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 :-)