.

BTW, no Delhi Belly to report.

A lust for life and close encounters with the beautiful wilds

Looking back, over the last three years, I have spent a lot
of time outdoors, and most of it is in the "wilds"
near my place, in what is more or less military / government
land that has been left on its own -- crisscrossed by grass-verged
dirt tracks and populated by quite a few trees (though none
are that old or that giant) and interspersed with rocky outcrops
and disused quarries.

And I have been spending a lot more time here than the usual
hour in the morning or hour in the evening in the last two months,
thanks to the fact that I have had plenty of time on my hands and
that the profusion of butterflies and birds that I have found here.

I have seen the most stunning of artists -- mother nature -- at
work here, seen the dusty expanses of sun-scorched grass turn
green and then burst into colour -- with a billion wildflowers --
blue, wine red, yellow, purple and so on. And I have felt like
going down on my knee, overwhelmed by the inherent mystique in
the fluidity with which mother nature transforms what was once
a barren, almost dead landscape into something that calls out
to the Van Gogh in me...

I have agonized over the choice -- on continuous forays into
these wilds, on continuous days -- if to stick to shooting the
landscapes on offer or be led on a dance shooting the birds and
the butterflies. And there have been days when I have kicked
myself for not having both of my lenses with me (while perched
high on the narrow saddle of the Schwinn -- which doesn't have
a carrier or allow for leisurely ATB kind of cycling -- lugging
much gear is a bit tough) or when I have had both with me, I have
agonized over whether to shoot the whole meadow or a close up of
a flower and so on and so forth...

It is another matter that I have already come to the conclusion
that photography cannot be mixed with anything else; even with a
leisurely cycle ride, especially when it is the photography
of birds and butterflies.

Being on the cycle (with the camera zipped up in a bag) means that
by the time I am ready to shoot, the bird has flied off or it means
that there is a limit to the amount of "on foot" chasing that's
possible behind a butterfly, while leaving the Schwinn unguarded.

Which means, I have spent a lot of time afoot in these wilds and
hopefully will spend some more time walking through them.

And while enjoying the feeling that the wilds are my own private
preserve, thrilling in knowing these open expanses first
hand, for having played amateur naturalist and rookie woodsman
and coming across tailor bird nests, conclaves of bee eaters,
shy peacocks and even shyer coucals, pairs of bulbuls, colonies
of weaver birds, trapezing chameleons...

How do I even begin to express the pricelessness -- of the wealth
of all these ramblings in the wilds? It certainly cannot be
measured in terms of the photographs I have taken; I sincerely
feel that peering through a zoom lens is no less "naturalist" and
fieldwork from an ornithologist / lepidopterist point of view
than it would have been if the peering had been through a pair of
binoculars...and the ego boost of a good / perfect capture -- of a
bird or a butterfly is at many times secondary to the joys of seeing
the bird or butterfly with an enraptured eye :-)

And yes, just when I start thinking that I have seen it all, I see
something totally new and wonderful, something that -- yet again --
thrills me with the joy of witnessing and understanding the magic in
the behaviour of yet another "wild" species while simultaneously
humbling me with its beauty and economy of being natural.

I forget I have a camera with me when I see multitudes of small
butterflies like the Anderson's Grass Yellow -- fluttering and
wheeling around, like so many children at play -- preparatory to
settling down to puddle. Or I forget that I am supposed to take
a picture, capture the minute when I see a pair of Pied Kingfishers
bobbing / balancing on a barbed wire (for some reasons these birds
always seem to fish in a pair) while -- with the accompaniment of
a twinkle in the eye -- shitting a pearly white; instead grinning
to myself...

And it still doesn't cease to wonder me when (after having observed
the same countless times) I see weaver birds in their bright yellow
plumage, at work weaving freshly fetched green grass into what is
already a project that is a month long...going on and on...with the
finickiness of the true artists, building masterpieces the same way
countless of their ilk have done before as directed by their genetic
code.

It is more or less the same feeling -- of wonder and awe -- with
which I watch a butterfly pirouette on a lantana flower, preparatory
to going for the nectar the way a kid would for the jam bottle;
somehow the butterfly's greed seems more worthy of respect,
more evolved!

I don't know how long these wilds will survive -- as with most
open spaces within or flanking a concrete jungle called the city
these face the depredations of man too. I found (on my return from
Varanasi) that many weaver bird nests have been knocked down
and in some cases those very branches on which the nests were
have been cut; God only knows why and by whom...and a large
residential colony is already coming up flanking the wilds --
but I do look forward to some more close encounters, some more
peaceful epiphanies like the one I had on this Sunday.

I was cycling through the wilds on the dirt track and I came
across three bee-eaters, their green plumage iridescently
dazzling lying right on the track, beaks and beady red eyes
looking skywards, wings stretched out, something I have never
seen any bird do. Maybe they were sunbathing, or they were
praying.

Whatever they were doing, I did go down on my knee yet again.

And the photographs that resulted were but a bonus.

A tribute to Jagjit Singh, the master of melancholy

On October 10th, while I was at Varanasi (and dealing with the
melancholy of my moods -- I have always associated Varanasi with
the cremation ghats and the Kasidaasins -- and the cacophonies
of the city) Ghazal Maestro Jagjit Singh passed away after a
protracted illness.

He was 70, but like most singers (and poets, painters and
artists) he will never have an age, never die for those who
have known and experienced the spellbinding depth of his voice.

I am not a music aficionado, nor can I claim to be any kind of a
connoisseur -- of the fascinating world of "old Hindi" -- of quiz
details like who wrote the lyrics of which song, who composed the
music and who were the lead pair and so on.

Heck, I am one of those rare ignoramuses who cannot decide for
sure if a particular song has been sung by Rafi or Mukesh. And at
the very outset, I need to make a clean breast of the fact that I
know zilch about the intricacies of music, I cannot differentiate
between a khayal and a thumri or whatever...

But -- though I am a layman and have absolutely no "ear for
music" -- for as long as I remember, I have been singing old
hindi songs to myself and since most of these songs used to be
slow, sad, melancholy numbers in which the song is more or less
a lyric accompanied by music, in the repeated singing to myself,
I have ingrained those cadences and rhythms...and also burnt
those lines...on my being.

You could also say that somewhere in the singing of those songs
is when I developed the "ambition" of becoming a shayar / kavi /
poet and long before I really had to deal with any loss, I
probably realized (and made peace with the realization) that
immaterial of how true the lie called "happiness" is, life's
underlying truth is that it is melancholy, and dark and
layered with pathos, more or less as expressed in the lines

राही मनवा दुःख की चिंता क्यों सताती है
दुःख तो अपना साथी है

सुख है एक छाँव, ढलती आती जाती है
दुःख तो अपना साथी है

(from the film Dosti)

And yes, (as I keep telling everyone) somewhere along the same
time I realised the depth of meaning (three layers of
imagination, location, analogy, metaphor, whatever) in the
lines

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाये
सांझ की दुल्हन बदन चुराए, चुप के से आये

and have always wanted to write lines that are as vivid, as
imaginative, as powerful. And yes, for me Hindi will always be
the the language of gravitas, meant for writing down and
chronicling the occasional untranslatable line that is truest
the way it comes and not for the frivolity of communicating
banalities like

फ्रेश फ्रूट जूस पार्लर

So maybe immaterial of all my known and unknown shortcomings,
I am qualified to write about Jagjit Singh, considering that
most of his songs had an unsurpassable element of gravitas
and melancholy, if not downright gut-wrenching sadness and I
have connected to them, heard them on a radio, a cassette player,
etc.; heard them sung by friends and sang them to friends while
high on rum and coke in a bonding that was in all probability
more about teenage angst than it was about the rum or the song
itself. And yes, most of those lines are burnt in my being, the
same way lines of poetry are.

So they still reverberate in me, even these days when I don't
listen to any music thanks to my bum ears.

So they still reverberate in me, and in fact I can creditably
sing some of them, closing my eyes and going along with the
flow of blessed memory, of remembered song.

Like, for instance this song that a friend (here in Hyderabad)
used to repeatedly sing -- at cafes, in the college parking
lot, at his place ostensibly for combined studies (in the balcony
while sharing a smoke) up at 2.00 in the night, and at all
those Rum Coke sessions.

प्यार का पहला ख़त लिखने में वक़्त तो लगता है
नयी परिंदों को उड़ने में वक़्त तो लगता है

Need I mention that those were the days when my friend was
going through a phase of "should I propose?", "dare I propose?",
"what if she rejects me?" and all those questions that run pell mell
through a young man wooing a young woman?

Or, the exquisitely hummable, oh-so-simple, right from the heart
echoing call of

होंठों से छु लो तुम
मेरा गीत अमर कर दो

बन जाओ मीत मेरे
मेरा प्रीत अमर कर दो

that I used to sing along with the cassette player and while
serenading my own loneliness in buses (and the occasional Auto)
while still into my second year in Hyderabad. Did I mention I
was lonely? Oh yes, its confession time, I used to keep a diary
those days and almost every week used to start with the entry --
"Need to decide what to do in life and need to get a girlfriend
soon"...So maybe, that song was Jagjit Singh singing to my elusive
girlfriend, or he and I singing together, or me singing it to
myself, while Jagjit Singh would lip synch to a spell bound
audience.

There were other Jagjit Singh songs too -- that I listened
to in rapt attention (and sang to myself) as I would beg borrow
and steal any Jagjit Singh (and Yesudas and other Ghazal / Old
Hindi) cassettes that I could and since I never got around to
getting hooked to "pop music" (maybe because I couldn't get the
lyrics over all that high frequency "music") and just had
three other cassettes -- Yanni, Khaled and Eric Clapton to
listen to, I would get bored of the "change" pretty soon and go
back to Jagjit Singh.

And thus, I got to hear the wonderfully knowing

तुम इतना जो मुस्कुरा रहे हो
क्या गम है जिसको छुपा रहे हो

The intensely romantic

तुम को देखा तो ये ख्याल आया
जिंदगी धुप तुम घना साया

and so many others, that though I can't recollect them now -- are
as familiar and permanent as the memories of old friends.

But the one song that made Jagjit Singh what he is to me is the
one where he is less of melody, technique and nuance but completely
and absolutely a requiem of grief, a gut-wrenching voice calling
out in the totality of the pain of loss. The song (if I remember
right) he sang after the death of his only son --

दर्द से मेरा दामन भर दे या अल्लाह
फिर चाहे दीवाना कर दे या अल्लाह

In all probability someone more knowledgeable or well read than me
had told me this and maybe I read more into this song because I
know (or think I know) what Jagjit Singh means by "dard" and
"deewana" in the song...I could be wrong about all that...
but somehow this has to be the ultimate song when it comes to loss
and grief for me.

The ultimate.

You will be the ultimate ever for me Jagjit Singh Ji, the
ultimate, and forever alive, because I don't even need to listen
to your songs to connect with the blessed oeuvre that you have
voiced for us, left behind for us...

For your ultimate songs reverberate in me, resonate in me, reside in
me.

As found poems.

And memories where I can find more poetry.

Thank you.

Come Again (Shit, What Did I Miss) ?

You know how it is with the Phantom -- that inimitable
super hero who wears his underwear over his trunks (or
tights), is married to the gorgeous Diana Palmer and has
a pet wolf (no, its not a dog) called Devil and a white
stallion called Hero.

You know how it is even with this superhero, the ghost who
walks, the lord of the Bandar and the protector of peace in
the jungle; however loath he be, even he has to go to the city,
from time to time.

And go he does, by simply becoming Mr. Walker, by donning a hat,
a coat and a pair of dark glasses.

I am no ghost who walks (with a loyal retinue of pygmies)
ruling the dark woods, but when it comes to interacting with
the dynamic character and the "news and events" section
of my corporate website called the city my trips are as
rare as the Phantom's.

And no, I am not saying my trips to the city -- I stay in a
part of Secunderabad that is still, out and out "suburbia" -- are
limited because of my current fascination with the photography
of birds, butterflies and wide open spaces. Or because (for more
or less, the last two months) I don't sally forth into it to earn
a living.

Nor because I am a recluse living in a tree house.

It's just so that when it comes to engaging with the
amplification of the city's vibrancy and cultural spirit -- be
it theatre, dance, a book release, an art exhibition, or any
other "happening" or it's collective pulse / voice -- a private
party, an evening at a pub, and so on; when it comes to engaging
with the auditory element in all of these, when it comes to
hearing to the city, what registers on me is cacophony and chaos.

Because, my ears (hearing aids, in fact) can't do a lot of things
yours can. Because, though they are sophisticated and sexy (who
says size matters -- when it comes to hearing aids) when new and
used in controlled environments (like the audiologist's
sound-proofed cabin or programming / audiology) lab,
my hearing aids just suck --

http://www.wired.com/culture/culturereviews/magazine/16-02/su_hearing_aids.

And, though I was told (I have been using these for more than a
year now)otherwise, my hearing aids seem to be incapable of
dealing with the loudness of voices, like that arising
out of recruitment --

http://www.hearinglosshelp.com/articles/recruitment.htm

And since every environment is different, with its own ambient
and unique sound fingerprint and since every new voice is
different, there is no way for me to know how much of my next
interaction with the "city" will be chaos and cacophony.

And how much of it will be a blessed voice that makes meaning.

But (though I am not into wearing underwear on top or flying
around in a cape, or interested in comparisons with super
heroes and their ilk) while I am not chicken, I do wish that
there are more places in the city where I can go and luxuriate
without getting assailed through the ears.

I also wish there were more spaces where I could be like a
gunman in an alien saloon -- in a wild west setting -- who
can sit with his back to a wall and watch the batwing doors
and not bother about anything because he can deal with
whatever he can see coming at him.

But then, if wishes could be horses, I would carry an
audiologist's sound-proof cabin with me everywhere. Or
everyone would carry a notepad (and not be stressed)
to write notes for me.

P.S. -- Written largely for no reason but for still thinking
in terms of "shit, what all did I miss?" after having
had some fairly cacophonic interactions with the "city"
on my 10 days of tripping. Two Cafe Coffee Day outlets
(and one upscale bar), metro and railway stations in Delhi,
the market, Vishwanath Galli and crowded bathing Ghats and a
boat on the Ganga (with a boatman called Rajan whose voice was
as high pitched as a child's; who typed the name of a
Ghat -- Vacchadraj -- on his cellphone for me).

Another Pessoan page

"Literature -- which is art married to thought, and realization
untainted by reality -- seems to me the end towards which all
human effort would have to strive, if it were truly human and
not just a welling up of our animal self. To express something
is to conserve its virtue and take away its terror. Fields are
greener in their description than in their actual greenness.
Flowers, if described with phrases that define them in the
air of the imagination, will have colours with a durability
not found in cellular life.

What moves lives. What is said endures. There's nothing in
life that's less real for having been well described.
Small-minded critics point out that such-and-such poem,
with its protracted cadences, in the end says merely that
it's a nice day. But to say it's a nice day is difficult,
and the nice day itself passes on. It's upto us to conserve
the nice day in a wordy, florid memory, sprinkling new
flowers and new stars over the fields and skies of the
empty, fleeting outer world.

Everything is what we are, and everything will be, for
those who come after us in the diversity of time, what
we will have intensely imagined -- what we, that is, by
embodying our imagination, will have actually been. The
grand, tarnished panorama of History amounts, as I see
it, to a flow of interpretations, a confused consensus
of unreliable eyewitness accounts. The novelist is all
of us, and we narrate whenever we see, because seeing is
complex like everything.

Right now I have so many fundamental thoughts, so many
truly metaphysical things to say that I suddenly feel
tired, and I've decided to write no more, to think no
more. I'll let the fever of saying put me to sleep
instead, and with closed eyes I'll stroke, as if petting
a cat, all that I might have said.

Chapter (?) 27, page 30, The Book of Disquiet by
Fernando Pessoa (Tr. Richard Zenith)

To (and fro) from the City Beautiful

If I ever changed my religion (though I wear my religion
very lightly and am pretty comfortable in my skin about
being a Hindu) I would convert to Sikhism and immediately
get down to learning how to tie a turban and growing
(and grooming) a beard.

And if I ever decided to swear citizenship or allegiance
or mentally get fixated and rooted to any state / province
in India (a remote possibility since I have grandiosely
believed myself to be equally belonging to the length
and breadth of ONE country called India) that state would
be Punjab.

For you see, I have immense respect (bordering the worshipful)
for the Sikh religion, creed, code of living and brotherhood
and just love most things Punjabi -- especially the food and
the Nishan Saheb marked "Panjabi Dhabas".

So, since I was to be in Delhi and was to wind up my trip
at the holiest city for Hinduism - Varanasi, I had tried
to pencil in a visit to Sikhism's holiest city, Amritsar
too.

But though my friends in Chandigarh did all they could,
to help with tickets etc. the Amritsar trip did not
happen. Largely because I did not want to arrive too
late in Varanasi (and also because I had my own
trepidations about traveling unreserved, weighed down
as I was with so much of gear).

But I did manage to get to Chandigarh, the city beautiful
for no reason but to meet some crazy, way out, madcap
(and absolutely solid and middle of the path) biker friends
whom I have surprisingly known and kept in touch with for
more than 7 years, (since that Ladakh trip).

Refreshingly enough, though we noted that most of us
were graying, the never-let-age-catch-up-with-your-biker-spirit
attitude was very much there, as was the genuine interest
and concern in each other. And though I spent barely a day
in Chandigarh and couldn't see anything much of the city
(or the sights around it)I did manage to "chill out with
the boys" over some draught and tuck into some awesome
Punjabi food for dinner (at Nagpal's Dhaba) and breakfast
the day after.

Fortunate indeed are they who live in (or have friends)
the city beautiful -- Chandigarh!

And oh yes, two more things. The train trip I took to
reach Chandigarh from Delhi must have been one of the
best "short" trips I have ever been on. You can say I am
being a bit too Pessoan with "descriptives" or just being
too romantic but I will still maintain that the grass,
wheat, sugarcane, parakeets, etc. look far greener
in Punjab. While the crows look far more gregarious
and the "Theka Desi Daaru" -- small, un-plastered,
one room affairs in the middle of endless acres of
fields worth of portraiture.

The second thing? Well, I discovered that it is possible
to get a bus (normal bus, non-Ac, non-Volvo) seat with
legroom. And also possible to write on a laptop while
bussing (though it was dusty most of the way -- and since
GT Road seems to be suffering road widening -- and
jarring). But most surprisingly, history was made
on that bus trip.

I slept.

Maybe it was the draught beer from the evening before.

Or it was the contentment of having met old friends.

Deccan Diary

30 hours for a bit over 1600 kms from more or less the middle of the
Gangetic plains (which in many ways, is still the heartland / cowbelt
of India), i.e. Varanasi to Hyderabad -- Deccan is a bit of a
creditable haul by train; even in these times of Shatabdis,
Rajdhanis and Durontos. Because the basic infrastructure, underlying
complexities, local issues, etc. on / through which the railways
ply just cannot be wished away or treated as a theoretical
technicality. As such, in retrospect, I am happy with the 33
hours that my train took to reach Hyderabad.

And heck, in the light of the fact that this train was "canceled"*
and then ran (more or less on time) is itself a creditable achievement.

And it compares very creditably with similar long hauls on a
Bullet, at an average of around 50 kmph.

This is not to say that everything is good with the Indian
Railways -- in many ways the Railways are still stuck in a
time warp dating back to the 80s and the 90s -- but more
(hopefully) on that in a later post.

For now, I will take this long haul that got me home --
with the family of 6 (and their 2 friends / attendants /
relatives who were coming over for breakfast, lunch and dinner
from wherever they had parked their butts) "adjusting" in 5
berths around me from Varanasi to Sewagram and the man and
woman who boarded the train at Mancherial along with their
two 3-5 year old girls (for the sake of whose sleep, I couldn't
do much sleeping) and the numerous other things that make
most of Indian Railways compartments seem as if they are
"packed like sardines" -- and give the Railways pass marks.

#++++++++#++++++++#

One good thing about that slow, long haul - the home run from
Kazipet (Warangal) onwards was how it reminded me -- nodding
off at a window or hanging out from a doorway of the compartment,
of a similar slow, long haul from Warangal, with a moon in the sky
(like yesterday night) in a convoy of Bullets with a fellow
rider who had met with an accident and broken his arm riding along
(in an Ambassador). I was sleep deprived on that Bullet ride and
it was the stunning beauty of the moonlint night that helped me
keep awake, mentally marking off the distance to Hyderabad
(Jangaon, Bhongir, Bibinagar) even as I set the pace at the
head of the group. I was sleep deprived yesterday night too,
and again it was the stunning beauty of the moonlit Deccan that
helped me stay awake and get down at Secunderabad Railway
Station (as opposed to waking up next morning in the
shunting yard).

#++++++++#++++++++#



From what I gather -- through interactions with K and my
mother, it has rained twice (and "showered" more or less
every other day) here in the 10 days I have been away. The
skies (I get to see a lot of them around my place) have been
breathtakingly blue and beautiful all since morning. And yes,
there are clouds, with silver and gold linings aplenty along
with the persistent promise of a cloudburst. In fact, it did
rain a bit too, more or less for five minutes, but that
tells me there's rain left in the skies still.



#++++++++#++++++++#






Among all the stuff I had lugged along with me, on long
walks on endless platforms and up and down the stairways
that lead to them was my 55-300 mm lens that I did not get
to use (or feel like using) even once on this trip.
As such, it was imperative that I do a bit of narrow
perspective shooting ASAP. This necessitated a stroll with
the camera and that led to a couple of nice captures of Brown
Pansies. And some Sunbirds. So my wild touch still survives,
after travels through a lot of civilization, or so it seems :-)

#++++++++#++++++++#

Speaking of Sunbirds, while I was away, the Yellow Trumpet
tree that flanks the boundary of the homestead and has served
as a world -- for food and drink, shelter (and in all probability
as a nesting place) for a bevy of Sunbirds has crashed and
broken its trunk. Or so I am told. In fact, it had slanted
onto the road even as I was here (and earlier too) and I had
spent the good part of an evening (with a couple of neighbours
helping and the little man watching) trying to straighten / belay
it. Later on, I had firmly managed to pull it into more or less of
a vertical position with a wire (and some help from willing shoulders)
and tied down the wire with some granite blocks. But it has gone
ahead and crashed...and there is a big, irreplaceable chasm
along my boundary wall (and in my being). I wonder what the Sunbirds
must have made of the disappearance of the tree. And I wonder how
long it will take for a Yellow Trumpet (or any other flowering tree
that attracts Sunbirds) to get equally heavy with flowers as this
one for whom all I can say is RIP...

#++++++++#++++++++#

The first thing I noticed on getting home yesterday was the fragrance
of Parijaatam (it had started flowering -- for the first time -- a
couple of days before I left for the train trip). Even before I
noticed that the Yellow Trumpet (and its world of yellow) was
missing.That happy fragrance lingers, even now :-)

#++++++++#++++++++#



And, oh yes, here's the final diary entry for today. Everything
does seem hunky dory in Squirreldom.



* There was a Rail Roko announced for 13-15 of October,
the Railways first canceled my train and then (as the
Rail Roko was deferred to 15-17 October) ran the train.

Delhi Diary

I am no wide-ranging traveler -- and no, I am not comparing
myself to an Ibn Batuta, a Periplaeus, a Marco Polo, a
Huein T'sang or even many of my motorcycling brethren who
have been to more "places" in this country (and world) than
me. In fact, when I say I am no wide-ranging traveler, I mean
to say that the average salesman of medical prescriptions,
software, etcetera must have been to more Indian (and oh yes,
foreign too) cities than me. It's not that I find it tough to
travel or am demanding when it comes to arrangements, etc. It's
just that most of my "chosen" traveling, as in the traveling that
comes from an urge to see the world, or is fueled by footlooseness,
has been on my motorcycle. And somehow, from the very beginning
of my days as a motorcycle tourer, the heavily laden, thumpingly
noticeable motorcycle has comes across more as an encumbrance
than a facilitator of traveling through the "city".

Which brings me to the time I had ridden from Karol Bagh to
Noida on the Bullet, with the Ladakh carriers (bulky Doodhwala
type of panniers meant to carry "survival gear" for man and
machine and other odds and ends up through the snow and slush
of Nallahs and mountain passes) freshy fixed to spend the night
at a friend's place. And how I had survived Delhi's chaotic
traffic and gaalibaazi (I did let loose a lot of gaalis too,
nobody seemed to mind much) and a couple of hits to the
Ladakh carriers in order to reach Noida.

If this wasn't enough of a thumbs down to the
motorcyclist-traveler in me, what happened two days after
totally swore me off from thinking of Delhi as a place to
go see, visit, feel, ride through and experience.

Oh well, nothing much happened. I was to set out for
Chandigarh (and Manali), so to say set out on the road
to Ladakh; but I started late (from Ghaziabad) and hence
was well and truly stuck in the traffic for well near 4 hours
in order to just get out of Delhi. Unless you have done this
yourself -- sleepless, hungover and on a (heavily laden) heavy
bike, cursing into your helmet, sweating into your jacket and
motorcycling shoes -- you can never really understand the pain
and the scarring of the psyche that it results in.

As such, my motorcycle has been parked more on beach sand and
highway verges and turf and the good earth, than it has been
in a "city".

Okay, I do exaggerate a bit, the traffic in Delhi is not the
only reason I have not ridden from Red Fort to Qutub Minar or
wherever else to wherever else, after all Hyderabad is at least
3 days of hard riding away. But then, first impressions are
first impressions and most of us don't change our impressions,
do we? We do lie a lot, but in my case I don't have to do that.
So there, as -- I have outlined in my ramble up above -- my
first impression of Delhi was "loud, pretentious, horrid traffic".

Or maybe I was exposed to the underbelly of the city, it's
road rage, it's concrete and claustrophobia and anyway never had
the luxury of spending time in it -- on my first visit or later --
to get a feel of its character.

But then, compared to seven years ago -- these are different
times, I am progressively realizing that there are times when
travel doesn't have to mean the Bullet, space that lets my mind
trip doesn't have to be an open sky and wide expanses -- the
impersonality of a hotel room is not that bad in terms of
spaciousness...

So who knows, maybe I will come again to Delhi, and -- like
this time -- again check into an obscure hotel in a not well
known road / street / bylane. And watch the throng of endless
Rickshaws (my hotel was on Sadar Road) and Tongas go by, unaware
or unconcerned by the note-taking of my writerly eyes.

And eat -- like this time -- deliciously fresh and totally
unpretentious food -- kulchas, bhaturas, paranthas,
samosas... -- from quaint roadside thelas and shacks and -- a
little more permanent -- hole-in-the-wall hotels.

And -- like this time -- travel in the Metro, again.

Thank you Delhi.

Post Script -- You know how it is, I grow old and forget things;
or there is so much to tell that even a long ramble like this
doesn't tell it properly or that since most of my writing on
this blog is more or less like a conversation with myself and
as such, there is a lot that has been said earlier, written
earlier, elsewhere...

Whatever.

I forgot to mention in the blogpost up above that one of the
warmest persons I have ever met in my life has been a
Delhite -- on the road to Chandigarh (on that historic ride
to Ladakh in 2005). I forgot to mention that this nice guy
(who incidentally was a Bulleteer who has been to Ladakh
numerous times) struck a conversation with me (on his own)
gave me a lot of tips on riding in Ladakh, nazar uttaroed me
(in a very bikerly way) for being crazy enough to set out
all alone at the end of the season and then also asked
me to look him up on the way back, saying he would like
to know how my ride was.

Surprisingly enough I remembered and called him up
when I was near Delhi (way back from Ladakh and
Chandigarh) and then this gent sent someone to
meet me and guide me to his factory and then
literally sat on my head until I agreed to stay
with him at his place.

Yes, you read that right, I rode through most of Delhi's
traffic to stay over at a perfect stranger's place. Blame
it on his large-heartedness and warmth. Or blame it on my
once-in-a-while-ability to be gregarious.

Either way, as you can see Delhi has been warm to me
for quite some time.

Thank you (again) Delhi.

Orange City and a train to Delhi

For as long as I remember Nagpur's shown the way to get to
Vizag from Orissa when a particular bridge would go down
(during the monsoons) near Rayagada. But then, the credit
for that goes more to my brother who stays at Nagpur
(again for almost as long as I can remember), as in his
presence there used to make the longer haul worth the effort.

Nagpur is also where I have brethren in the form of the
Wanderlust Motorcycling Club and though I haven't really
managed to bond with them collectively, Anukaran (their
founder member and moderator) is a fellow tripper in a number
of ways dealing with belief and faith and an old, old friend.
Not that I needed a reason to ride to Nagpur, but these two
and Rider Mania were why I had been here on the Bullet in 2007.

You can say I have developed a soft corner for Nagpur's
laidback character and even developed some kind of a
familiarity with its bucolic and easy-going nature. All this
of course in comparison with the chaotic and wannabee hi-tech
city nature of development (or at least the traffic) in the
Deccan. Nagpur also means excursions to Tadoba (where I have
been lucky enough to "experience the mystique of a forest"
twice) and Kanha (where I haven't been yet) and catching up
on various types of entrepreneurial planning with my brother
-- in bars where they serve salted groundnuts on the house and
every second middle aged patron seems to be having an
adulterous affair, all alone with a glass of his tipple...

And of course, Nagpur means oranges and all the delectable
namkeen eats -- of which I never tire and about with my brother
knows more than most people who work for Haldiram. And Shahji
cuisine -- primarily non-veg food cooked with extraaaaa spice
and supposedly hot enough to make a mule do cartwheels.

However, all this sampling of Namkeen, Oranges etc. stayed
behind me in the past; because this time my brother (and bhabhi)
were fasting on account of Navaratri. I did manage to eat two
big (and really filling) samosas (on the way to my brother's
place from the station) -- the traditional Nagpuri way, broken
into pieces and doused with generous helpings of kadhi and a
watery channa / choley gravy. And yes, not to forget, served
along with a very long and very hot, raw green chilly.

I did manage to meet Anukaran for a bit and we discussed
development, tripping, books and this and that over Coffee.
Need to catch up with him more often and try and trip more
in Nagpur itself :-)

My train to Delhi was to leave in the afternoon. And it did
(with me in it as a reserved passenger, thanks to my brother's
efforts). But the highlight of that day was the Sabu Daana Poha
that my bhabi made for breakfast. Absolutely otherworldy, with
a wealth of slivers of potatos (and a dash of onions) fried
golden brown and the Sabu Daana looking like pearls with a
rice-whiteness at their centre. I had two helpings. Or did
I have two and half of them. Oh bliss.

After my brother saw me off at the station and into what was
already a badly smelling compartment (the train comes from up
ahead, somewhere near Mumbai and must have baked to stinking
point in the Vidarbha heat) I read a bit of Pessoa and then
promptly got down to stealing a "sitting" nap. Which meant
this was the second time I was taking a post prandial nap --
without a very heavy lunch, mind it -- in two days. Must be
something to do with the to and fro clackety clack of the
trains...or must be something to with the aimlessness of my
mind's wanderings...but anyway, there you have, I promptly
fell asleep.

I must have slept a couple of hours -- in the "now on,
now off" fashion that is possible when the concerned sleep
is in the presence of the comings and goings of a large
, breathing and brushing by you...when the silence of a
train that has stopped woke me up. And I found myself in
the middle of probably more trees than there are in all of
Hyderabad.

Oh, well maybe I exaggerate, but I am sure I was somewhere
in the midst of what is Kanha National Park and not so
surprisingly enough there was no signal on the phone. With
nothing much on my mind and a now very stationary and now
chugging along at a snail's pace train inviting me to do
something photographic, I pulled out the camera and spent
the next half an hour or so going along with the flow of
my eye...till the train gathered pace and became more or
less too unstable (and fast) to do any shooting from. I
mean, I am a veteran of taking photos from moving trains --
in the bygone era of film cameras, in fact -- so it was
evident to me that the exercise would be wasteful even
in digital. So I desisted after shooting a couple of
sunflares.


Then, it was time to desist and pack up the camera and
start looking out for the wares of the mystical orient...
okay, okay... I mean look out for what seems worth the
effort that it take for a gallop -- to and fro from the
moving address called a Sleeper Class Compartment -- but
then I was kind of lethargic this time around. For one,
there was a packet packed for me -- by my bhabhi -- that
was supposed to be either lunch or dinner or whatever else
I wanted to eat it as. And on top of it I had got two
Samosas and a Batata Wada packed at Nagpur Railway Station
(I forgot to mention I also had another two Samosas here,
the traditional Nagpuri way...with Kadhi and Channa / Choley
curry). Which meant that unless I was intent on stocking up
like a hibernating bear it made sense to cut down on my intake.

Besides (like I doubt if I am a photographer because photography
doesn't obsess me) I doubt if I am foodie, if being a foodie
means putting food above everything else.

After all, there is only this much one can eat.

I am not saying I went on a fast just after I realized this
home truth. I do remember having something else in the train...
either a plate of Samosas or a plate of Batata Vadas...can't
remember, must be the constant snoozing that I was resorting to...
or the other type of writing that I was doing on the phone.

I do remember getting down to stretch my legs and "see what's
on offer" on the platform at Itarsi. And almost pinching myself
at the sight of a small "chaat bandi" -- with a steaming Tawa --
one corner of a regular refreshments centre of the type where
sometimes you will find people selling Idlis hard enough to
replace cricket balls and bread that's staler than most Bollywood
jhatkas.

Yes, a "chaat bandi" selling fresh, hot piping chat on a railway
platform. So for a minute I did think that maybe I am dreaming it
up...and missing the Durga Puja Pandals of Rourkela where I used
to gorge on Chaat, Gol Gapas and other delectables every year...but
then, I decided to lay aside that nostalgia trip for later; and waded
into the crowd around the steaming Tawa.
This wasn't exactly Chat on offer here. Maybe the patrons (around
the time I was there) are mostly from ex-Mumbai trains...so what
was steaming on the Tawa was "postered / signboarded" as "Paav
Bhaaji" and though the Paav was lilliputian and the "Bhaaji" but
the peas you get in normal Chat, I must say it was really tasty.
And at 10 Rs. for a plate, I wouldn't report these people to
the guardians of Paav Bhaaji purity either.

Then it was time to go back to the train and peform the required
contortions. To get into the topmost berth (the one assigned to me).
After I had finished my packed dinner and one of the Nagpuri Samosas.

What did I do with the rest, you may ask...

Lurched across half the swaying train (mentally kicking myself
for my greed) and found a dhoti-attired Sadhu sleeping in the
vestibule, his head ( with the hair in Jata) resting on a woolen
blanket. Patted him gently and when he came awake, reverentially
put the polythene in his hand.

I was still kicking myself mentally for my greed, but at least
it turned out in a good cause and I ended up feeding a man of God.

I do remember I was thinking of food while I was trying to sleep;
that led to some happy dreams of Kukkad and Lassi, or rather
mountains of Kukkads and waterfalls of Lassi.

Nothing called greed when it comes to dreaming, no?

Tripping on food -- on a train to Nagpur

I slept barely three hours or so and then (with K accompanying
me) caught an auto to the station, all set for the adventure
(and trepidation) of yet another "unreserved travel" train
journey. I know this may sound in keeping with my characteristic
"shall decide soon" and last minuted-ness, but till Sunday I
was caught up in a number of things that, though of not much
corporate or national or international importance, still
needed my attention.

And yes, I need to add that since most buses headed out of
Hyderabad are not running, almost all trains have been booked
solidly for the last 10 days or so.

The train I was to catch was A.P Express and it was scheduled
to depart from Secunderabad at 6.40 in the morning. Thanks to
K's worry about unreserved travel and horror stories of having
to face serpentine queues at the booking counter, we reached
the station pretty early -- and were pleasantly surprised to
find not much of chaos at the booking counter. It took just 10
mins to get a general ticket, all of Rs. 135 only.

The train was to arrive at (and leave) from Platform No. 10,
so having K along was a godsend as he helped lug my
gear / luggage (books, a camera, two lenses, a laptop and
other mandatories like clothes) being the nice guy he is.
Yes, oh yes, being afoot and having to lug gear is when I
miss my Bullet the most. But what to do, these aren't
exactly "unwristwatched" times, even for me...

The yawns arrived long before the train did, even as I was
checking out the spanking new platform, with its steel railings
and acreages of red and black granite. To digress a bit here,
I saw a wealth of the same red and black granite acreages
across most of the platforms all the way upto Nagpur. Looks
like some rich contractor has made a fortune thanks to the
inability of SCR to think of any locally available stone, or
to get out of their mindsets of considering only granite
"aesthetic". Whatever's wrong with Tandur / Betamcharla /
Normal Granite?

Oh I do agree Granite looks good, especially the red
one...but I am sure it must have costed quite a packet,
and that money would have made more impact if used for
something else.

Getting back to our narrative, I remember gently berating
K about the desertedness of the platform and broaching the
possibility of getting a berth pretty easily. To which his
response was a queer smile which kind of said -- wait and
watch. Sure enough the platform started filling up, by and
by and before it was 6.30 it looked more or less like PF
No. 1 does when (incidentally my favorite train) the Godavari
Express steams in, for a departure from Secunderabad. And when
the train pulled in (it starts at Hyderabad), I was greeted by
two completely full general compartments (and a look of horror
on K's face).

So I resolutely boarded the Sleeper Class compartment, found an
empty berth and plonked my butt on it, pushing the strolley below
the seat. And positioning the backpack safely besides me. In a bit,
the train left and I could see the same look of worry / horror
on K's face and in fact the lad even astonished me with an
"Om Namaha Shivaya", did not know if it was on account of my
intention to go to Varanasi or because he was stressed out with
worries on my behalf.

The first half an hour or so was spent by me in observing my
fellow passengers and it didn't take me long to figure out that
most were also "unreserved". Some clues that helped me Sherlock
this conclusion --
1.) No luggage
2.) Intent on climbing into an upper berth and grabbing
a snooze (some of these guys are in fact ticketless)
3.) An overall air of unconcern as opposed to a "this is
my berth, mind it" kind of just below the surface hostility
that's fairly evident in case of a passenger with a reservation.

Thereafter, I tried to snooze, but failed, as the early morning sun
was pretty much of "in your face" laddie presence and the
petulantly continuous presence of the draught from the windows
wasn't helping either (apart from cooling me, of course). Not
that I am that much of an expert when it comes to sleeping while
in motion, never did it on the Bullet, can barely manage it in a
train and hate the very idea while in a bus, if you must know. But
then, in that in-between territory -- pilloried by the glare of
the sun and the insistent clamour of the wind -- bordering
wakefulness and sleep two poems came and were promptly
jotted down on the phone.

And then, some 3 hours into the journey a nice gentleman
dressed in black, the TTE came. I explained properly and
politely (K had stressed on it) and the TTE invited me to
sit down, took my ticket from me and wrote me a reciept for
the Sleeper Class surcharge and (go ahead and rub your eyes)
berth charges. All of Rs. 135 again. And now I was S3, 53 a
passenger with a reservation hurtling at speed in a train run
by the great Indian Railways. How nice of this TTE to just get
over things with barely minimum fuss! And not even looking at me
askance or asking me to follow him or wait till he comes
back, etc. All normal tricks used by TTEs to check out how
desperate you are for a berth (and what they can wheedle out
from you, for the same).

BTW, auto fare to the station costed me Rs. 200, and the
train travel was costing me Rs. 270. That's a lot of food
for thought for our urban planners and the like, no?

Coming back to the train, leaving behind the chaos and the
utter political mis-management of the city -- What would you
have done to celebrate being allocated a berth in such trying
(in terms of increasing number of Indian travelers) times? I
hope you know that the Indian Railways doesn't serve Beer, BTW.
Also it was kinda early, even if you are from Goa or some
uninhabited island in the South Sea Pacific.

But I did find out that the catering guys served Bread
Omelets for the princely sum of Rs. 21. Two pieces of bread,
one pretty fluffy omelet and a small sachet of ketchup too.
So I put all that away without much ado. And then caught up
on snoozing (this time with the shutter down on the window).

Then it was time to travel to berth number 53 -- luckily in
my compartment only -- and secure (meaning more or less like
before) my luggage and assess all my fellow passengers again.
They come and go, gather a bottle here, a newspaper there,
basically in a more or less avuncular fashion but all the same
indicating that I am responsible for making them move, just when
they were about to digest their morning breakfast. Or maybe I
exaggerate and its just the touchiness of having too many
people all around.

But then, anyway, I snooze a bit more and then pull out
"Speaking of Siva" but before I can do any reading comes
along another hawker; this time with Batata Wadas /
Alu Bondas. A plateful is four of these round, slightly
bigger than an average onion size snack. And I get two
sachets of Cremica sauce / ketchup along with. So again,
without much ado, I put away all four of the wadas --
basically potato dumplings seasoned with green chillies,
garlic, onion and an assortment of spices, dipped in a
batter of besan and deep fried till golden yellow --
thinking fondly of what the little man would have said
when face to face with two sachets of sauce / ketchup.
Okay, let me explain -- the little man is a hogger of
sauce / ketchup / jam; it seems he uses the concerned
snack as an adult safe excuse to attack the sauce /
ketchup / jam on offer.

While I was busy noting down flavour and taste data being
broadcast by my tongue and being, by and by the train moved
from Alu Bonda land to Batata Wada land. Which in this case
meant that it moved through the shadows cast by a stand of
teak trees into the shadows cast by another stand. It was
my phone that told me; very smartly and schoool-masterishly
I must add, told me something to the effect of -- now you are
roaming, be careful with your data usage, etc.

Apart from being an aficionado of commonplace things like
Omelets and Alu Bondas, I am also a bit of Samosa hogger,
so I had an eagle eye all peeled and ready for this
triangular / conical snack of which I can never have enough.
But instead I was hectored and harangued by any number of hawkers
offering Egg and Chicken and Veg. Biryani. All of which --
with the hindsight of previous experience and the pedigree of
being a Hyderabadi -- I turned up my nose at. And instead got
around to window gazing and bird spotting of a type far removed
from what the average urban dweller does at malls. The sightings
were of the usual drongos, lapwings, bulbuls and one peafowl.
And (speaking of butterflies) a common rose. I mean these are
sightings I do remember. Maybe I should have jotted them down,
the way I used to jot down the name of platforms on
earlier (far, far earlier) train journeys. Or maybe I should
have managed to sleep more and managed to reserve a ticket
and managed to give K less reason for worry and concern.

The sun that had been in my face had by now climbed up into
the noonday position, and the weather in this part of the
country can be burning hot, even in late winter. For now,
there was a patch of hot sunlight slowly broiling my bare foot
(I was given a side berth and half sitting / half sprawled out)
and I had managed to run out of water.

But before the compartment's denizens were made to witness a
tandav inspired by thirst, the train reached Ballarshah. And
a number of bells started ringing in my head. Or maybe the
bells were ringing somewhere lower down, in my far from full
stomach.

The platform was sun-drenched and I spotted quite a lot of
butterflies too (many species are active around 12.00 -- 1.00)
but for once I had other things on my mind. Like, food. Also,
I wouldn't have risked being the object of suspicion of a train
load of passengers and the RPF, something bound to happen if I
was spotted with a long lens screwed onto the camera.

So, prudence and palate both dictated I hunt food and I did just
that. First off, my attention was directed at another encounter
with the humble dish called the Omelet. Again hawked with bread.
Two pieces of bread and a not so fluffy (got to be hurriedly made,
A.P Express aa rahi hai!) omelet, with a dash of chat masala
sprinkled on the omelet. All of Rs. 15 only. How was it, you may
ask? Scrumptious and as omeletely heavenly as any I have tasted.
Okay, I exaggerate -- it was cold, the bread was far from fresh;
but since I have had worse omelets priced twice as much as this
in the city, I will still give it high marks. Next, I found a
"drinking water" tap and after waiting a bit for a dude (who
incidentally was wearing a Tee that said "Sorry girls, I date
only models") who was washing his hair as if he were Rapunzel, asked
him to go to beauty parlour and filled up my water bottle. And then
emptied it into my vitals there. And filled it up again.

It was hot. Or else, it was the lack of the sleep. Or it was
that dude who was standing in some shade and giving me an eyeful
of his teenage ballsiness and insouciance. Whatever it be;
I -- the experienced traveler who knows of more platforms
than any software engineer -- stepped wrong, for the first of
two times. Or rather, I purposefully set forth for a cart heaped
with golden brown snacks, betting to myself with the certainty
of a 300mm lens bird photographer that they have to be Wadas for
sure. And, once at the cart, mentally patting myself on the back,
I ordered a plate of Wadas, for a measly sum of Rs. 15. Well,
they were anything but Wadas, even to me. I could have just turned
around and thrown them at the hawker and caused him serious
harm -- they were that tough, that hard -- as opposed "to the
crispy on top, soft inside" goodness of a Wada. But I did no
throwing and resorted to no violence apart from masticating
it all down (I hate wasting food, I am apalled at and by how
so many people equate being rich or being able to pay with
the superciliousness of throwing away food; are they aware
that people die hungry in the same city, state, country, world?)
and then found some shade right in front of my compartment. To
indulge in my favorite pastime -- as a veteran of Indian Railway
Platforms -- of watching passengers.

(Note to sharp-eyed readers who are keen on a career in
Sherlocking in food : this cart selling alleged Wadas was
the only one moving all along the hot sun scoured platform.
Elementary -- to conclude that the so claimed Wadas weren't
selling as hot cakes, eh? Also, the train that this cart was
serenading was a Kazipet bound train, meaning a "southwards"
bound train. Elementary again, no? That someone had tried his
hand at "cooking up" Wadas and was now trying to sell it to a
captive market which would soon be too far to complain. Eh?)

While I was torn in between deciding if I should give into the
temptation for some bananas or opt for a Slice, yet another hawker
approached. This time with a cartload of assorted nuts and
sweetmeats. Among which I could see roasted groundnuts (my
all time favorite) at Rs. 15 for a small packet, raisins and
cashewnuts at Rs. 25 a packet, pistachios (yes, I am not putting
you on) for Rs. 45, packets of dates (though they looked more
like a lump) for Rs. 25 each, some other coloured sugar candies
and packets of (what I found out on examination) of what could
have only been Mavudi Tandra (Mango Papad is the Hindi equivalent
if I am not wrong) again for Rs.25 (for a portion lesser than a
cigarette pack in size). I did a double and a triple and a
quadruple take. Believe me. I swear on Mavudi Tandra. I mean,
I have always been led to believe that Mavudi Tandra is not
made like any other papad (or bought like any other papad for
that matter). And that the best is sold only on the Vizianagaram
platform. So I put it back. I should have just walked away.
Instead I bought some groundnuts and a packet of dates. Ha!

(This incidentally was wrong step two, dear reader. As it
turned out, I did not even open the packs; nor did I take
photographs of them. Just let them gather heat all the way
to Nagpur and then lugged them to my brother's place. Call
me thrifty if you will, but Rs. 40 is a big amount to waste
while traveling in Sleeper Class, no?)

Oops.

So why did I not eat the afore-mentioned "snacks as colourful
as India"? One reason was that I went back into that ill-defined
territory; in between slumber and wakefulness thanks to the
torpor of the afternoon heat and my lack of sleep the earlier
night. The second is that I got full. I mean I ate something
else that made me feel happy, content and oh so full.

I ate a plate of Ballarshah Puris. A plate of rustic simplicity.
Six medium sized puris, a very, very tasty potato curry and two
dangerous looking green chillies stuffed into a transparent plastic
constitute a "plate" of this dish. In fact, the glint of the
transparent plastic in a gent's hand is what led me to realize /
remember that Ballarshah means these puris (oh yes, I have eaten
them earlier here on this very platform, but forgot all about it)!
So, I set out on an expedition to the almost the very end of the
platform and found a cart which surprisingly still hadn't run out
of this awesome plate of deliciousness. A princely sum of Rs. 15
changed hands and I ran back to my compartment exulting inside, as
if I had managed to get the tickets to a "first day, first show"
screening of one of Mr. Bachchan's legendary movies.

I did buy two more Batata Wadas in the train later on, but that
was more or less because of my anxiety about how long the train
will take to reach Nagpur (it just stopped in the middle of lots
of Plain Tigers -- and nowhere -- a bit before Hinganghat) and
meant to be a comfort snack, but if you really want to know,
the plate that really matters in this long rambling is the plate
of Ballarshah Puris. The rest were all side dishes.

Oh, two more things, tidbits rather. Somewhere after Ballarshah,
while turning around to help my foot escape from the magnifying
glass effect of a very afternoonish sun, I saw a hawker dressed
all in white, his face shaved to an millimetre of his skin and
wearing the dark glasses that the visually impaired do. He would
have been in his early forties, had a blind man's cane in his
hand and an assortment of guthka and other packets all over the
front of his chest and draped on his shoulders (or so it seemed
to me). He also had a massive black bag slung on one shoulder.
From which (on being asked for -- by one of my fellow passengers)
after 2-3 minutes of groping he produced a pack of playing cards.
If all this seemed incongruous and strange, what happened next
took the cake. The hawker was paid a sum of Rs. 20. And I could
see him spread the tips of his fingers all over the two currency
notes.

Did he have eyes in his fingertips?

Respect.

The second thing (incident)?

I saw a group of 4 middle aged gentlemen (they were headed
for someplace in MP) put away 6-8 plates of Ballarshah Puris.
They ate it all from the same newspaper, the way nomads and bikers
and other footloose people have done for as long as they remember.
Was nice to see, yes. Also, they folded the newspaper and did not
throw away the green chillies. After all, this is India and this
is Indian Railways; with a little bit of thrift, you can go a
long way.

No?

Blogs R Us?

In a deconstructed way, most (good, great) fiction and (all?)
great poetry has an element of raw truthfullness in it. Whatever
it is that's being played out, articulated or storytold, the
great written word has an air of confessional finality and
innate believability in it. There are times when you, as the
reader are overwhelmed by the impact of a sentence here, a
phrase there, and there are times when you feel for the writer,
really live his or her experience, and realize that below all
that literary construction is a story as real as yours. A
story as common as yours too, but made unique -- in all
probability -- because of the ruthless objectivity and
frankness with which it is told.

This happens a lot with those who read poetry. In fact, for
many people for the poem to grab them "by the scruff of the
neck" or for it to "leave them winded", as if by a blow in
the guts, the poem has to have intensity and be burst of
raw emotion. The refuge not resorted to by speech, the
catharsis that is expected to balm over a deeply ingrained
wound, the angst that is so guilelessly shared.

Not surprising then, at one time, most blogs also had a
similar spine of ruthlessness, honesty and "coming out of
the closet" kind of confessional spirit. Sometimes you in
fact, even felt as if you have intruded into someone's
personal space or are reading through an immaculately
kept "spare nothing, chronicle everything" kind of daily
diary.

Oh yes, it wasn't long back ago when many used to have
"livejournals"; a blog by any other name would smell as...

Then, as we all know, google happened and its search engine
got more and more powerful (read intrusive), Facebook happened
and a lot of the time that one spends "online" got eaten up
there. As also, pretty soon many undesirables (and the literal
types) became part of the blog-reading audiences and so on...

Which means, now most blogs have gone "under the radar" and
become as guardedly insipid as most of us readers who are
connected to the intrusiveness of the Internet all the day.

Unless one considers all those "bloggers" who are "below
the radar" as it is and choose not to be crawled by search
engines, don't really care for what the world thinks of them;
whose blog posts are more or less (in terms of intimacy, honesty and spirit) prefixed with the words "Dear Diary".

Hmmm...

A train to Delhi and Varanasi -- my gullibility travels (again)

A couple of days back, I have had the most peculiar dream;
that I am in a truck (or some kind of a cargo carrier, anyway)
wearing an expression of absolute tiredness, totally beat
and sweat-drenched and evidently in shock. Shock on
discovering that though I have my rucksack with me, I have
forgotten quite a lot of stuff behind -- namely my sleeping
bag, my tent, my camera tripod, a diary and so on...

Thankfully it was just a dream and I woke up to reality and
the fact that its been long since I have tripped in a way that
needed a sleeping bag and a tent.

But yeah, if you dig dreams the way I do -- this dream tells you
two things (or at least that's what I think);

i.) I have been planning a major trip and been thinking of
roughing it out too.
ii.) I am a bad traveler; at least in terms of losing things
while on the road.

And if you thought so, you would be right. Because I have been
contemplating a long trip up north -- starting from Kullu and
heading to Kedarnath and Badrinath and a bit of a bigger hike
into the snowy expanses all around. And yes, I am a bad traveler
and have lost quite a bit of stuff on the road. A list that
includes 2 pairs of hawai chappals, one set of gum boots
(this was in Ladakh in 2005 when my gear was bungeed down in a
fashion that would have made any tinker go green with envy), a
pair of Bermudas (this was somewhere after Pune when I was
returning back from a ride to Gujurat; I had the Bermudas spread
on the seat for some more comfort to my sore but and then they
just took wing somewhere), a Lonely Planet, a diary with detailed
trip logs (somewhere near Gira waterfalls in Dangs way back from
Ladakh in 2005), a tripod and a sleeping bag (at Barr in Rajasthan,
on way back from Ladakh in 2005 -- stolen while I was making a
STD call) and more helmets than I can remember...

Got to do with either the strain of being on the road, or not having
anyone watching my back or to do with my continued gullibility, but
then there you are, yes I have lost my fair share of this and that
on the road.

Oh well, while I am at it, I need to also make a clean breast of a
fact that would be downright criminal for any self-respecting
photographer (arguably also a traveler). I have also managed to
lose the lens hoods; of both the 18-105 and the 55-300 (Nikon
AF-VR) lenses I currently have. One was on the highway while I
was still getting used to the D-90 and the other was again on
the road (on a dirt track near my place, while I was on the
cycle -- way back from shooting nesting weaver birds).

So...ummm...well, hota hai yaar. Joke's on me and my gullibility,
you see.

So...ummm...well, it travels again, this time in the relative comfort
and order of a train. Heading out to Delhi (to meet a schoolmate whom
I haven't seen in more than 18 years) and thereafter to Varanasi and
the trip called Om Namaha Shivaya. And since a part of the journey
is unreserved, this should be fun :-)

No, for once I don't anticipate losing anything; but yes I look
forward to finding some poetry!

The fascinating world of my butterflies

Picturise a late morning -- 11ish -- setting, of grass that has a dazzle
that can only be called "green gold", along with a wealth of Lantana,
bramble and scrub and other wildflowers, under a wealth of sunlight
pouring in from dazzling blue skies. *

Amidst this "canvas" for the photographically inclined, now picturise
the flight -- of specks of bright colour -- hither and tither, this way
and that, now soaring up to be lost in the light of the skies, now
dipping down to vanish into the green of the verdure.

If you can follow the speck of bright colour long enough and do it
again and again on a daily basis (and google for it and land up at
places like this) probably you can recognize one of them as an individual "type" as opposed to "hmmm, isn't
that a butterfly?"

Okay, if you are an "old butterfly hand" kindly excuse me for
this whiff of what may appear to be grandstanding (it's delight,
that too childish, in fact) but yes, I have got good enough to
identify some butterflies in flight (and most when they are
basking) and in fact I already have a substantial list (one that
will hopefully grow) of my butterflies.

So hold my camera while I type them down, will you please?

Common Rose
Crimson Rose
Banded Swallowtail / Blue Bottle / Common Jay
Pale Grass Blue
Common Tiger
Striped Albatross
Leopard
Red Helen
Lime Butterfly
Danaid Eggfly (male / female)
Common Jezebel
Blue Pansy
Peacock Pansy
Lemon Pansy
Yellow Pansy
Chocolate Pansy
Striped Tiger
Plain Tiger
Blue Tiger
Tawny Coaster
Common Castor
Anderson's Grass Yellow
Blue Spotted Crow / King Crow (male / female)
Zebra Blue
Pale Grass Blue
Common Cerulean
Grass Demon
Common Gull
The Pioneer
Mottled Emigrant
Common Emigrant
The Baronet
Brown Awl

Yes, many of these butterflies have even resulted in pretty good
captures! Which is like an added joy on top of the fascinating
reward of just seeing and identifying the butterfly.

As I write this, its been almost three months of lots and lots
of painstaking field work, of being scratched in the bushes,
of being led a dance in what one thinks is stalking and the
absolute disregard of time in what is involved in
"chasing a butterfly", but nonetheless it has been worth it.

As has been the tanning of my sun-exposed body and bleaching of
the wilderness of my hair.

Because, for every proper "capture" of a butterfly, there are
countless more that take root in me in the form of poems.

And capture or not, poem or not, its humbling to "see" a
butterfly and both enlightening and delightful to thereafter
read up on it and know it as an individual, as yet another
lovely living thing that makes nature what it is -- a
fascinating world.

Here's to you -- my butterflies, may your tribe(s) increase!

* Sad, but true...it hasn't rained much in Hyderabad this year.
Normally I would tear my hair out and complain and bawl a lot.
But this time I was getting something built, okay? Also, you
cannot do much photography of butterflies. Ask me :-)