Through the mind’s eye

I have this idyllic image of Nainital, my hometown, ensconced in my heart. It is almost like a traveller saving a perfect picture of his sweetheart in the recesses of his mind and seeking solace in the fact that he has someone beautiful to come home to.

In his memory he likes to see his beloved devoid of all imperfections or blemishes. Only when he comes face to face with her does he realise that her complexion may not be as smooth as he had imagined or she may have the beginnings of a wrinkle here or a light spot there. However, like these do not come in the way of love, my picture of Nainital does not take a beating when I go home and see concrete pathways substituting cobbled lanes, new structures rearing their ugly head in between trees or the commotion created by an increasing number of cars.

As I sit in the deathly pale environs of my swanky Delhi office, looking out of my window, all that meets the eyes is transformers instead of trees, hovels instead of hills and numerous cars instead of chirping birds. At such times I think of Nainital, as a haven with verdant hills and an emerald green lake, the memory of which cheers me up even in the gloomy enclosure.

It is no longer the sleepy little town it was during my childhood. Along with the roadside shacks, that fill the air with a strong fragrance of mountain masala tea, it now has a regular Cafe Coffee Day. Even the local Tibetian market has to compete with brands like Levi’s and Provogue, for though the consumerist culture may not have caught on heavily in small towns it has definitely made inroads.

Although it is painful to see excessive commercialisation of the town, yet for me it is home and has retained some of its endearing characteristics.

The crowded Tallital bazaar has been the same as it was in the early eighties, the only exception being the newly paved road. In the early morning the bazaar resounds with the excited chatter of school children accompanied by the screech of shutters, as shopkeepers gear to start their daily business. Afternoons, especially in winters, are a laid back affair. One can see a row of shopkeepers sunning themselves like lazy crocodiles on a river bank, some nodding off while others, like this old man, furtively glancing at every woman who happens to pass by.

Another permanent fixture is an unassuming woman in a small ramshackle dry cleaning shop near my house. She sits gazing out of the sole window in her shop, while her son and husband dexterously iron heaps of clothes, until the only creases left are perhaps the ones on her aging face. She reminds me of the senile patriarch in Marquez’s ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude', who is tied to a tree and is rooted to that position till the end of his life.

In Nainital, like any other small town, everyone knows everyone else, so gossip mills work round the clock (which can be quite unnerving). In between hot cups of tea and spicy snacks, conversations range from disclosures of elopements, inter-caste marriages, newborns, divorces, to the fall in fortunes of families and the monkey menace in the neighbourhood.

The imprint of Imperial rule is visible in the Boat House Club, which is also a place for mooring yachts. It has a magnificent deck which after sunset offers an ethereal view of the lake, reflecting images of the town bathed in an ambient glow. To dine on the deck under a star strewn sky, watching the play of light on the waters seems to be the panacea for all the ills in the world.

At times it seems foolish to trade living in such a beautiful town with the hustle bustle of a metropolitan but at the end of the day my heart is warmed by the fact that where ever I may wander I will always carry this perfect picture of my hometown in my mind’s eye.

The cry of a scorched soul!

The firmament is scalded by the fierce fire of the Sun,
Relief and respite from this tormenter there is none.

Flaming fumes from the bowels of the earth engulf all things living,
Proclaiming that of a scorching summer this is just the beginning.

The sweltering season seems to sap away the soul of every life-giving tree,
Abnormal rises in temperature become part of tomorrow’s history.

Sweat beads trickle down temples to clog all pores of wasted bodies
The harsh heat wave almost gives a vicarious vision of Hades.

Blasts of hot air hit home the point that global warming is all man’s doing,

Maybe tis nature’s own ruthless way of shaking us out of slumber to get going.

An affair to remember!

A careless caress, an inquisitive look and an instant attraction, that’s how my first love affair began. Cupid caught me at an early age and my love for books bloomed at a time when I was a stranger to the written word.

As a toddler I found great joy in flipping through the pages of The Illustrated Weekly, just trying to make sense of the pictures or looking at comic strips from a Hindi magazine called Dharmayug.

Once I grew older and got a grip on languages there was a whole new world waiting to embrace me in its arms. My earliest mates were comics like “Champak”, “Nandan” and “Tinkle”, which were a treasure trove of stories.

In school I was introduced to the inimitable Enid Blyton and her adorable characters like Noddy and Big Ears, the antics of Amelia Jane, The Famous Five , and the midnight feasts at Malory Towers and St. Claire’s.

As kids we lap it all up without thinking why the French Mamzelles are always the butt of jokes in the school series, or what makes Georgiana, better known as George, of the ‘Famous Five’, uncomfortable with her sexuality. Well, I do not want to harp on racial and gender criticism of the author, for besides other things she had the amazing knack of titillating the taste buds with mouth watering descriptions of apple tarts, scones, pecan pies and home-made cakes.

Adolescence brought a whole new gamut of emotions and the”guilty” pleasure of reading a MB hidden inside a text book. The Mills and Boons series are akin to our very own television soap sagas, for most of the stories are clichéd, but in this case fun lies in formulaic fiction. The typical girl meets boy romance story touches the heart strings of every gawky teen aged girl, who experiences a kind of wish fulfilment in it. My school library had a vast array of these, ranging from Barbara Cartland’s historical romances with Dukes and lithe waif-like child-woman heroines to sundry stories of modern day doctor nurse liaisons.

For me English Literature was an obvious choice in college, the best part of it being that I got to do what I love the most, that is, read voraciously. This was my first encounter with Indian authors writing in English. Amitava Ghosh’s Shadow Lines and its non linear narrative gripped my imagination instantly. Although I read his The Hungry Tide much later, the book has become one of my favourites. The sketch of a quaint little village in the lush green mangrove forests of the Sundarbuns, the haunting description of the vast waters of the Brahmaputra and the complex chemistry between the protagonists are images that will remain with me forever.

They say that with age the intensity and passion of love diminish but I think time and age have only fuelled my fire for reading and I have inevitably found solace in the arms of fiction.

The long list begins with Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni whose stories cast a spell over me. Although most people know her for The Mistress of Spices, I found The Queen of Dreams much more compelling and captivating. Be it the power of the subconscious mind, messages in dreams, the bond between two sisters, or a retelling of the Mahabharata from Draupadi’s perspective, Divakaruni has the amazing power of conjuring long lasting images which have a haunting quality.

Latin American writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Isabel Allende, with their stark style of writing and extensive use of magic realism have the ability to shake up your soul. Who else but Marquez can goad a reader to read on after revealing all the details of the plot in the first page of The Chronicles of a Death Foretold.

Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red caught my attention at a bookstore and I just picked it up without knowing that I would get hooked on to his books after that. His narrative in the book is like opening a portmanteau with many compartments. He interweaves so many stories beautifully that each chapter leaves you craving for more. Ever since I have read Snow, Istanbul and The Museum of Innocence I have become fascinated with Turkey. How I wish I could catch a glimpse of the setting sun over the Bosphorus and trace the silhouette of the Blue Mosque.

Like a giddy headed school girl in love, I could endlessly go on about being besotted with books but the magnitude is so great that any canvas seems too small to paint the perfect picture. However, I am glad that this passion of mine will never wane for with every book the mystery, excitement and novelty of a new love always remains.

The romance of reading the “old fashioned way”!

Last year the launch of the Amazon Kindle created a lot of buzz in the book industry and if that did not kindle a flame in the hearts of book lovers and geeks, this year may make modern Plato’s of us all, since we may be seen roaming with tech tablets in the form of Apple I Pads. However, the digital revolution may not bode well for people like me who love reading the ‘old fashioned’ way.

I have nothing against technology but there are some things that I pray would remain the same. Many may call me a romantic fool but sometimes I’d rather be that than give up an old love. I find an e book extremely non personal, for it takes away so much from the whole experience of leafing through the pages of a book.

Reading on a digital device for me, is like having a diet supplement rather than a four course meal. I would never give up the pleasure of ravishing a good read for anything in the world.

I love the scent of old tattered second hand books, the coarse look and feel of the yellow pages roughened with age. Some even have little notes scribbled on the front leaf, mostly birthday or anniversary wishes and the name of the person who possibly presented these on particular occasions. My association with such a book begins right away, when I think that it has travelled a long way, changed many hands, brought joy to the person who got it as a present, when it was new with crisp pages. Then perhaps it fell from grace and for reasons unknown became part of a “kabhaari’s” paraphernalia or a second hand book shop, until I rescued it and reinstated it to its rightful position, on a bookshelf. Wonder, when the digital dragon engulfs all things printed, will we be able to have such pleasures. Will a digital device have any sentimental value or will it just be a part of e-waste?

Another favourite hobby of mine is browsing through books at bookstores. I can spend hours just looking at various volumes, before picking up several and then grudgingly sorting and re sorting these to limit my choice to just one or two. The experience is even more enjoyable if the owner or his assistants know what they have in the shop and helpfully recommend some. Sadly in most cases many of these are just salesmen who are clueless about authors and indifferent to books. I am willing to tolerate the latter in mega chain bookstores, for the digital editions are going to deprive me of this joy as well.

Sometimes I try to console myself by thinking that I may eventually take to these devices. I remember there was a time when my thoughts danced to the tune of a pen and I could not simply churn out any piece of writing on a computer but now I need a keyboard for putting down my thoughts and feelings. (In fact I should consider it a saviour in disguise since my handwriting is worse, though perfectly legible, than that of my 11 year old cousin)

I know this may be an issue for a long drawn debate since environmentalists would argue that more printed books mean more exploitation of natural resources but I do not want to start a Copenhagen climate conference here. My love for tactile books defies reason, which may favour virtual versions, but I guess Love is often beyond reason and I would prefer flipping the pages of an actual book rather than adapting to one touch buttons, virtual flips or clicks.

To the Heaven that I call Home

(A Kaleidoscopic canvas of seasons in

Nainital)

Summer

The placid green waters of the lake sparkle as they are touched by the playful golden rays.

Unlike the scorching sultan of the plains, the summer sun in the mountains is benign and benevolent in its ways.

The cobalt of the clear blue sky is a harbinger of times fresh and new, there is an intrinsic sweetness in all things that your eyes may view.

Monsoons

Lush green leaves play peek-a-boo, hiding behind the misty morning screen.

Nature’s palette seems to be filled with all shades of green.

The pitter-patter of raindrops on rooftops announces the arrival of a brief but steady shower, oft accompanied by lightning and thunder, proclaiming all their power.

The Mighty mountains rise above the mantle of mist, as if invoked by the sweet scent of wet

earth.

Tiny forest waifs wake up to soak in the season and carouse unabashedly in all glee and mirth.

Autumn

Weeping willows delicately arched over the resplendent waters of the lake.

The gentle caress of the errant breeze that feels like the touch of the first soft snow flake.

A rhythmic rustling of russet leaves, fills all the bowers and the eaves.

As people trudge along winding paths in a hurry to reach home, for Autumn’s onset heralds the long winter journey that they need to go on.

Winter

The dark night looks like a dusky maiden clad in pristine white, only the moon bears witness to her splendour.

Lofty trees in their silken snow covered garb, sway to the tune of the winter wind, singing an ode to her with boundless passion and candour.

But her beauty too is ephemeral and must fade away as

the first rays of the sun melt the snow and pave the way for another day.

(For my dear cousin Munu who misses home like Dorothy of The Wizard Of Oz. . Thank you for selecting these beautiful pics for me from http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/Nainital)

Pondering potpourri

The sound of the radio waft­­s in along with the smell of samosas and other savouries being prepared in the adjoining eating joint. The paanwallah who does not take lightly to offenders has a small placard with a list of his defaulters, on whom he bestows innovative but unparliamentary titles. Seated on his high chair he prepares paan with a great flourish, choosing the best betel leaf from the bowl smearing it with lime and ‘katha’ sprinkling some masala and carelessly throwing in a betel nut or two, before dexterously folding the leaf and presenting it to his regular patrons.

Although his name, Natwar, may remind one of a vile Bollywood villain but his appearance is a complete antithesis to it. Bespectacled and clad in a white dhoti with a little pony tail or ‘bodhi’ he conjures up the image of the quintessential pandit in a hindi movie. The archaic transistor by his side seems to be his best buddy and often the soft strains of old Hindi songs from it, break the monotony in my office. Sometimes it is a welcome distraction for me, especially when I catch snatches of one of my all time favourites but very often I wish I had ear muffs to keep away the jarring sound of disturbances in transmission and other not so pleasant tunes. This manoeuvres my stream of consciousness to other times in the past.

Radio’s and I have been at loggerheads since childhood. In the early days my room was adjacent to Chaji’s (my grand uncle) who till date turns on his radio at 5 am. As a child it served as an alarm as well as an irritant for me.

The AIR Bareilly service (the only one in Nainital, at that time) would begin with ‘Vande Mataram’ and I would toss and turn in bed to shut out the sound (no disrespect for the beautiful composition but at 5 am Vande Mataram only heralded a woeful morning for me). Next came the Akaashvaani news in that typical staid ‘propah propah’ hindi news readers, belonging to the old school BBC, accent. Followed by a scrutiny of the headlines for the day and then the daily recital of a part of ‘Ramcharitra Manas’. This was like a wakeup call for me since it meant that it was already 7 and time for school. Sometimes the sounds from the neighbours radio too would filter in to compete with the already existing ones and I felt caught in a web of hotchpotch hum.

In college I thought I had broken the radio jangle jinx but there were substitutes. In the hostel (As all IP hostellers would know) calls were announced over a microphone. One would often be shaken out of peaceful slumber by the Matron’s monotonous tone, announcing someone’s phone call.

There was no peace to be found even when I was out of college. The raucous radio came to haunt me again, this time as an accomplice of a portly lady next doors, who began her day with 'Gurbani' on her radio and joined in at the end with enthusiastic chants of “Jo bole so Nihaal” . Then followed her daily dose of Punjabi songs, many a times I have fought the urge of barging in to her house and decimating her device into pieces.

How certain episodes from childhood play on our psyche throughout our lives, to this day I simply get agitated with these sounds for no greater reason than they disturbed my sleep and were associated with waking up for school, exams, results and all things that I dreaded.

Auto Ordeal!

_{Commuting to office daily can be quite an ordeal. In fact most of us are stuck between the devil and the deep sea. It is torturous and straining for people who drive to work and worse for mere mortals like me who take an auto rickshaw every day.}

The torment begins even before starting from home because you are anxious about getting an auto in time. Even if you happen to spot a vacant one, it is most likely that the driver will make you feel like persona non grata and speed past as if he were James Bond in a chase sequence.

As you wait for an auto there are other irritants that need to be countered. The ubiquitous sweepers with their gigantic brooms cover you in a blanket of dust and God be with you if you are caught in between two overzealous ones, who threaten to reduce you to dust if you don’t move out of the way.

In fact, gazing at a distance for an auto can be so taxing that after a while you see a mirage, and may have a false illusion of green and yellow (colour of CNG autos in Delhi) amidst the chauffer driven colourful cars that speed (read almost snub) past you.

Even if your fervent prayers to God are finally answered and an auto deigns to stop, you need to be prepared for a fight. Mind you, this may vary from persuasive pleas and a haggling war to the choicest expletives stored in your vocabulary. Cunning and guile too come in handy sometimes, when you convincingly lie about your destination and then pretend ignorance of the route. However, practice this at your own peril for you may be asked to disembark midway by an irate driver.

The reasons for overcharging are getting innovative by the day. From the regular “Madam is route pe jaam hai” and “wahan se sawaari nai milegi” to the never heard before ones like “I am a graduate, phir bhi auto chalata hoon so I have a right to demand more money.” If you try to threaten them by calling up the helpline, an audacious few may offer to give you the number themselves.

Besides being open to the vagaries of “autowallahs” and nature, in these three wheelers, you are in for many more jolts at traffic signals. I have come across a motley crew of people, including beggars who smack your hand if you ignore them, a perpetually pregnant lady who begs in the name of her unborn child (although she has been sporting a baby bump since years), a little kid offering me “Bhog” (read Vogue magazine) and a man selling glowing red horns with the refrain “seengh lelo”.

And if that wasn’t enough you may find the visiting card of a tantric, with the assurance “har parshani ka hal, mai promise”, land on your lap from nowhere. I am almost tempted to visit him for a solution to my commuting woes, after all desperate diseases call for desperate measures.

How I wish that all my travelling travails would come to an end and I could imperiously command, “Beam me to work Scotty”!