I have a friend who likes to photograph cemeteries. An odd interest that once made me ask him why? His answer was there was something about the calm of death. I had no clue what he meant. I have never walked inside a cemetery or even showed any interest. Somehow I have always been leery of being anywhere near the dead. But I followed him one day on one of his shoots.
We drove on his bike into the heart of the city, where among the snarling traffic stood a Christian burial ground, flanked by busy roads on all three sides. It was not in use any more he informed me, as the grounds were full. I got off the bike and stepped on to the pavement. My friend found us the small Iron Gate that served as the entrance. The ground was covered by dry golden leaves and looked desolate.
But the moment I stepped in through the gates, something shifted. The sound of the traffic suddenly muted. The grounds were cool and shaded by the ample canopy an old banyan tree. There was calm, a library-like stillness, as if everyone –dead and living – obeyed the rule of silence, but not in any sinister sense.
It was an old grave yard, as the dates on the elaborately carved headstones indicated. Some had four or five generations of family buried side by side - the De’ Silva’s and Gonzales’ enjoyed the quiet repose. My friend took black and white photos with his Nikon SLR. As he started snapping, I found myself walking between the graves, a little leery at the thought of dead bodies. I alternated between quiet calm and sudden spells of heightened awareness when the hairs on my neck prickled for no reason.
Slowly, as the hour progressed, I started to see pictures instead of just headstones. Sometimes it was the angle of the stones, sometime the writing on them, but they were telling a story. I called my friend over and borrowed his camera for a few shots, which he was happy to oblige. Couple of shots later, it was time to leave.
I never got the chance to look at those pictures I took. My friend and I had chosen different career paths and shifted to different cities, with no contact at all. But that day spent on the cemetery made me a little less leery about death had given me a strange sense of peace towards the finality of it.
If you are interested check out this link to some cemetery phototographs on the net http://www.pbase.com/marchael/cemetery
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Having A Bad day
Today was one of those days when nothing goes right. The glass has to fall, the milk has to spill and the traffic has to come to a standstill! Well that’s not exactly what happened but you get my drift.
The problem started when I was making my lunch this morning. I forgot to throw in the chili, which my hubby loves, as I was in a hurry (my maid is absconding and the morning is a rush job). So I decided to substitute it with chili powder. Of course, the container had to go flying out of my hand and all that red chili power to spill all over my recently mopped kitchen floor.
And this happened with only 20 minutes to go before we get really late to office. So I dashed for the broom and tried to sweep it off without getting any powder in my eyes or fingers. Even though the floor got cleaned my mood was already feeling the burnt of the chili.
But I didn’t have the time to brood. So I dashed off to get ready. Of course then I had to drop my earrings under my bed and then crawl on all four, while wearing that well-ironed formal dress looking for that earring. Got into an even crappier mood by then.
Thank god though the traffic was merciful and reached the office without hassle. Now, owing to the fact that my husband had an early morning meeting, I reached office half an hour before time. But I wasn’t worried as I planned on having my breakfast in the canteen, by which time my one of the guys would have turned up with the office key.
I work in small law firm with a handful of people. So we most of have a keys. But as luck goes I had given mine to another colleague the night before as he was staying late. So imagine my irritation and surprise, when no one turned up by office time. I called my lucky colleague and he shamelessly informed me that he woke up late and was still at home. Well same story was repeated with others until one guy turned up half an hour later.
Now, I am a true believer of every bad thing comes in threes. That was three things, so hoping I don’t have any more nasty surprises today. Oh god, don’t you just hate this kind of days?
The problem started when I was making my lunch this morning. I forgot to throw in the chili, which my hubby loves, as I was in a hurry (my maid is absconding and the morning is a rush job). So I decided to substitute it with chili powder. Of course, the container had to go flying out of my hand and all that red chili power to spill all over my recently mopped kitchen floor.
And this happened with only 20 minutes to go before we get really late to office. So I dashed for the broom and tried to sweep it off without getting any powder in my eyes or fingers. Even though the floor got cleaned my mood was already feeling the burnt of the chili.
But I didn’t have the time to brood. So I dashed off to get ready. Of course then I had to drop my earrings under my bed and then crawl on all four, while wearing that well-ironed formal dress looking for that earring. Got into an even crappier mood by then.
Thank god though the traffic was merciful and reached the office without hassle. Now, owing to the fact that my husband had an early morning meeting, I reached office half an hour before time. But I wasn’t worried as I planned on having my breakfast in the canteen, by which time my one of the guys would have turned up with the office key.
I work in small law firm with a handful of people. So we most of have a keys. But as luck goes I had given mine to another colleague the night before as he was staying late. So imagine my irritation and surprise, when no one turned up by office time. I called my lucky colleague and he shamelessly informed me that he woke up late and was still at home. Well same story was repeated with others until one guy turned up half an hour later.
Now, I am a true believer of every bad thing comes in threes. That was three things, so hoping I don’t have any more nasty surprises today. Oh god, don’t you just hate this kind of days?
Monday, May 14, 2007
Duniya ke Kone Kone Me Roaming!
Translated it means “Roaming in corners of the world”. My fellow country men who have joined the mobile generation, I am sure you have had amazing experiences with the mobility of mobiles yourselves by now. See, here is thing called roaming. Essentially this allows you to take you cell phone with you as you travel, so that the annoying credit card sellers can call you when your incoming costs around 3 bucks per minute!
But, as it happens, you will be lucky if those credit card sellers can actually call you. Because most of the time the network refuses to roam along with your phone. Recently my cousin came to visit me and I was parked outside the airport (parking fee in airports are sky high) waiting for him to call and let us know he has landed. When it was well past the arrival time, we called and were told by a sugary sweet sing song voice that that “the subscriber is out of network reach”.
Once we collected this hapless soul, after much waiting and coordinating, my cousin used my phone to call the customer care. In followed the instruction –switch the phone on and off, remove the SIM card, try manually selecting the network. Then it degenerated into “are you sure activated your roaming, did you have enough balance” and finally “It’s a technical error we cannot help you”.
Well, that helped a lot. Of course the fact that my cousin is a lawyer means they are going to get skinned when he gets back to his city (he refused to sue long distance). Anyhow, this happens so often then most people know what the Technical support is going to say beforehand and only calls them if the usual techniques don’t work. Yes, shaking the phone is also a technique.
This reminded me of an episode in a comedy show where this guy couldn’t get a reception and was finally asked to stand in a kona (corner) cause as the advertisement says Duniya ke kone kone (corners) mein roaming!
But, as it happens, you will be lucky if those credit card sellers can actually call you. Because most of the time the network refuses to roam along with your phone. Recently my cousin came to visit me and I was parked outside the airport (parking fee in airports are sky high) waiting for him to call and let us know he has landed. When it was well past the arrival time, we called and were told by a sugary sweet sing song voice that that “the subscriber is out of network reach”.
Once we collected this hapless soul, after much waiting and coordinating, my cousin used my phone to call the customer care. In followed the instruction –switch the phone on and off, remove the SIM card, try manually selecting the network. Then it degenerated into “are you sure activated your roaming, did you have enough balance” and finally “It’s a technical error we cannot help you”.
Well, that helped a lot. Of course the fact that my cousin is a lawyer means they are going to get skinned when he gets back to his city (he refused to sue long distance). Anyhow, this happens so often then most people know what the Technical support is going to say beforehand and only calls them if the usual techniques don’t work. Yes, shaking the phone is also a technique.
This reminded me of an episode in a comedy show where this guy couldn’t get a reception and was finally asked to stand in a kona (corner) cause as the advertisement says Duniya ke kone kone (corners) mein roaming!
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Song of Life and Chains..
An Old poem, to those who know me.
Everyday of giving way
Feeling the air being cut away
The circle closes in,
While your heart still beats, and mind still leaps
Only the line keeps you at bay.
They buried you alive!
That's how you feel
Only that the they have no faces
Not afraid of the darkness
Only the pain of being...chained
Alone
Always Alone,
Even when love surrounds you
The mind still wonders
"Tomorrow, I will again be alone"
Looking back over the shoulder
It's not a habit, just a way of living
There is too much pain in the past to bury it,
leave it behind alone...like yourself.
Carry it with you,
in hopes you can look to the past in hopes of future
The fire still burns
The passion still flows
But you know better than Icarus did
So, the circle still closes
Mummified in your own desires
Preferring to live alone
Knowing with certainity
You will always be alone.
There are mornings
when you look out of the window at the green grass
And hear the call of your heart, the call to run
to hope, to live, to follow your hearts desire
And then the rest of the world comes into view
And the dream disappears in the veil of morning coffee
Life goes on
The circle closes in
Leaving just the hope
In death, you will answer the call
Of that beautifull morning dawn.
Everyday of giving way
Feeling the air being cut away
The circle closes in,
While your heart still beats, and mind still leaps
Only the line keeps you at bay.
They buried you alive!
That's how you feel
Only that the they have no faces
Not afraid of the darkness
Only the pain of being...chained
Alone
Always Alone,
Even when love surrounds you
The mind still wonders
"Tomorrow, I will again be alone"
Looking back over the shoulder
It's not a habit, just a way of living
There is too much pain in the past to bury it,
leave it behind alone...like yourself.
Carry it with you,
in hopes you can look to the past in hopes of future
The fire still burns
The passion still flows
But you know better than Icarus did
So, the circle still closes
Mummified in your own desires
Preferring to live alone
Knowing with certainity
You will always be alone.
There are mornings
when you look out of the window at the green grass
And hear the call of your heart, the call to run
to hope, to live, to follow your hearts desire
And then the rest of the world comes into view
And the dream disappears in the veil of morning coffee
Life goes on
The circle closes in
Leaving just the hope
In death, you will answer the call
Of that beautifull morning dawn.
Monday, May 07, 2007
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!
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!
Friday, April 27, 2007
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!
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?
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?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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!”
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!”
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
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).
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).
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 16, 2007
"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!!!”
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!!!”
Friday, April 13, 2007
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!
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!
Thursday, April 12, 2007
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.
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!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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!
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!
Monday, April 09, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Hobbies make good company..
In case you are wondering ."What the heck...?"..Here is the clue - when you are bored out of your mind turn to your hobby. Or hobbies.
When I was in school and things will start to 'hit the fan', I would reach for my diary and start writing. I wrote whatever came to my mind.. Limericks, poems, about the day, about the neighbors dog, muse about how the shit hit the fan..Anything. It was peaceful and calming. Move over yoga!
No serious, it was the best company I could ask for.....Well except for the feral eyed Tomcat who used to cosy up to me now and then.
Well then we moved and mister feral kitty was left behind. And it was me and my diary again. But the city was too noisy and I could come up with nothing to write. And just like that I discovered something else. Doodling. Oh well two things actually. The second was my guitar.
I guess my perceptive big brother may have figured that "my old guitar" will make a good cuddle bunny one day. Oh sorry man if you are reading..no offense! Well so here I was doodling on paper drawing faces, designs, cars.... even if they didn't look like what they were supposed to be. And there were the strings.
I fumbled with the instrument.. and the squawks and twangs never sounded better. I have fond memories of evening spent, eyes scrunched up, lips pressed together -trying to master the first few lines of "A 100 miles away from home".
Now, am at another place another home. I still write. And I paint. Sceneries mostly..with my old brush and water paints. But they still have the same effect -peace and comfort. Guess I really couldn't ask for better company. And they aren't even high maintenance.
When I was in school and things will start to 'hit the fan', I would reach for my diary and start writing. I wrote whatever came to my mind.. Limericks, poems, about the day, about the neighbors dog, muse about how the shit hit the fan..Anything. It was peaceful and calming. Move over yoga!
No serious, it was the best company I could ask for.....Well except for the feral eyed Tomcat who used to cosy up to me now and then.
Well then we moved and mister feral kitty was left behind. And it was me and my diary again. But the city was too noisy and I could come up with nothing to write. And just like that I discovered something else. Doodling. Oh well two things actually. The second was my guitar.
I guess my perceptive big brother may have figured that "my old guitar" will make a good cuddle bunny one day. Oh sorry man if you are reading..no offense! Well so here I was doodling on paper drawing faces, designs, cars.... even if they didn't look like what they were supposed to be. And there were the strings.
I fumbled with the instrument.. and the squawks and twangs never sounded better. I have fond memories of evening spent, eyes scrunched up, lips pressed together -trying to master the first few lines of "A 100 miles away from home".
Now, am at another place another home. I still write. And I paint. Sceneries mostly..with my old brush and water paints. But they still have the same effect -peace and comfort. Guess I really couldn't ask for better company. And they aren't even high maintenance.
Friday, February 16, 2007
FLy on the windshield
Ok this is for all the pushy people out there who keep bugging me with "why don't you post?". Now if you are thinking this is going to be an abstract piece about some unfortunate afore mentioned insect.. well you got it right!
This thought occured to me on the passing.. quite accidentally you know - that to cross the roads in India you need to have eyes like the fly. You know.. lots of eyes.. in a convex shaped head.. oh c'mon guys go see "The Fly" if you don't know what I am talking about.
So, imagine having a bunch of eyes.. that give you a 360 degree view of life. "Zen at 12 o'clock.. ooh big truck bearing down at 3 o'clock.. gah stupid bike behind me...."
Anyhow, so there I was dreaming of the possibilities the multiple eyes could give me.. in crossing the road.. watching more then one TV etc... and then it hit me.. ONE WRONG MOVE and I am a fly on the windshield. SPALT!! SQUELCH! You get my drift. Life would be so short. And no funeral. Hm... well I guess gotta live this life as a human and cross the roads the normal way.. suicidally. But hey a girl can dream! Cheerio boys and girls.
This thought occured to me on the passing.. quite accidentally you know - that to cross the roads in India you need to have eyes like the fly. You know.. lots of eyes.. in a convex shaped head.. oh c'mon guys go see "The Fly" if you don't know what I am talking about.
So, imagine having a bunch of eyes.. that give you a 360 degree view of life. "Zen at 12 o'clock.. ooh big truck bearing down at 3 o'clock.. gah stupid bike behind me...."
Anyhow, so there I was dreaming of the possibilities the multiple eyes could give me.. in crossing the road.. watching more then one TV etc... and then it hit me.. ONE WRONG MOVE and I am a fly on the windshield. SPALT!! SQUELCH! You get my drift. Life would be so short. And no funeral. Hm... well I guess gotta live this life as a human and cross the roads the normal way.. suicidally. But hey a girl can dream! Cheerio boys and girls.
Monday, December 18, 2006
The name is Bond…
James Bond… Well not really. I just came from watching the latest Bond flick, Casino Royal and this is what I am thinking- Daniel Craig looks too much like the action-hero to be Bond, but the movie was a breath of fresh air. It was hard gritty fast, compared to the old blinking-switches and outrageous gizmos.
It was also more Real. More true too the book. I think Fleming’s Bond is finally here. Thought it would have been better if Daniel Craig didn’t look like he just took a couple of Botox injections. At least Sly Stallone has an excuse. On a more positive tone, though, I think the story almost made me feel for the Bond, wooden-face nonetheless. My conclusion? Watch it. Why? Because it’s a Bond movie for Chrissake. And the Girl is actually there for a reason other then looking good.
The action is, however, the high point of any James Bond movie. And this one doesn’t disappoint. It’s fabulous, just incredible enough to be Bond but looks real enough to make the audience ooh and aah with delight.
As my brother said, from having the love interest named “Pussy Gallore” and looking like rich French Barons who have seen more manicurists then terrorist, Bond has come a long way with a Female M to boot. I can’t wait to see the next Bond movie.
It was also more Real. More true too the book. I think Fleming’s Bond is finally here. Thought it would have been better if Daniel Craig didn’t look like he just took a couple of Botox injections. At least Sly Stallone has an excuse. On a more positive tone, though, I think the story almost made me feel for the Bond, wooden-face nonetheless. My conclusion? Watch it. Why? Because it’s a Bond movie for Chrissake. And the Girl is actually there for a reason other then looking good.
The action is, however, the high point of any James Bond movie. And this one doesn’t disappoint. It’s fabulous, just incredible enough to be Bond but looks real enough to make the audience ooh and aah with delight.
As my brother said, from having the love interest named “Pussy Gallore” and looking like rich French Barons who have seen more manicurists then terrorist, Bond has come a long way with a Female M to boot. I can’t wait to see the next Bond movie.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Monday morning blues
Hear hear! I mean Monday morning is here. I guess the overwhelming urge to curl into the blanket and hope that the world forgets you are there for a few more minutes is entirely phycholigical. Pity, half a worlds population seem to share my view. Winter, my dear readers, is meant to be spent under the confortable warm blanket, sipping hot chocolate and reading action thrillers - not skiing the sheer cliffs of Aspen- and definitely not working in an Air Conditioned office. I do declare- I am lazy. I realised this astonishing fact early in life and have even accepted the reality of it. You will too.
Where was I? Oh yes, Monday morning blues. Here is a tip to avoid it - don't work on Saturdays. See if you do- then Sunday comes and goes very fast, since it has only 24 hours and we sleep foe about 7 to 8 hours and there is eating, drinking,........... you get the picture. and then when you wake up on Monday morning to the trilling sound of your expensive cell phone.........lets just say your entire life flashes before your eyes. Specially all the times you had to wake up on a moday morning. And my boos is here, waving a think wad of paper under my nose, which means is time to wrap up the rant. ciao people. Please contribute.
Where was I? Oh yes, Monday morning blues. Here is a tip to avoid it - don't work on Saturdays. See if you do- then Sunday comes and goes very fast, since it has only 24 hours and we sleep foe about 7 to 8 hours and there is eating, drinking,........... you get the picture. and then when you wake up on Monday morning to the trilling sound of your expensive cell phone.........lets just say your entire life flashes before your eyes. Specially all the times you had to wake up on a moday morning. And my boos is here, waving a think wad of paper under my nose, which means is time to wrap up the rant. ciao people. Please contribute.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)