Genghis Khan - The Mongol

I was watching The Mongol last night and remembered seeing the interviews about the movie about an year back. The thing that had struck me most is that most people pronounced Genghis Khan as Gang-is-khan whereas I think the name is pronounced more like Chenggis Khan. Well anyways, my enjoyment of the movie was slightly ruined by my memory of a family friend who used to call her reed-thin Nepali chauffeur "Genghis Khan', or rather use to scream the name at the top of her voice from her window. And looking at the meek little guy always use to make us crack up at the absurdity of the name.

Another thing I noticed was the music. It's quite similar to the tribal music of the tribe called Dimasa back in North East India. Their music is totally instrumental, using the drum (Khrum I think) and a wind instrument they call Muri. See a pic here.

The sound can be very monotonous, but I can't find sample for it anywhere. Nearest I can get is this guy playing the wind instrument played by Australian Aborigines called DIDGERIDOO (something new I learned today)..but the these guys more tone variation then the Dimasa's.

There, I started about the movie and totally went side ways. Anyways, the movie was interesting. If it is historically correct then it is a interesting look into the Mongolian tribe and its history. Of course, its not a movie for the feint hearted or for people with less patience. Because the movie is both bloody as well as slow moving sometimes. If you are interested, can watch it. Not bad, not too great. The surprise I guess is the romance...curious now?

Record players and golden afternoons....

As I listen to the bassy voices of Debabrata Biswas and Sagar Sen sing out of my tinny laptop speakers and eyes stray to the park across the road, it takes me back to when I was in school. we had a HMV record player and two wooden speakers and a whole bunch of records.

And on sunny afternoons, Dad would put on any of the Bengali old greats on that record player and as the rich sound floated along from room to room and in and around the hills, it will weave a magic of sound. It didn't matter what we were doing, the music will reach us. Some one would be curled up with a book, my brother will likely be doing crosswords or trying to catch an siesta, mom must have been trying to catch up on her school papers while sipping on some tea...and the music will simply invade the atmosphere and settle around us.

And then there were moonlit nights on clear nights, which will soon lead to every one dragging a cane chair into the front lawn and getting comfortable in their colorful shawl, while some one popped in another record into the trusty record player.

There will be scratches and hisses at the beginning and then suddenly sound used to pour out the wooden boxes, soft and soothing. Many people find Rabindra sangeet tedious because of its repetitive slow melody. But in those afternoon's and nights, they just fit the moods and the songs stayed in the memory along with the moments.

Mind you though, we did have modern music systems later on, but the tradition didn't stop, it just changed the medium. We would pop in a CD instead of a cassette, but there would still be those moments in like framed by that music.

And it spilled out of bengali into Hindi and western. Afterall the north east india resonates with music anytime. I am spoiled, I confess. Still now, i can't resist humming a good song when I see a golden afternoon or a moonlit night. It is kind of gloomy out side today, but in my mind its a golden summer afternoon.

I am sharing one of the old Bengali modern songs that used to play a lot in the record player. Click to listen

Haflong Day’s: A bonfire night in the station

Haflong is a cold place, especially in winter. At an elevation of 513 m (1,683 ft) above sea level, this hill station pretty much never gets hotter then 25 Celsius and never cooler then 4-3 Celsius. But the wind chill can be a killer, especially if you are sitting in a Railway platform in the open at 10 in the night.

My memory is fuzzy but I think I was around 7 years old. Our family was on our way to vacationing in Goa. That meant we had to go from Haflong to Guwahati. From there another train to Kolkata; the Rajdhani to Mumbai and finally a short flight to Goa.

But it all had to start somewhere and that somewhere was Lower Haflong Station. A month long vacation for the whole family meant a whole lot of luggage at that time and we had come to the station with plenty of to spare. I don’t remember if the train was late, but I remember we waited quite a long time.

It was freezing cold. My hands, ear and nose were all red..I dare say I must have looking like Rudolf the reindeer at this point. My brother had gotten pally with a few local tribal boys and was having a good time. I was trying to keep myself warm by running on the platform with occasional screams from my mother to watch out.

Suddenly I heard this crackling sound, and could smell something burning. Turning around I saw a bonfire on the edge of the platform. I ran up and saw that most people had started gathering around a few burning fences topped off with dry kindling.

Soon someone found a kettle of tea to heat up over that fire, someone fished out some munchies and someone started humming a tune. We spent the rest of the time waiting for the train by plain an impromptu game of Antakshari around a bonfire sitting with strangers who became friends for that night.

Haflong Days: How I Met Super Cat!

Over the growing years I have had a number of cats. It wasn’t that my parents were cat lovers; rather they didn’t like the added responsibilities that these pets brought. But we had rat-problem. Imagine rats the size of kittens, moving from house to house by using the networked ropeway (read cable TV wires). I swear they looked like commandos, hanging upside down, scurrying on the wires using their paws.

Well, as you can guess, we needed cats. So we had a running supply of - feisty cats, wild cats, cowardly cats who got scared by rats, dumb cats who chewed on socks, circus cats who hung from curtains, cats who like to co-exists with rats (I used to like tom and jerry before that) and many more such specimens.

Some died, some were sent back to their breeders. And one ran away. I took the presence of cats quite pragmatically until that cat. Then came my one and only dog Leo, who traitoriously passed away after one year due to some disease, leaving me broken hearted. I swore never to keep to another pet. And I stuck to my guns until super cat arrived.

On a nice sunny afternoon, which was incidentally my birthday, I came home to discover an energetic kitty on our verandah. Now, I was realistic enough to know that this couldn’t be a birthday present, not even if hell froze over. So this led to me to ask my brother who shrugged nonchalantly and replied that he had tossed the cat out a number of time but it has come back stubbornly. Weirdly enough no one seemed to mind his presence.

The next day though came the shocker. The tom cat’s mama turned up. Now, she was a bona fide wild cat. Hissing and spitting at any movement, its eyes furtive and muscles quivering with alertness. It was evident that the she-cat was very uneasy in its present environment.

My first reaction was there goes another one. But to all our surprise, she merely played with the kitty for an hour or two on our big lawn and then left. This was repeated everyday, the games getting to look more like training as days went by. There was running, climbing, hunting, ducking all rolled into that play time. And, boy was the mother a task master. She would have made an awesome drill sergeant. She pushed and swatted at the small kitty whenever something went wrong. Within a few weeks we could spot the signs of the skillful predator that the little cat would turn out to be.

Suddenly just as this weird training had started, it stopped. The female cat stopped coming. We surmised, she appointed us foster parents because she couldn’t do it and left once she was sure the cat could handle life. Strangely human.

Of course by now the whole household watched all this like a soap opera and heaved a sigh of relief once it became clear the cat would stay. And it did stay with us for six years until we left Haflong. I will confess I had considered bringing the cat with me to the city. But, apart from the cost and hassle involved, I thought it would like to stay in that beautiful place rather then a city. I kept getting updates on the cat for the next few years from my neighbors who had grown to love that odd-ball cat of ours. And then the news stopped coming, I hope he forgave me, but guess like many parents I too thought leaving him behind was best for him.

If you want more on the Super cat adventures, let me know. I am known to ramble on about him and I know for sure that now everybody wants to know all about my cat. So requests please!

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!”

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!