i have moved to wanderer4ever.blogspot.com

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durga pujo after seven years

Durga pujo has a very special place in every bengali’s heart. Right from those young days when five days of pujo meant five new dresses; may be even more, to the adolescent years when I waited eagerly at the pandal entrance for my crush to arrive, the memories are still fresh. Higher studies and job hunting took precedence I don’t know when. Then started the struggle to stand on my own two feet. Every thing got left behind, including pujo. It was after seven years that I attended pujo this year.

  The Bengali community at ambarnath, place where I stay was very closely knit those days. I am talking about 15 to20 years back. Every one worked at either of the two government run factories. Middle class people with small desires in life, their priority was good education for their kids, and they were quite strict disciplinarians in that aspect. Cable TV was not known about, the privileged lot had access to a second channel called the metro channel. Evening was game time and the kids were back home as the sun went down. With a life like this, durga pujo period was the only period when we could break almost all rules.  Central school, in which most of us studied, had a 10 day vacation during pujo. We felt sorry for our friends who went to some other schools. Starting from the shoshti evening most of our time used to be spent at the pandaal. Be it recitation competitions, singing competitions or just fooling around with friends, there was never a dull moment during the day. Completion of these competitions meant we could have chilled soft drinks without worrying about our throats. While the elders fasted for offering anjali, we feasted on all those mouth watering sweets and snacks at the stalls manned by cheerful kakus (uncles) themselves. At nights, we were either taking part in one of the entertainment programs or watching our friends perform. One good performance and all kakus and kakimas would praise you for days. Ofcourse every one knew who you are. It was like a big family affair.  Then came liberalisation. A new generation was ready with private company jobs. Their parents efforts and theirs ofcourse had brought results. They had all the money and they wanted their money to talk for them. The first dispute started with the location of pujo. The moneywallahs wanted it closer to their homes. The majority wanted it at the same place where it had been held for ages. The fight got ugly resulting in two durga pujos, both not as good as before, people got divided. They were asked to prove their loyalties by their presence. I stopped seeing some of them at the pandal any more. Seven years. I was apprehensive of all my sweet memories being wiped out by an ugly sight. I decided to have an open mind. I entered on the shoptomi evening. The place looked more crowded than I have ever seen before, but I found it more difficult to find anyone I knew. I met one, then another and the fervour started. Ear to ear grins, hugging and calling names took me back to where I had left things. The rest of the crowd stopped existing. The next morning the gleaming faces of all kakus and kakimas greeted me. They had aged, but were still as sweet. Durga pujo still rocks.

vacation time

 

am leavin on a vacation. should be back by 29th of this month. cant blog while on road unfortunately, but i’ll have a lot to say when i come back.

up in the sky where we belong

i had first climbed chanderi during my college days, and had fallen in love with her. i climbed chanderi many times after that, in different seasons just to know her better. my curiosity only increased with every climb.   

The height of the sahyadri hills may not be as high as the hills of garhwal or himachal but its thick undergrowth and vegetation make the climbs more adventurous. Thick, entangled, thorny, itchy, full of insects, it’s a nightmare for the faint hearted. Climbing a hill in the north may be tiresome but navigation is easy. You can possibly never get lost. You may take a few hours more, but you are sure to reach the top. But it’s not the same with chanderi, as I found out during my second climb. I was the guide. I took a wrong track, which landed us in the middle of nowhere. My group was tired. No one wanted to go back to the point from where we diverted. We decided to keep going ahead with a correction, which further worsened the situation. Now we were in the thick of absolutely nowhere, and we weren’t sure of the route back. I could see fear in the eyes of first timers. Some serious bush hacking got us to the top after a lot of hit and trials. As I look back, a mischievous smile appears on my face cause we got lost while coming back too. I must be a bad guide! I once climbed chanderi at the peak of summers. Drenched in sweat, in the company of two more chanderi fans. Chanderi was at it’s merciless form. No water anywhere around, the undergrowth had dried hard. The insect bites itched more. Loose red mud and hot black rocks made the going tougher. When we reached the top the cool breeze felt heavenly. Didn’t feel like coming back for ever, but had to. The best time to climb chanderi is of course monsoons. The whole place turns green, and innumerable shades of it. The thick canopies of trees block the sunlight making your climb a wonderful experience. Streams small and large flow from one nowhere to another crisscrossing your way. Crabs, worms, birds keep your eyes busy. Might spot a snake occasionally. The whole atmosphere is very refreshing. Suddenly you could be engulfed by a cloud, literally! If you are lucky, of which the chances are high, you can see cloud play over the valley; a breathtaking sight indeed. Before you realize it’s time to descend. Haven’t climbed chanderi for long. Most of the group is busy climbing the corporate ladder these days. I am not in a mood to climb alone, not now. But am sure of returning to her. Am not done with her yet.    

a page a day

Some time back, me and a friend of mine, decided we must start writing on a daily basis. He thinks I can write. I think he writes well. But what do others think? So I opened a blog. Posted some old stuff and bragged about it to my friend. But we decided on a page a day, didn’t we? Well, that set me thinking again. And here I am, punching keys. Some how typing doesn’t excite me much. It doesn’t feel so creative. Its like walking on an uneven track with ill fitted shoes; stumbling from one key to another. Trying to find the keys, I lose my thoughts. It’s like learning to write again. One step at a time, when my mind is racing at the pace of light. Its so frustrating, but I guess I will get over it soon.

mcleod (part ii)

The jeep dropped me at the entrance of mj. five bucks for that much fun. The place was a chowk crowded with hotels and auto rickshaw drivers. Every body was trying to earn a living out of the place. The tourists, some of them aware some of them just curious were all trying to chalk out their plans loudly. For some reasons Indians like to travel in large groups, or at least with their families. Fortunately, I was all-alone. Didn’t have to worry whether someone else would agree with the itinerary, or how much time we have to give to each place.

I still had no plan and I was feeling very hungry. I decided to have a quick bite and then start with the exploration. I couldn’t agree to enter one of those hotels at the main chowk. I wanted to try out some thing local, not some drab Chinese dish made by a sardar. I kept walking in one of the streets, my main aim being to get away from the crowd.

I believe Buddha himself guided my legs, for just after 50 mtrs of walk, the street fell silent. There were no tourists around me. It was blissful peace all around. There were some decent hotels beside the road, but all of them looked vacant. I presumed they would be the costly ones. I prayed to Buddha almighty and entered one, which didn’t look as pricey.

The name said The Himalayan Restaurant. It was neatly done up with checkered tablecloth on tables. This place was empty too except for a table where two tibetian boys and two girls in their late twenties were enjoying their drinks. I sat down on a table facing the valley on one side and the roof of the neighbouring hotel on the other. There was no staff visible. I presumed that they will emerge from somewhere. Meanwhile I flipped through the menu. To my good fortune, I could have had all the tibetian dishes and still have money left in my pocket. That some how relaxed me and I waited impatiently for the waiter.

Just when I was getting restless, one of the boys got up from my neighbouring table and gave me a plain paper and a pencil. He didn’t know much English. Thanks to one of my juniors I knew couple of tibetian dishes I would like to have. I wrote down my order and handed over the paper back to him. To my utter happiness I spotted a couple of lonely planet guides lying on the shelf. I asked him if I could use them, to which he nodded in affirmative. I picked one of the guides and concentrated on making my plan. It must have been only five minutes, the dripping sound of water made me look outside. It had started drizzling. Fortunately, there were large glass windows all around the restaurant and I had a good view of the valley as well as a rooftop hotel. The valley had already turned misty and I could feel the chill inside the room too. On the other hand, the activity on the roof top hotel had increased, which was occupied by mostly foreigners. People had come out of their rooms and were enjoying the rain. There was a childish pleasure on everyone’s face. Though I could sit all my life enjoying the rain, I prayed to god for stopping the rain so that I could enjoy the outdoors.

A look on my watch told me I would have to hurry, if I wanted to see the place. I already had a plan chalked out. My host was enjoying slow tibetian music, which was playing. Though I couldn’t understand the lyrics, I fell for the song too. My food arrived just in time. It looked very appetizing and the quantity was generous. I polished off the momos and thupka in no time only to realize that I am stuffed. I enquired as to who the cook was. He pointed towards the beautiful girl who was enjoying her drinks. What a life!

There was a notice stuck on the wall saying that a room was available for a month for only Rs 3000. I was getting a vibe that I would return to this place again. I left a generous tip for my hosts and set out on my journey. I headed back to the place were I had come. I decided to look for some souvenirs. Though I had decided not to take anything for myself, souvenirs for near and dear ones definitely help in rubbing the spirit of the place onto them. And this was one place I definitely wanted them to experience. It would also give me a chance to interact with the locals.

I was running short of time, so I entered a shop where I expected to see the whole collection. After going through a beautiful collection of tibetian sculptures, shawls and jewelry I bought some for my dear sis and momma. I chat with the shopkeeper also helped me knowing the rates of the auto rickshaws. Shopping session over, I set out on my first stop, which was the Tsug Lag Khang complex.

The Tsug Lag Khang complex is the place where the Dalai Lama resides. The guide said it had a beautiful budhist temple too. It is at a walking distance from the main chowk, but I was running short of time so I hailed an auto from the chowk. The sudden rain had dipped the temperature further and I could feel the biting cold through my jacket. A short moment and I was standing at the gate of the complex. It was a modern construction and I could find the temple only with some help.

The temple is situated on the first floor of the central building. The main door of the temple was closed so I entered from the side door. Architecturally the temple is nothing but a big room, the length of which was double the width. On one end of the temple was a raised platform and the wall at the back of the platform had bronze sculptures of Buddha. There was absolute silence inside the temple. The main attraction of the temple was of course the tangka paintings that adorned the walls all around. The minutest details of every character were so deliberately and accurately drawn that it was almost impossible to find a fault.

I was indeed fortunate to witness a tangka being drawn infront of my eyes. It was a square board of 16 square meters and six monks were painting it all at a time. I never knew the monks get trained in painting too. They were drawing the kaal chakra. Their concentration and coordination was so addictive that we kept looking at them in awe. It was getting late so I had to leave against my wishes.

It was getting dark so I decided to drop the idea of visiting Dip Tse Chok Ling Gompa and headed straight for the church that I had seen while coming. It was the St John Church. To my disappointed the church was locked. Some one had left a dog inside which was barking continuously. I could be barking at some evil spirit lurking around, I thought. The church was designed in a typical Victorian style. But the bell tower was missing. The church too was a victim of the earthquake that shook himachal in the beginning of the last century. The bell though had survived the fall and was now enclosed in a wire cage as if it would break free. There were these words in scripted on the bell.

                                                “SOLDIERS OF THE CHRIST, ARISE

                                                    AND PUT YOUR ARMOUR ON.”

As if the bell will sound the same when a distress call is sounded.

I took a closer look at the grave this time. The most prominent one is just behind the church and is of Lord Elgin, who was the viceroy of India. Majority of the other graves belonged to the British army officers. The graves though very old but were still very graceful. The layers of moss growing on the graves bore the testimony of their vintage. I decided to leave before it became too eerie.

The day had come to an end. Sadly so had my trip to Mcleodganj. For some reason I was not gloomy at all. May be I knew I shall come back here again, and may be again…

mcleod mcleod…

I feel a travelogue should start right from packing of the rucksack or suitcase. It gives u an inking of the nature of writer and what kind of treatment will he give to the travelogue and even to the place. One can fill up a journey to a hill station with mundane details of availability of buses and hotels on the other hand someone might fill it with mystique by all those folklores which I am sure all hills have.
I paid a very short visit to mcleodganj in nov this year. Though my trip was planned, mcleodganj for some reason was not in the itinerary. There was a halt of one day at Kangra and I thought kangra city itself would take the whole day to cover, but my hostess had planned so well that I just managed to squeeze in Mcleodganj.
Just imagine a handsome guy (me) in leather jacket, cargos and trainers waiting at a bus stop, where my hosts had left me. I don’t remember the name of the place. It was supposed to be just 15 min bus ride away frm Dharamshala. Being a trijunction, buses to all direction were available easily at that place. Consequently a small locality had developed around the trijunction complete with a local mkt with a prominent liquor shop. Men frm the hills love their drink a little too much.
The weather was sunny but there was chill in the air, so I kept my jacket zipped up. Last thing I wanted was to fall sick and miss some action. After a wait of about 15 min I got on to a bus going towards Dharamshala. It must be about 1 ‘o’ clock in the afternoon. The bus was full of school kids going back home. Fortunately I got a window seat. I concentrated outside, lest I miss something. There was nothing extra ordinary other than the gradient of the road and the driving skill of the dvr. Views on both sides of the road were blocked by ugly constructions. This is where we loose out to European destinations. Before I knew, we had enterd Dharamshala. At first glance it looked like a small and crowded town, full of tibetians. Just the kind of place I tend to avoid. Unfortunately I had not read anything about Dharamshala or Mcleodganj, neither was I carrying my guide along. I cursed myself for the grave mistake. Not finding anything interesting, I decided to head for Mcleodganj.
I had two options ahead of me. If I hailed a cab, it would be comfy but my wanderer spirit wont be satisfied. i heard a jeep dvr shouting mcleod mcleod… i went ahead and sat in his jeep, it is the popular mode of motor tpt among the locals. I was the first one to board. Slowly and steadily 10 more people boarded the same jeep. Now I was sharing the front co-dvr seat with two more people. My legs were on either side of the gear-shifting lever. My body was twisted in 45 degrees. I wondered if iyengar belonged to this place.
It was a 15-minute journey and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Considering the fact that tibetians don’t believe in taking bath too often, the trip was a real nose-talgic one. I didn’t ask the name of the dvr but I believe he was a distant cousin of Schumacher; well he was driving like one. The journey to Mcleodganj is breathtaking but I was more engrossed in praying. The calm and expressionless face of the locals embarrassed me and I decided to take it easy.
Just midway to Mcleodganj is the Dharamshala cantt. It’s a small old and beautiful place. Just the place I would love to get posted to. The wooden bungalows were all painted white, green and maroon, which went very well with the surroundings. The coniferous trees on both sides of the road restricted the sunlight. The typical geru chuna markings on the trees made me feel at home almost immediately.
The temperature had fallen further. There was hardly any sunlight visible. The tree cover had become dense. Things were starting to look spooky. And just when these thoughts were taking over me, as if to complete the picture I spotted an old and ruined church complete with a graveyard behind it. The graveyard looked old. I decided to pay it a visit, once I am through with Mcleodganj.
Another 3-4 min ride and I spotted a row of tourist buses lined up ahead of us. The tree cover was no longer there. The bright sky was hurting my eyes. Lots of people were looking at in all directions in anticipation. Every body was talking to everybody. The poetry was over. We had reached Mcleodganj.
all this fun in only five bucks.

….to be continued

lessons of life

One day, Plato asked his teacher, “What is love? How can I find it?” his teacher answered, “there’s a vast wheat field in front. Walk forward without turning back, and pick only one stalk. If you find the most magnificent stalk, then you have found love.” Plato walked forward, and before long, he returned with empty hand, having picked nothing. His teacher asked, “why did you not pick any stalk?” Plato answered, “because I could only pick once, and yet I could not turn back. I did find the most magnificent stalk, but did not know if there were any better ones ahead, so I did not pick it. As I walked further, the stalks that I saw were not as good as the earlier one, so I did not pick any in the end. His teacher then said, “and that is love.”
On another day, Plato asked his teacher, “What is marriage? How can I find it?” his teacher answered, “ there is a thriving forest in front. Walk forward without turning back, and chop down only one tree. If you find the tallest tree, then you have found marriage.” Plato walked forward, and before long, he returned with a tree. The tree was not bad, and it was not tall either. It was only an ordinary tree, not the best but just a good tree. His teacher asked, “why did you chop down such an ordinary tree?” Plato answered, “because of my previous experience. I had walked through the field but returned empty handed. This time I saw this tree, and I felt that it was the first good tree that I saw, so I chopped it down and brought it back. I did not want to miss the opportunity.” His teacher then said, “ and that is marriage. You see son…love is the most beautiful thing to happen to a person, it’s an opportunity but you don’t realize its worth when you have it but only when its gone like the field of stalks. Marriage like the tree you chopped is a compromise; you pick the first best thing you see and learn to live a happy life with it.”

the green pigeon

“Have you ever seen a green pigeon, sir? ” my guide asked me. It was the month of February and I was on a bird watching trip to the Keoladeo Ghana national park in Bharatpur. I have seen blue stone pigeons, the white ones, the brown ones, the spotted ones, the ones with spread out tails but I have not even heard of green pigeon what to talk of seeing one. He said he heard the call from the nearby tree but he could not spot it despite lot of efforts. We saw more than sixty species of birds that day but no green pigeon.

My guide was an old hat. He had done his bird recognition course from Bombay Natural History Society. And his name; Kaptaan Singh. He had impressed one of his foreign clients so much that he had gifted him an impressive Karl Zeiss binocular, which increased the pleasure of bird watching manifolds.

I was mighty impressed by his knowledge too. So I asked him how did he get into bird watching. “ I must have been 10 years old that time. We lived just beside the park. We used to keep a watch on the fields to shoo the birds away. One day a foreigner came asking about some python. I didn’t know what a python meant that time but I could make out he was enquiring about a big snake which I knew. I took him to the pythons nest. The foreigner was so happy to see the python that he gave me ten rupees. I thought if just showing a python can fetch me 10 bucks, this must be good business. I had seen most of the birds but hardly anything about them. So I started coming to the park along with the old guides and then I never looked back.”

I saw lots of birds in the two days that I stayed in Bharatpur. I could recognize a spotbill and spoonbill, learned the difference between a kite and a honey buzzard, I saw two varieties of king fishers and mynahs. Both these birds have a pied variety, which unfortunately we could not spot. The trip motivated me so much that I even bought a copy of Harper book of Indian birds. The joy of spotting a new species and recognizing it with the help of a field guide can just not be described in words. Its like hitting a pot of gold. For me it was the scavenger vulture, a white bird with yellow beak. But the missed opportunity of watching a green pigeon kept troubling my mind.
The spirit of a birdwatcher remained with me when I joined back office. I was viewing the world with new found eyes. The president estate is a small heaven for bird watchers.
I discovered a darker variety of mynah. They looked dirty and were always found around garbage. Unfortunately harper could not give me it’s name. After a couple of weeks I chanced upyon a book of Indian birds by an Indian author. He had mentioned about Bank Mynahs with photograph. So another querry was answered. I also learned that the pied varieties of any bird is called so because they are black and white in colour.
One day while coming to the office I noticed a bird was making a nest in a tree in front of my office. It was quite low so I went to take a closer look. It was a pigeon. It was a green pigeon. My spirit was content at last. I posted a sentry near the tree to stop all movements around it. A week later it laid eggs. But the luck of the pigeon was not as good as mine. Within a few days a crow attacked the nest and broke the eggs. The pigeons flew away. I was a sad moment for me.
I spotted the pied kingfisher during my Sundarban trip. It was sitting on a lonely tree branch jutting out of water. The bird looked beautiful against the backdrop of golden sunlight.
I am sitting at a beautiful coffee shop right now, which has a glass wall all around. Its located on the Delhi Dehradun highway. There is a park all around with lush green grass even in this peak of summer. As I write this a grin appears on my face. I see two pied mynahs just outside the glass wall. I stroke the glass with my pen. They look at me with caution and then walk away to a safe distance and continue playing.