Haflong Days: The Leech Chronicle

I think I have over done the essay writing bit. People are actually reading my stories in installments. But hey they are reading. That’s all I ask. Now to make a long story short (pun intended) my neighbor blogger “illusion’s” leech story (read her comments on my previous post) triggered a flashback.

Once fine monsoon day, frustrated with the rainy season that had us stuck indoor, my sister insisted we go for a picnic. Now most of us balked at this idea as the grounds were wet and the rain unpredictable this time of the year. But my sis wouldn’t listen and cribbed and cribbed until we gave up.

We were an avid outdoors family back then and we generally found picnic spots by nosing through bushes and jungles. But this time the process landed us in a whole soup of trouble. While in the morning, walking through a grassy field to reach the spot had seemed nice. But when that very unpredictable rain came pouring in the afternoon, we were caught in a bizarre situation.

The field was turning into a semi-bog with incredible speed and by the time we finished our 500 meter dash to the parked cars, we had picked up a bunch of bloodsucking hitch hikers. Now folks comes the most embarrassing part and I am sure my family will be cursing me for this indiscretion. We had to strip off half our clothes and bathe in whatever table salt we had with us to get these fat ugly leeches off.

It seems funny now, but it was pandemonium then. And we spent the whole way back ragging my sister, who kept protesting that she enjoyed the experience. Of course, the fact that most of us were dancing around scantily clothed screaming “take it off, take it off “ in the middle of the highway while the rest kept a look out for passing cars didn’t seem to daunt her. Oh well, the only good thing that came out of this is my sis never ever asked to go picnicking in the rainy season ever. And I really really hate leeches!

Haflong Days: Oops we did it again!

I have this great urge to write “Khaise Abar Aise”, but I am afraid only a select few will get the joke. The year after we had the infamous trek through the muddy jungle (read previous post), and swore not to repeat such a performance, we went and did exactly that –had another unforgettable adventure.

This was BA final year and many of my last year’s buddies had dropped out of class or honors subjects. This meant I was left with another bunch of friends, who too wanted to have that one last blast before leaving the student life behind.

However, in the past one year, some significant changes had happened. The problem of terrorism, which we were no stranger to, had reached another level of nuisance. The town was full of military personnel and severe checks and restrictions were put in place, which meant many of the usual picnic spots were out of bounds.

Eventually, we decided to picnic in the backyard of a friend who lived in the outskirts. Around nine of us met up at her place and started towards the so-called picnic spot which was a few kilometers (backyard can mean the whole village mind you) from her place and had a small waterfall. However, being the smart college students we were, while asking for direction from the natives we said “river” not “falls”. Not surprisingly, we found ourselves walking on a narrow ledge of a mountain, with the trail going neither down nor up!

Now, most trails lead either down towards the rivers or up and away from them towards the villages. We realized very soon that since this was going neither way, it was actually a path that is possibly used to cut across the mountain to the bordering states of either Manipur or Mizoram. And here we were expressly trying to avoid extremists.

But, being young and gung ho, we down played the seriousness of the situation and boldly decided to push forward. This attitude though faded after walking almost two hours along that ledge, which showed no signs of reaching any destination. By then we were cranky, thirsty and well cranky. Moreover, we couldn’t hear the river at any point and had no idea which way we were walking. The dominating sound was that of the bamboo plants rubbing against each other as the wind swayed them. It sounds like a constant loud whispering and can drown out many other sounds of the forest.

Then we started coming across a few mountain streams with the native version of bridges – two bamboo poles tied together with ropes- just wide and strong enough for one person to cross at a time. The head-cracking view is also very nice. But we were happy with these signs as it meant we could at least picnic somewhere near a water source. And then it happened.

The two girls who were leading the group took a turn and came to a stand still with identical, wide-eyed slack-jaw expressions! Surprised, the rest of us took off running to see what they had seen. And believe it or not, there was the god forsaken river Diyung (the very same one we had been to before, but it was on the other side of the town this time) which looks like a tiny stream from my friend’s house. It is then that we realized that we had actually traveled a good 40 kms downwards from the chosen picnic spot.

With no options open, we decided to make the best of the situation and picnic on the river bank and then think of a way to tackle the problem of climbing 40 kilometers after lunch, while racing a setting sun. And we had come across many forks in the way down and had no confidence that we would be able to follow the right ones back.

But before that, we first had to reach the river which was still further away. Seeing no trails that led towards it, we decided to make our own. The land that separated us from the water was half jungle and half paddy field with dried up golden paddies. The land nearest to us turned out trickier to navigate, with burnt and hacked bamboo shoots sticking out of the ground here and there. This has once been a full bamboo grove and had been burnt down for Joom kheti (a traditional practice in the NE, which involved burning the forest to clear the land and then planting on it. It reality, it makes the ground infertile in the long run and is regarded as a major cause for the dwindling forest lands).

We picked up a few sturdy branches and started to hack away at the small shrubs to make our trail. Occasionally we came across shrubs in the ground, which were merely covering nice big man sized holes. The idea was to go around and not step on them. The going was slow, but we finally made it to the paddy fields and here again started the whole savage dance routine, but this time consisted more of whooping and yelling while running towards the water.

This time we had to stay away from most water sports as the river in this point had no stones and was snarling and foaming its way to somewhere. There was a bare train bridge over the river and we got to wave at delighted passengers whenever any of the steaming behemoths rolled by.

We spent the evening skipping stones in the water and trying to play baseball with tree brunches and a nice round stone. The sandwiches and junk foods we had packed vanished like turkey dinners in Somalia. Then we settle down in the after noon sun to have a small siesta. It’s an amazing way to laze, with only the sound of water, wind and birds to give you company. This was also a time to actually sit and talk about our future plans, who was going where and laugh at the old times.

But as all days, this one was coming to an end too. Around 2.30 in the afternoon, we spotted a group of traditionally clad women carrying tinder from the forest. We caught up to them and asked if they were going to town, to which they answer yes. We decided to tag along with them, as they knew the way back.

Now their shortcut back first consisted of climbing this vertical wall of rock, while carrying their load, where looking down meant seeing this very still, dark pool of water which looked pretty deep and scary. We managed to scrabble up this wall with only damage to our egos, as the tribal women kept laughing at our efforts. Mind you though, we were pretty good climbing hills at that point, with most of us used to such terrain from birth. But we didn’t have the agility or strength of these women who did this daily.

Once we had reached the train tracks, the group came to a stop and no one made to enter the tunnel that was in front of us. In a few minutes the reason became clear as the ground shook and the howl of a train horn could be heard echoing on the hills. Once it passed right in front of our noses, we started walking into the tunnel. About half way through, it turned pitch dark and I tell you, train tracks are not the best terrain for steady trekking, There was muttering of curses, scuffling noises and occasional yells when some one decided to take advantage of the dark to play pranks. But in a few minutes we were across and into the light.

We followed the tracks for a few kilometers more and came across a staircase that spiraled upwards reminding me of the Jack and the Bean Stalk legend. Here the tribal women pointed us up and continued on their way.

So we started the long winded climb, spirited at first, panting like dogs by the end. I counted till 500 steps and then decided to give up. But finally, we found ourselves right where we had started - at my friends house. Her mother was ready with a few snacks and cups of tea and then we were on our way home in autos. So no truck rides this time, thank god. But it was another of those treks, which gave us these stories to tell years afterwards. Now what good is an adventure if it is forgettable?

Haflong Days: A Trek to Remember!

During my second year of bachelor’s degree, I and my band of merry class friends decided we should have a picnic. Since most of us were going to split and go our way after college, the idea was to have some shared fun before that.

Well, we had planned for everything but the weather. And if you guys have any idea of the weather in this hill stations, you will sympathize. The first two weeks of November, when the temperature is already at a decent 15 degrees C, it drizzled non-stop. Our moods turned as gloomy as the sky as we saw the opportunity of having a picnic before the worst of the winter hit slipping by.

But at the end of the second week, it suddenly stopped drizzling and a fairly decent sized hole appeared in the clouds. Taking this as a divine sign, I went and dragged the rest of my posse kicking and screaming from their cozy bed and told them we were going hiking.

Now, since this break in the rain was unscheduled, so were our picnic plans. We improvised and took a local bus to the railway station, which was about 20 kms from town. On reaching there though we were stumped. We were kilometers away from any decent picnic spot and the ground was wet and muddy from the weeks of rain. Soon we were walking along the road singing atrociously and coming up with ridiculous plans on how to reach a picnic spot. And the day was beginning to look dull again.

Suddenly, Larry (whose full name is hardly pronounceable) declared he knew a short cut. And even after two years of knowing about Larry’s infamous shortcuts, we jumped at the offer.

Lo and behold, he found us a small trail that local villagers often take to avoid the main roads. On a nice clear day, these short cuts make for challenging hiking trails. On a muddy morning it was a like a death trap. Angling downwards at a steady 45 degree angle and an equally tilted gradient, the muddy trail had us slipping headlong and sidewise at the same time. It was like mud skating. I simply stood still and let gravity pull me down and tried not to topple. If anyone did topple, it would have meant rolling down at least 500 meters before being stopped by a few nice and sturdy bamboo stalks.

But we didn’t realize all these until we were well into the path. Now it was just as much nuisance to turn and climb the muddy trail back to the high ground. Down was easier and down we went – for a good one hour. Countless shrieks and near accidents later, we came out of the bamboo forest to find ourselves smack in front of our very own Deyung river.

Forgetting our trials in an instant, we ran screaming to the river and did what most city dwellers will call the savage dance. It consists of chanting “ooga chooga” while dancing around a fire (on which we had perched the tea kettle) until the tea was ready. And then switching to our British colonial legacy, we settled down and had tea and biscuit.

Well, the day progressed as usual with us cavorting in the water, which was bloody cold and made our feet hurt (the only appendage we dare dip into that sacred river). Now, winter in Haflong meant the sunset was as early as 4.30 pm. So around 2.30 pm, after we had demolished our food, we suddenly realized we had no idea how to get back home before sun set. And we were definitely NOT going to hike back in the dark on that treacherous short cut.

Our problem was again solved by Larry who had struck up a conversation with the drivers of a truck, which had come carrying cement and other materials used for repairing the bridge there. Now empty, the truck was on the way back and the drunk drivers were very happy to give ride to our group, which consisted of seven girls and one guy (namely Larry!) We politely declined the offer to share the truck cabin and climbed on the back of the truck (for a visual on Indian trucks please follow the link http://hikethewhites.com/nepal/truck.jpg).

Our memorable hike ended with us jumping off the truck on the outskirts of the town and then walking home like nothing much had happened that day. It is only the next day, when our muscles went stiff and ached from all the running, falling and water sport, did we confess to our adventure. My parents of course did not bat an eyelid and nodded sagely and laughed as soon as I left the room. But what a day it was and I still look back and think “we were nuts but boy did we enjoy or what!”

I think I lost my Temper Today!!

Ever heard anyone say that? I have, including myself. I think most of the time I am very disappointed when I say that because I was trying so hard not to lose my temper. And I have heard my husband once say that in surprise. He later explained that he never realized when he lost his cool.

We all have our boiling point. And I do not think its possible for us to be calm always. And prevention is better then cure does not work always. As Kenny Rogers sang “Sometimes you have to fight to be a man”. But that doesn’t mean I condone jumping at each others throat!

The fact is most often, right after we lose our temper, we realize what a mistake we made, that the situation was not that bad to start with and we have probably made it worse with the words spoken in anger. Because anger is rarely rational and an irrational mind cannot diffuse an argument.

I guess that best way to deal with it, as I have found is to first consciously breathe and chant “calm down calm down” in your mind. And next, either try to reason it out or flee! You may not agree to these solutions but in many situations they have saved my neck and sometimes the other jackasses neck too!

Oh, and just like alchoholism, denial is the worst enemy of anger too. “I don’t lose temper” only means you do not consider your outbursts a problem. Au contraire sir, the others might not agree. Sometimes, it pays to listen to your colleagues and friends; if they say you have a short temper- you probably do.

One thing, though, I am not very sure about. Does suppressing your temper actually solve the problem? Many times I have been left with this simmering anger for hours because I did not vent it on something. And I hear they can give you ulcer for heavens sake! My mom has this unique solution –she vents it on a piece of paper and then shreds it. Me I talk. I howl, I yowl and screech…..to someone who has the patience. And when I have calm down, I thank them for their patience and let them get ready for my next rant.

So my advice to all of you who keep loosing your temper here and there, “Do Pranayam and watch the movie Anger Management”. If the problem persists consult a professional (refer to the movie for clues).

Brother Bites Back!!!

Well, I have been egging my brother to comment on my blog and since he had major difficulty trying to post his comments on the blog itself, he mailed it to me. Now I found his reply too good not to pass it onto my readers. This is what he wrote:

Below would be my comments on your zen post. Btw, you never did mention my most important advise - don't get run over by a cow!!

The "reed", also called a "float" was usually made of the spine of a bird feather. The other option that was often resorted too was to cut the stem off of a "phul jharu", which is basically a form of grass, and stick it on the tree. A google search of "Satchari National Park nature trails" will show a picture (bottom right, first page) of "phul jharu" growing in the wild.

The stem of the phul-jharu was also effectively used as the shaft of an arrow. An arrow head on one end, a feather on the other, and a bamboo bow and one was good to go for a day of adventure.

Not naming names, I distinctly remember someone being banned from using a bow and arrow for an "accident". This "accident" involved successfully hitting a building contractor right in the middle of the forehead from considerable distance. (Pssst: He asked fot it!))

Speaking of archery, for that matter anything that takes you out to the woods for extended periods, is very soothing. The outcome of the hunt rarely matters, but sitting 30 feet above the ground on a tree with your bow and arrow, for extended periods, clears my mind and relaxes me. One experiences the same feeling of clarity as one gets from angling. The senses improve to the point that you can smell deer, as long as the wind is right, and so you are acutely aware of the wind directions. You can pick out the sound of squirrels running around a hundred yards away, or the truck gearing down to take a turn 5 miles away. The last thing on your mind is the delivery date of that important project.

Did i get anyone interested in picking up that now again? Am sure Dad would be a little concerned, but he would not mind. Trust me, I asked.

"Life 101" - Big Brother Style

The advantages of being a pesky little brat with a big brother is that anything goes – advices on how to tie your shoelaces to how to incapacitate the school bully! Actually, I don’t remember who taught me to tie shoelaces and I learnt to beat up the school bully by practicing on my neighborhood kids.

But there were still plenty of tips laid out my bro that I still swear by. Only a brother motivated by strong love will teach his kid sister the most vulnerable points in a human body and how to take advantage of them. “Go for the eyes- poke your fingers into them…and keep your fingers stiff man!” Well, I never tried that move, but I am sure it works.

Of course, some of the so-called Judo moves came in really handy while rough housing with the neighborhood kids (Did I mention all of them were boys?) I swear I know at least five ways to trip a man bigger then me my using his weight against him. So sue me! It was also fun to see my lankier and taller friends back away from fighting me. While they held back some tricks due to the gender issue, I felt no such compulsion and fought as dirty as possible.

Now, my brother never told me he would beat up anybody who messed with me. I think he had too much confidence in me. But I kind of understood that if things got out of hand, he definitely will do that. But I also learned some nasty psychological warfare tips from him. Like staring guys down, the sudden turn and whirl on your prey move, and the last but not the least, making really convincing threats. Try “I am going to break your fingers one by one slowly” accompanied by a really self satisfied smirk. Guaranteed, most bullies will think you a nut case and back off!

And if nothing works- kick them in the nut and run home screaming. Big brother will take care of the big bad bully!

Apart from the violent bits, my brother also rattled off a number of “wisdoms” all throughout my life- like look both ways while crossing the road; don’t run, just walk, don’t smoke or your lips will turn blue etc. etc.

He taught me how to cross the street, in the mean streets of Delhi. Let me drive the car on the mountain roads, never yelling when I over-corrected. Taught me how to tackle the local buses in Kolkata, with advices like “Don’t wear heels; you might trip on the tram tracks”. Oh lets not forget the advice on how to tackle with those groping hands in the bus –“step on their toes and elbow them” (his version of SING I guess). And it works like a miracle, I swear.

I guess I can keep listing the incredible number of do’s and don’ts that I still swear by just because he told them. And if he is reading this, he would probably think this is major chick-flick stuff, but I swear by Life 101, as my brother taught me. And hey I am very much alive and kicking here, so I guess they work just fine. And if you are reading this bro – “You have created a MONSTER!!!”

The Luck Of Friendship

For all that is sacred in the world, friendship often comes in shapes and sizes that don’t fit your vision, but stay on to endure. In plain English, friends are often the most unlikely person you have met and somehow managed to stay friends with for eternity. Its luck, I say or destiny if you prefer. Because while you can choose the person to befriend, best friends are made in heaven.

I have a few. I can count them on my little finger. But I will give my finger for any of them (Will get back to you on other body parts!). At a glance you will probably wonder how on earth such mismatched people can be friends. Well I guess one thing all my friends share is brutal honesty and strong principles. While this might make most of them unpopular in general gatherings; for me it has been the cause to trust and believe. And then of course most of my friends actually UNDERSTAND each other!

We don’t always agree. But, we rarely argue about our convictions. It seems, between us friends we have come to respect each others opinions without actually sacrificing our own. Sounds serious? Well, actually it saves time from having pointless arguments with each other (brutally honest remember?)

I blame luck for my friendships because I don’t think I would have met these people by choice. A change in tuition group, a sudden inspiration to take up a course, resigning myself to work for a small company – each of these decisions have earned me a good solid friendship, if nothing else. And my best friend? Well I was forced to live with her for a year and came away liking her even better. So we stuck.

While many of you out there have the same story, I reaffirm that we are the lucky lot. Because even though we can choose friends, we can’t always find those best ones without a little luck!

Haflong Days: The Art of Zen Fishing

Zen is a school of Mahayana Buddhism which emphasizes the idea that ultimate truth must be experienced firsthand rather than pursued through study. (Wikipedia)

Have you ever been fishing? If not you will probably miss half the fun of this piece, but go ahead anyway. The fact is, I have gone fishing lots of time with my dad when I was a kid. With him it was a hobby and a passion. For me, at the beginning at least, it was a chance to run along the grassy meadows on the bank of the lake, basking in the afternoon sun and no interruptions from adults. It wasn’t until I was nine that I actually held a fishing rod and was allowed to fish for the tiny fishes we fondly call putimach.

Now, before I write this, I would like you to give you a visual of it. Haflong, where I grew up was a hill station in N.E. India. And as hill stations go, it had winding roads with old British Bungalows, with colorful Dandelions and Chrysanthemum bushes – very storybook pretty. The life there was also slow, paced out, people seemed to be in a content daze- not in any hurry to achieve or prove anything.

For me, it meant growing up without the peer pressure and rat race of city life. It was basically eat, sleep, climb trees, smash the neighbor’s window pane with cricket ball; and go fishing with dad. It was also a somewhat about trying to get dad’s attention, I guess.

So most days we would set out around 3.30 p.m. in the afternoon when the Sun had lost its “burning” intensity. We will get a fishing pack ready, with the tackles, wires, hooks and bait - mashed bread and honey mostly, and sometimes worms (do I hear eeewwwss??). It was a pleasant 4 to 5 km walk to the Lake and then dad would cast the wire, set up his fishing rod and settle down to wait for a bite. And I would ferret around for pine cones and other knick knacks. Those were the most relaxed times I ever spent in my life.

Then, when I was around nine I shot up in height and dad presumed I was big enough to handle the responsibility of fishing. So I got a rod – a straight smooth piece of bamboo cut from the tip the bamboo tree making it very thin. To it was tied a thick string, the ones they use for stitching umbrellas. Unlike big fish, a puti barely weighs 50 gms and hardly required the Nylon fishing wire used by the adults.

Oh and we needed an indicator. See when you fish in still water you loop a piece of reed to the wire, around 3 inches long, which has a spongy filling inside making it float. It's weighed down with a small piece of lead which keeps the reed floating perpendicularly, with half of it under water. So when the fish bites, the tug on the line will make the reed bob down underwater.

Now that I have bored you with the details (having a Frederick Forsyth moment here), let me get back on the art part. Fishing, as my dad explained, was not about how many fish you catch. It’s about outsmarting that one sly fish that wouldn’t get caught. It’s all about the hunt, you could say. This of course meant sitting on the water's edge (not looming over it though as reflection scares away fishes) and watching the reed or fatna as we call it gently float on the surface.

With your concentration solely on that reed, the world almost slows down. You are so focused that you forget about the mundane problems of your life, almost like meditation. Your senses get sharper and sharper until you can hear odd bird calls here and there, fishes making small ripples on the water, the sun falling through the trees making bizarre patters on the ground. And then suddenly, it seems that it’s you who is moving and the water is actually still. It’s an optical illusion, but most people don’t sit around long enough to get that feeling.

Whether I got a fish at the end of the day or not, I rarely came away feeling angry or frustrated from these fishing trips. They taught me patience and peace at a time when the words held no meaning for me. And most of all, fishing left me with memories that still make me feel happy. Now if that isn’t Zen, you tell me.

Haflong Days: The series

Hi all, I am just starting a new series called Haflong Days (I ripped it off the Malgudi Days), cause people keep telling me I should write down the stories of my childhood in the absolutely heavenly place. So, time to time I will pop in with one of those, hope you enjoy!

Art of living- The Feline Way

After spending a better part of the evening staring at an industrious cat lazing away on the neighbors roof I have come to the realization that –God is not only divine but feline too. And there is no better life then a cat’s. Wait! Before you go all “skeptic” on me- I have had plenty of cats as pets and not-so pets while growing up to base this little piece of introspection on.

Now, a cat’s life consists of sleeping, eating, hunting and sleeping again- with procreational activities thrown in between. It’s a fairly simple existence, unlike our headache inducing stressful one.

They can curl up and get comfy in any surface – they can lay on a rock and make it seem like better then your Curl-on mattress. Oh and the snoring/purring. At least I could hear my cat from a foot afar. Not to mention the occasional muscle creaking joint popping stretches that seem to make you nauseous with envy. Well at least it does to me.

But the most important point is that a Cat lives its life on its own time, for its own pleasure and your (human) thoughts about it can go to hell! Who is whose pet! A cat won’t give you the time of its day unless it needs anything, namely food. And it’s definitely not going to wag its tail when you come home. And if it does, be careful – it’s angry and might scratch you!

So in conclusion, I would like to officially state my intentions of being born as a tom cat in my next life. People (Cat) up there, please consider!

300 - The VIP vs PJ Epic!

Putting aside the incredible cinematography and camera work, 300 is, at its core, an epic battle between VIP clad men and PJ clad men.... and VIP wins (well..duh..I am an Indian). In a nutshell... Persians, wearing PJs come to Spartans wearing VIPs and ask them to surrender. VIP refuses and 300 men wearing black VIP briefs meet countless PJ clad Persians. Realistically, the 300 are wasted. BUT....the 300 VIps clad men then inspire 10,000 VIP clad men to take on the obviously lame PJ wearing villains and the rest is history.

And if you are keen on it, watch on the big screen. A small screen will be a major disappointment. Somehow, heads flying with full screen view of the innards loses its effect on the 21" screen. For all you fainthearted.. the wiers color scheme takes away the goriness of the scenes that could give steven king a run for his money. Its like a hybrid of Gladiator (with its dialogue and camera work) and Lord of the Rings (Battle scenes and hopeless odds).
My take on it.... if you missed it, don't sweat! There are better movies in the screen.