m a n u s c r y p t s

Part 1, 2, 3

We wanted to try out a specific restaurant for dinner, but apparently the driver stayed far away and I could sense he wasn’t too happy about having to wait. Anyway, we had more than an hour to kill before dinner, and the driver was at his wit’s end as we knocked down his suggestions one by one. No, we didn’t want to see the light and sound show at the Cellular jail. We actually ended up at Mahatma Gandhi park, for children, and laughed at ourselves and the Patton Tank we found, over a good walk. We then asked the driver to drop us at Marine Park, and go home. He asked us about our dinner plans at that particular restaurant, and we said we’d dropped that.

The Marine park has a wonderful promenade, and allows long walks on pathways that extend into the water. It reminded me of Marine Drive in Cochin. I am fascinated by night lights, especially by the sea shore. Not the dazzling kind, but the ones that make themselves a background, as though each light tells a story. And it was here that Port Blair would offer me the second glimpse of itself (after Corbyn) that I would take away with me. I saw old couples taking their evening walk, younger couples putting the cozy nooks offered to good use, tourists taking pedaled boat rides in the water complex, young executives catching up in small groups, after a long day at work. Like locals everywhere, I wondered if they could ever look at their town the way I looked at it -- in a tourist kind of way, though I have read that the economy is supported a lot by tourism. But Port Blair, except for the airport, and the ferry, didn’t seem to go overboard on it. Its a little town, like any other Indian town, made special because of its history, and its unique place away from the mainland. Not a choice it made.

We dined at ‘The New Lighthouse’. This one also offered a spectacular view. The fish this time was awesome, though the rest of the dinner was unremarkable. On the way back, I clicked some things that continue to puzzle me

An uneventful, yet peaceful last night on Andaman.

The next morning, we finally went to Mandalay, the place I’d wanted to dine at. It was only 2 km from our hotel, but it was difficult to get transportation back from there, and that meant the driver had to wait, something which put him off the previous night, but which he was okay with in the morning. Hearty breakfast, including a mushroom omelet made by someone who knows how to do it, and the splendid view the web had promised me. Slightly expensive, but worth a visit. By a sub conscious association, I kept humming the very catchy ‘The Road to Mandalay’.

We quickly proceeded to the Cellular Jail. It opens at 9 and there weren’t many visitors when we reached -- 10.00. We took the services of a guide, who did a good job of taking us around the place and explaining things we might have missed otherwise. The art gallery was a good starter, but I was thrilled with the Netaji photo gallery. I went into a click frenzy, and it continued until we left the place. The effects of the cellular jail, in addition to the history lessons, are the automatic sighs and the lumps in the throat as you see the cells, the gallows, the central tower. One can only imagine -- from the pictures and other exhibits, the travails of the prisoners. All for the freedom we take for granted now. But still, my heartfelt gratitude. You didn’t have to, and yet you chose to. Thank you.

The guide told us that at the counter, we hadn’t been given a ticket in spite of asking, which meant that the official could pocket the money. We picked up the luggage from the hotel and quickly left for the airport, only to be told that the flight was delayed by half an hour. The airport was chaotic, with people representing quite a few communities. Bengalis, Punjabis, Tamilians, Gujaratis, Mallus like us. I wondered if it was always like this. Perhaps the limited means of transportation to the islands meant that everyone would have to use the airport, and on days like this, it would be a mini Cellular Jail, for an hour or so, which left everyone free to swear loudly in respective languages at the flight’s delay, to make separate queues in which one was first, to shove each other off queues that were finally formed, to litter the airport and make it a gigantic trash bin. To revel in hard earned freedom.

As I look back, I have much to remember -- the lazing around on Vinnie’s beach, the snorkeling trip, the beautiful uninhabited Wilson Island, the aimless walking around in Port Blair, Corbyn’s Cove, and all those thoughts about progress and where the collective will of its humankind would take these islands.

until next time, endaman

PS: The last vacation, when I described Leh, several people mailed me for an itinerary. I am writing a short recommended one below, in case you’re interested.

Day 0: Reach Chennai from wherever you are (or Calcutta, though check when the flights are)

Day 1: Catch the 10:15 KF flight to Port Blair. You’ll land at about 12.30. KF feeds you, but if you feel hungry, you have time for a quick snack before the ferry at 2.00. The tickets are difficult to get the same day (until they have the promised online system) so you should organise it before. In spite of the small goof up, I’d highly recommend Vinnie’s for stay at Havelock and their Meet and Greet service.

Day 2: Snorkel at Elephant’s beach, Dive (rates at Vinnie‘s site) and off to Radhanagar in the afternoon. Go right till the end to the small lagoon for a good sunset view. Visit Red Snapper, its quite close by. Roads could be dark, get a torch.

Day 3: Wilson Island definitely. Off to Port Blair in the afternoon, preferably by the 12.30 ferry. That’ll give you enough time to catch the Cellular Jail the same evening. (entry allowed till 4 pm) City King Palace is quite a decent place. Fish Dinner at Lighthouse/ Mandalay.

Day 4: Ross Island, and leave by the 12.50 flight.

Resources: Vinnie’s (including Diving rates),  Wiki including Citi King Palace, Havelock Wiki

PPS:  D has named her Orkut album “Between the devil and the deep blue sea’.

Part 1 and Part 2

We caught the return ferry at 3 pm, and this time, we got the non a/c seats. Arrgh, and as if that wasn’t enough, there were some noisy seat related quarrels, which thankfully didn’t involve us, so it was like watching a serial you couldn’t avoid. At about 4.30 the boat docked, and I wondered if this was some fast boat. I decided to check before getting out, only to be told that this was Neil Island and Port Blair was another one and a half hours away!! After fretting inside the boiler accommodation for 2.5 hours, we discovered the freedom on the deck (the sun had set by then).

The Port Blair view was fantastic, with the roaming beam from the light house and the glittering lights from the coast. We landed at only about 7 and were taken to the Citi King Palace hotel. The surroundings scared us, but the room was good enough, and the owner, extremely helpful. He had already got us tickets for our trip the next day, and arranged a taxi for our use. We had dinner at The Lighthouse Residency, another place which we had read a lot about, and turned out to be only about a 10 mins walk away from our hotel. Slightly disappointing food, but the place did offer a spectacular view.

The next day’s main trip was supposed to be to an island called Jolly Buoy, but we discovered that it has been closed after the tsunami, and our tickets were for Red Skin island.  We had breakfast at Ananda, who also packed us a biriyani lunch. Plastic is banned there, and we were checked for plastic (they are replaced with jute bags) The boat names seemed to indicate a subtle tussle between the internet giants. I allowed myself a smile, it was let through.

After Havelock, Red Skin’s attractions – the glass bottomed boat and snorkeling was quite a come down. D beat me hands down in terms of expectations. While I had imagined a fiber glass boat, D had dreamt about a submarine like thing which would be completely under water, the reality was this.

Later, we also realized we hadn’t brought a towel, so I was forced to do a Salman in the water as my spare tee was kept as a towel. No, no packs, hell, remember we even forgot to pack a damn towel. Bloody double whammy- glass bottom and topless!!

We got back by around 2 and did a little trip to Wandoor, where D bagged her second naariyal paani, and we discovered more topless entities, and their roots.

We went back to the hotel, and thanks to the ickiness induced by the salt water + heat combination, were forced to take a bath. We rested a bit and left for Corbyn’s cove at 4. Corbyn is about 20 mins from town, and is unfortunately an example of the extent to which we can dirty a nice beach. But strangely,  despite that, I felt very peaceful there. It could’ve been many things. The time, it was about 5 by the time we left – sunset time. It could’ve been the large (in terms of numbers, cheapos) Indian families, floating in the water almost fully dressed, and busy clicking away with their analog cameras. I’m not being condescending, mind you, it had a nostalgic effect.

I was suddenly reminded that just like the beaches at Havelock, my days on Andaman were numbered. I also realized that I was unconsciously comparing this trip to Leh, and this beach to the ones at Havelock, and even comparing the pictures I’d been taking so far. I was also looking at Ross Island across the water, and ruing that I chose Jolly Buoy over Ross Island, even though we had a decent time there. The families I mentioned earlier were enjoying the moment completely, they probably weren’t even going to Havelock, and would know about the pictures they’d taken only after they were developed. I had read about Japanese bunkers at Corbyn’s cove, but even if they were, they’d been turned into waste bins!!

On our way back to town, I could see sides of the road being dug up, and I wondered how long it would be before the Jap bunkers on the roadside would be removed! For the second time in the trip, I wondered about progress.

To be Continued…..

My sarcasm regarding the airport welcome, it seemed, wasn’t totally lost on the resort staff, as two people waited on/for us at Havelock. In about 20 mins, we were at Island Vinnie’s, on beach #5 (alias Vijay Nagar beach). On the way we passed Beach #3 (alias Govind Nagar, which also serves as a market place for Havelock). Havelock, I’d say is Goa without the overdose of tourism. Coincidentally, I was reading Michener’s ’Chesapeake’, and was at the part where the coming of the white man destroyed the paradise the Indians had. Later, when I would remark (sometimes) on the lack of options in Havelock (compared to Goa), I’d also wonder about ’progress’, and how its positives and negatives are such a subjective thing, as is the answer to the question ’where to draw the line’ when it comes to change and progress.

Meanwhile, though the watch claimed 5.30 pm IST, it was already dark. Obviously nature cares two hoots  about IST, not unlike the Indian nature. My body, however, seemed to understand the new time very well. I was famished, and we had an early dinner at the newly opened ‘Full Moon café’ at Vinnie’s.

Though some of the menu items had still not made their debut in the kitchen, there were enough options. And it felt almost like home, because Vinnie played ‘The Prestige’ by popular vote. Dinner watching a movie. We disappeared towards the middle of the movie. No one applauded, thankfully. D wanted to get up in time for the sunrise. She was told that it was at 4.45 AM. The early bird might get the worm, but on my sleep I was firm. All vacation days are like Sundays, I get to see the sun at a time of my choosing. Hmmph. She did get some awesome snaps though.

We’d planned a snorkeling trip at Elephant Beach, so my snoring stopped at about 6.30 (!!) and we set out at 7.30. We got there to find out that the Navy guys wanted to do some shooting there, with real guns, so snorkeling was not allowed on that day. I remembered the Army guys playing spoilsport in Leh. I wanted to argue with them that they had a vast sea and many uninhabited islands to do target practice, and that I had my own shooting plans, but the gun silenced me. Talk about Navy Blues, thankfully, our resort staff took us to a nearby place which they said was equally good. Unfortunately, though, D betrayed her fishy star sign. She gulped before we got into the water, during the time we were underwater, and after we got back into the boat, when we were given samosas. No, actually, underwater, she behaved like the South African cricket team. She choked, but thankfully only after we did a fair bit of snorkeling.

We got back in about four hours and spent an hour on the resort beach, where you could go a long distance into the water and would still be only waist deep in water. We had read about the Red Snapper restaurant and decided to go there for lunch. Its five minutes away from Vinnie’s and worth a visit. The Goan fish curry and the full Bluefin Trevally with Chinese sauce are highly recommended.

We got back and I napped (my default mode during vacations) a bit before going to the famous beach #7 (alias Radha Nagar), about 9km from Vinnie’s. I think the hype set stellar expectations, and I found it to be less impressive than say, Palolem, in Goa.  Forget Goa, the beach at the resort was way better, I thought. But I managed to film “A Snail’s pace” there, and D managed to get the naariyal paani, which had been eluding her all this while. At just Rs.10. We had hired an auto for the entire trip,  and the journey, especially the return, on winding roads, with glimpses of the village life, gave me quite a sense of peace. At a price, of course, Rs. 500, for the to and fro journey, and a wait of an hour and a half.

When Vinnie got to know our travails, starting from the ferry fiasco, he offered to knock 50% off from the ‘Meet and Greet’ package, and give us a complimentary trip the next day to see the mangroves. We accepted the latter and enjoyed it, more thanks to David who took us to Wilson Island, an amazing little place.

We had a largely forgettable lunch at Seashells, and finally, it was time to say goodbye to our little hut.

To be continued….

I could say “No man is an island, yet Andaman is” or I could say “No man is an island, nor is Andaman, it is a group of islands”. Bwahaha. Forgive me, all that time in the water must’ve diluted the brevity of this twit. Either that, or the brewed stuff that was also consumed occasionally. Really cheap stuff, that’s apparently made in AP – light Gult stuff that won’t make you feel guilty.

As per the status message across platforms,  I was off to Havelock, away from keys, I wouldn’t get bored, though I wouldn’t be surfing, because I’d be watching surf, and waves (of the non-Google kind). Ironically, the first notable event was meeting a fellow Twitterer. 6AM finds me groggy, if awake, flight or no flight. Anyway, since my display picture across networks is an initial, I’m usually saddled with the responsibility of initiating conversations with people I recognise. I remembered this person because of his awesome puns (like this gem), so it was good fun to suddenly turn and ask him ‘Are you Partha?’, and to see him looking at me curiously. If he wasn’t Partha, I was prepared to give the 6AM excuse. But he handled it pretty well when I introduced myself as the handle he knows on Twitter. So, at the high altitudes where birds usually tweet each other, two Twitterers ended up having a normal chat. It turned out that he was off to AP, and as his profile states, he is into ‘consumer research to help sell beer’. Beery eyed and bleary eyed, we landed in Chennai.

Chennai usually gives me a warm welcome, okay, that’s an understatement, it’s a bloody hot one. So its kind of insulting to insinuate that Chennai gave me a cold, but my sinuses are proof that the Chennai airport, which seemed to be making a desperate attempt to get rid of the ‘bloody hot’ (no, that doesn’t make it anti Channel V)  tag, was on freezer mode, almost did. Every time I found a relatively warm corner, it did a Sub Zero (from Mortal Kombat) move on me.  It didn’t help that our flight was delayed. On the board, the time never changed to the new time. From an earlier adventure, I had my doubts and I finally asked the KF Help Desk what time the flight was expected.

“You can go for the security check, sir”, she said, “the flight will take off in less than half an hour”

“So, why don’t you change the status on that board”

“If there is a delay, we don’t change it, sir”

It was only about 9.45 (during vacations, sleep-wake patterns are deferred by about 2.30 hours), so I didn’t trust myself to have heard correctly. Anyway, it was a welcome break from the real time status updates on Twitter and FB. So, we made the flight, and though we didn’t expect a meal on the flight, we actually got breakfast. The only disclaimer is that when they announced ‘alpaahar’, they really meant it literally. After they served the meal, I thought I’d ask the air hostess for the main course, but D played spoilsport again. Oh, okay, I couldn’t be mean to anyone who gives me a chocolate mousse anyway.

Andaman didn’t quite hit it off with us in the beginning. I was quite worried. After our sulk with Goa, we’d planned Andaman last year, but that’s when D reacted violently to the idea. I was afraid if there was some jinx involved. There was a driver from our resort at Havelock, he was holding a placard that displayed the resort name, the snag was that he was looking for a single foreigner, and I failed on both counts. Obviously D was partly to blame. After all the passengers had left, we were left looking at each other, and he finally took us to the ferry. Mis-communication, we were told, but fortunately, we didn’t miss the ferry to Havelock, they had tickets. There are only 2-3 that ply daily, and even boats worked like a well oiled machinery only when palms were greased. The rishwat ka rishta with the mainland, I was touched. Apparently, getting tickets was a real pain, and that was what had prevented Havelock from becoming like Goa.

The boat had a a/c and non a/c options (within the latter, there were even a couple of 7 seater rooms, with what seemed like lounge chairs). We couldn’t see outside from the a/c section (which was at a lower level) but realized its worth only on the return trip. Moreover, we could move around the deck with no restrictions. A vast ocean, dark, angry, choppy, an awesome contrast to the equally vast, light blue, calm sky. The journey takes two and a half hours, and somewhere in between, D wondered if she should try these instructions on me.

To be continued……

until next time, island this week, i land next week

We sat in Infinitea, sipping green tea and munching fried momos. It was her first visit to Bangalore, and as my contribution to her introduction to the city, I had given her the experience of navigating the one ways of the city on a two wheeler. It was less than a month since we’d been first introduced to each other, and that turned out to be the subject of the conversation, at least the lion’s share of it. Of how technology had reached a point where one could perhaps land up in any city and have such conversations, because of the connections that pre-exist. No pre-exist for years or even months, but just a few days, thanks to the people we trust, who connect us. We perhaps have nothing in common culturally, but we can still relate to each other in terms of ideas and thought streams. Communication protocols are changing, and with that, relationships too. We discussed the subject of my post a fortnight back – evolution, and she told me the story of a guy who had a camera fitted into his glass eye!!

She’s traveled a lot and shared anecdotes of places and experiences. Her stories reminded us of how destinations have become like trophies, simply to be collected as part of a journey which we no longer appreciate, much like the beautiful sights that nature has created. We compared notes on clicking images versus capturing it in the mind’s eye. I could totally relate to that as I remembered the Leh trip from earlier this year and told her of how I paused before I took the step into the plane that would take me back, knowing that it perhaps was the last time I’d see the place. After all, there are so many places to see, never mind the trophies, because there may be some I haven’t even heard of yet.

I think that I might have come across as an absolute anti-capitalist, because at least twice I said that the only thing that stopped us from enjoying life fully was money, because it tends to become an end in itself, and we make the things it can buy, the things that hold value to us. If money wasn’t a constraint, I’d travel all over the world, write about the things I saw and be happy with the five odd people who read it. But it is, and so one has to save up, and choose from destinations, and hope one has made the right choice.

We debated a bit on what I thought was a paradox of sorts. She said that many people felt lonely when they landed in an alien city (work,not vacation), and they yearned for a taste of their own culture. I said that, with increasing connectivity, we were all moving towards global citizenship, where the individual cultures had blurring boundaries, or rather, the differences seemed to be becoming less important. Typical example being how we were able to converse on a range of subjects without getting bored. (though we have only my word for it) And how with each passing generation, traditional customs were getting packaged to suit lifestyles…until they will become ‘user agnostic’. (much like the platform agnostic technologies) But yes, that is more futuristic than present, though I may have more in common with a London based Twitter user, than my next door neighbour, on several fronts.

We spoke about the great divide that technology was creating, and how the human race has perhaps yet not identified that as one of our greatest challenges. A real time battle against time. Which made us realise that both of us were getting late for our (respective) next meetings.

I drop her back at the hotel where she’s staying. We have to take a convoluted route, thanks to the one ways that dot Bangalore. Its funny because in terms of actual distance its really close by. I wonder if the roads are a good metaphor. We bid each other goodbye. Its easy to remain in touch, connected. After all, geographic distances don’t really matter. Sometimes its the divide in the immediate vicinity that is more difficult to bridge.

until next time, a lot can happen over tea too

PS: The day had two wonderful conversations, and as I start out to share the other, I realise I am trying to short change the next one and crunch the content. That’s unfair, so we will do a Part 2 soon

Today is Onam. I’ll get wished – “Happy Onam”, and I’ll mutter a thanks/flash a smile, hopefully not weary/ type a ‘thanks’ with a smiley that will not reflect the emotions within. That’s perhaps apt, because there aren’t many emotions within. I concluded a Kerala visit last weekend, and felt compelled to figure out what I was feeling. – for Cochin, as always, and for Onam, because it was the season.

I sit in the fancy store, as D and another M swan around trying to find appropriate things to hang from their neck/ears/hair. They aren’t alone, there is an assortment of folks of their gender, all there for the same purpose. Sometime during their existence, the store owners figured out that those of the other gender would really be lost souls in such a place, so they made sure there was a corner where they could be lost souls without impinging on the ecstasy of the real shoppers. A nice goodwill gesture. And so there I sit, with my companion, which never fails to respond to my touch, and type a few words, which are then saved in the messages drafts folder. Alternately gawking and typing, and realising that the shoppers would be here again very soon, in search of the latest trends in accessories. Fashions change quickly, after all.

I move around the city that once used to be undisputed home, and familiar feelings bob up. Things have changed, and it is perhaps no longer undisputed. An old breakfast joint, which has many memories attached to it, has changed its name. I look up at an old building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the old lending library that set the tone for many current reading habits. It no longer exists. It is strange how, these days, when I go back to Cochin, I have mixed feelings. Where once there was only a sense of belonging, the changes have ensured that there is now also a sense of un-belonging. Earlier, I couldn’t fully grasp this feeling, could one be homesick at home? But then I remember a comment that Cyn had made on an old post – “An Idea called Home“, where she described it as being ‘homesick for a life stage’. There’s an image of Cochin that exists only in my mind, with many tags, its from an age long ago.

I watch a movie – ‘Rithu‘ (Seasons), in a theatre complex that had 3 screens from the time I knew it, back in the 80’s. Music composed by an old school pal. (that deserves a post too…soon) Its a lovely story about childhood friends, about how their relationship(s) change when they grow up, and how they themselves have changed. I realise that its not just places, we also ‘tag’ people at different stages of our lives and we often don’t bother to update the tag, a kind of self-conditioning. Parents, siblings, friends, relatives, they have all been tagged at some point and not updated after some point, the tags define how we behave with them at every point later in life.  Over time, each believe they have different priorities/viewpoints/interests and so on,  maybe that’s why sometimes when we are ready for a relationship, they aren’t, and vice versa. There’s a chance that we will miss the opportunity to form a bond. We fail each other, without even realising it. We change, we move on, but the tags, in many ways, remain constant.

I also realise that we do it to ourselves too – tags. We make images of ourselves which define what we say and do. We tag ourselves. We rarely acknowledge that and proceed to make up our own justifications, which suit us/others. They make sense at a particular point in time, they may or may not later. Yet, we live by them. Do we revisit the tags…objectively?

One of the reasons, I store thoughts and feelings here is because I want to look back. Who was I in that September of 2009, what was i feeling, what was i thinking, can i understand me at a later point? It is amazing how some earlier posts give perspectives about the self, that had been forgotten. Time has a way of distorting, hopefully these tags will aid me in objectivity at a later point.

Meanwhile, almost every shop has the ‘Onam Discount’ board put up. There are restaurants that have already announced their ‘sadya‘ rates. What is Onam to me? At a very young age, I had thought it was someone’s wedding since that was the other time we used to have a sadya on banana leaves. Memories – ten days of school holidays, a trip – most likely to Palakkad, meeting up with the vast set of paternal relatives and a few days of fun, collecting flowers for making pookkalams, dressing up in the traditional mundu, visits to temples, and so on. These are childhood memories and it is interesting how the memories dwindle as I look back to the later years of my life. The recent memories are somehow more indistinct, not separated much from the days before or after, except for the special (new) movies that get shown on television. I wonder whether I should stay back for a few more days and script a few new tags. I don’t. So, ironically, Onam survives, on its early tags. For now, I think that’s best. And as the line in that movie goes, I eagerly await the next Rithubhedam (change of seasons) of my mind.

until next time, thanks for tagging along on a mind ride

PS. For a more light hearted approach to Onam, you could check out my version of the myth, my Ram Gopal Varma version and the 55 word view.

A search for a sticker – part of the memorabilia of a concert from about 4 years back – ended up taking me over a couple of decades back. I wonder if this is a coincidence – a lot of writing about memories these days, or am i consciously watching out for these trips so i can chronicle them?

The sticker turned up many interesting things, some of which I knew existed, and some whose existence I had forgotten – my old carnatic music books, letters and cards from almost a decade back, an autograph of Nonie – a favourite VJ from a long time back, some of you oldies might remember her :p , a few old board games – Scrabble, Monopoly, stickers used to label video cassettes!! And journals 1.0 – the stuff i used to pen down regularly, fun to read the stuff from half a lifetime away – seems more like a lifetime!! Each of these have several stories around themselves, and then some that I perhaps have forgotten.

It sits in the corner of a room in Bangalore housing these nostalgis triggers – a 25 year old massive veteran, not even Indian in origin – a Samsonite.

It came from the US in 1985, when my dad came back after a year long trip. We became friends immediately – no, not my dad, that would take more time – because in it were Lego – the soldier set I had specifically asked for after seeing a catalog, the View-master – with Superman disks, little robots that turned into cars, chocolates, remote controlled cars – one with a  wire which was chucked only years later for a wirefree one, and assorted things that mean so much in childhood – pencils and rubbers (yes, we were innocent enough to call them that then) and fluorescent colored marker pens with the ‘Made in USA’ inscriptions, battery operated pencil sharpeners – all you had to do was dip the pencil and it came out sharpened. As Arthur C Clarke has rightly said, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”, and magic is anyway an acceptable commodity for seven year olds. The friendship came to an abrupt end, as soon as the above items were taken out.

We then got separated – mostly thanks to the distances – at home, it was kept on the top of a large almirah. Several attempts were made to reconnect – primarily because it was suspected of housing more booty. These suspicions arose from the fact that a lot of ‘Made in USA’ gifts were given to self and others on special occasions long after Dad came back. But we were kept apart, scraped knees, beseeching innocent expressions and bruised ego notwithstanding.

It took a decade for the ownership to be transferred, albeit without any words being exchanged. There were only a few remains of the treasure by then, and i wondered aloud who would be interested in such junk now!! I think it started coming down in the world from then on.

It moved to the less homely, and usually less cleaner habitats – the engineering college hostels, and played host to everything from the T Scale and other engineering drawing set paraphernalia to my favourite sliced green chillies pickle that was stocked and used with bread to survive the toxic waste that was regularly served in the hostel canteen. College mates used to eye it lustily because it was also suspected of containing quite a few literary works that kids at that age read for erm, pleasure.

Conditions seemed to be improving as it hopped on to a train and reached that paradise – Goa and spent two years there. However, its contents were nothing more interesting than sets of clothes, sometimes unwashed at that. To be noted that the lusty looks continued, as the literature was suspected to be growing in quantity and quality, and even to be technologically updated – floppy disks!!

It might have been happy to be home, but that was to be only for a year, and it soon traveled with me to Bangalore. And that’s where I stare at it now, a proud, dignified brown giant of a travel case, with the scars and keepsakes of its old journeys – the ancient tag of its first flight, Lufthansa, the light discoloration that happened when it served as a dining table, the scratch marks courtesy Indian Railways, and inside, the books, the board games and the posters that I used to stick on the walls of my college room……

I look at it and think absurdly how wonderful it would be if i could have  a conversation with it. It has seen how I have changed, and not changed. We could sit and laugh at the suspected literature and sigh wistfully at the loneliness of places away from home. We share memories. I realise that in many ways, it is like the room, but in many ways, its different – it has changed too, with me, as only a traveling companion in the journey of life can.

until next time, traveling baggage, literally

In my mind, I can still hear that Ladakhi greeting, though its been a few days since our return from Leh. There are stories of mountains and mountains of stories I could tell you. Of the trip that almost didn’t start because the taxi service got the day and month right, and booked us a cab for 2010!! Of the Delhi weather which over delivered on the warm welcome premise at 40 deg C.

Of the jovial captain of the Leh flight, who said that one third of our trip cost would be ‘made up’ by the first view of Leh. Of him being proven right by a sight so magical that one could hear a collective gasp as the lofty snowy peaks were seen for the first time through the windows. Of the mountains that for one moment looked the magnificent phenomena they were, and in another looked like clay models that kids made for school exhibitions.  Of another statement the captain delivered on – a free camel ride, he called it – the landing at the Kushok Bakula Rimpoche Airport.

Of being on a high already and wondering whether one would be hit by the much written about high altitude sickness. Of being phlegmatic while popping pills and drinking bitter cough syrup at the first sign of phlegm. Of wandering through streets where tiny wrinkled old people chanted with prayer wheels in hand, and the next generation listened to heavy metal and peddled rock bands’ skull tees. Of wandering up mazes to see the ruins of the old palace and then lazing in the relatively palatial comforts of the hotel. Of waking up at dawn and setting out on journeys in which every view was click worthy, of getting tired of clicking and relying on the video mode far too much, even as the mind captured images. Of the visit to the gurudwara, where one was caught between the twin pleasures of the awesome sweet tea and the warmth from the cup.

Of gazing at the mighty river that spawned a civilisation, and wondering how much has changed for the nomadic tribes that live in tents and roam about with their Dzo (a hybrid of yak and cow). Of the noisy rush of air as one climbed up mountains to gompas (monasteries) that awed you with their silence. Of glass cases that carefully and lovingly stored centuries old manuscripts and a realisation of the tiny timeframe of six years of blogging. Of the excitement of staying in a tent, quickly followed by the realisation of how exactly one could feeze to death, and then feeling an intense thankfulness for one’s supple and warm bed companion, despite the rubbery exterior -the hot water bag.

Of boarding passes that got you to 35000 ft in no time, and mountain passes at half the height that made you crawl for almost three hours to get to them. Of being driven up narrow mountain roads, slipping on snow every now and then, and wondering if your final destination was going to be up or down. Of pitying the military guys who lived in the severe cold, and then muttering at them for making decisions that cost us an entire day. Of creating yellow snow after getting tired of holes in the ground and portable loos that cleared up the blocked sinuses in no time!! Of seeing a lake at 13500 ft- Pangong, shared by two countries, that competed with the sky for the shades of blue that could be displayed. Of a heavy snow fall that forced one to get out of the comforts of the push back seats in the vehicle and attempt to push the vehicle, which pushed back!! Of the disappointment of knowing that nature took only a few minutes to shatter one’s well laid plans.

But most importantly, of the wonderful wonderful person who took it upon himself to make sure that we got to see all the sights we wanted to – Tsewang. He, who confessed after much questioning, that he was having his first meal of the day at 3 pm after driving 9 straight hours through horrible conditions at altitudes above 14000 ft.  And then proceeded to drive up to Khardung La, the world’s highest motorable road at 18380 ft-  all in a day’s work, he said. Nothing I said or did could assuage my guilt. Of begging and pleading and cajoling cops to let us through after the official closing time.

The long journeys through the mountainscape pushed random thoughts into my head- of heaven, and whether living at such high altitudes meant that one was closer to God. Of whether the milieu that nature offered in these places instilled the compassion and concern for fellow humans, that I saw in many around, and if that was the secret behind the peaceful and happy faces, despite the hard conditions and lack of even common facilities in several places. The great heights and its citizens gave me perspectives and a sense of harmony that I still seem to be carrying with me, hoping that the daily grind won’t take it away.

As I looked at Leh before I stepped into the airplane, I realised that this might be the only time I’d visit this place. I also realised that perhaps my memories would fade, and I might forget the images I could now easily recollect in my mind. But I like to think that there’s one picture that will never go away – the lofty peaks of the mighty Himalayas, glistening with snow, and a light breeze that causes the flags at the monastery to flutter silently, all of this can only make up the background for the innocent, peaceful joy on Tsewang’s face as he plays with the Lama kids, and as he sees me approaching, he  asks me with his customary smile, if I’m ready to continue the journey.

until next time, a daily lama

PS. You can catch a few photos here.

Pico Iyer

Set in the mid 80’s, Pico’s travel writing worked on two levels for me – one, in terms of his destinations, and the other, in terms of time. Right from the first page, with his interpretation of the Rambo phenomenon in Asia, his sharp wit makes this book a great read.
He uses individual characters in different places (India, China, Tibet, Nepal, Burma, Thailand, HongKong, Japan, Philippines) to describe the place’s character. In some cases, the stereotypes are reinforced, but in a lot of others, he manages to fit in and yet observe objectively.
He discusses the influence of the West on the East and tries to show each of the places he has visited have reacted to it – some by shunning it, some by completely absorbing it, and some by adapting it and making it their own.
I felt that throughout the book he stayed true to his observations, though the perspective was tinged with a favouritism for the east.