Of cold hands and warm hearts

When I was a child, my parents' home had a large, old-style wooden swing that I loved to swing on. My enduring memories of that swing are of a close friend and I pretending it was a plane, in which we travelled to the fabled land of Kashmir. Once we were there, the swing would transform itself into a bus in which we travelled everywhere, or a boat on which we took a turn on the Dal lake, while someone played fabulous music on (I think it was) a harp! Our knowledge of Kashmir was from the things we heard of from a relative who had, indeed been there, and who had got a wonderfully embroidered woolen coat as a souvenir. In my childhood imagination, Kashmir was a land like the one Sindbad the sailor or Hatim Tai inhabited. A wondrous fantasy place, where  fabulous riches and adventures abounded.

So when we planned a trip there this Christmas vacation, I was in a dichotomy of mind. One part was ecstatic, for I was going to soon find out if all I had imagined was true. Jammu & Kashmir has been in the news for all the wrong sort of and heart-wrenching reasons in for the past many years, but if anything, that had heightened my fascination with it. It was one of those 'must-visit destinations before you die' for me for the longest time. There was also the matter of the rich historical references, right from the Harappan times, the Mahabharata, to the Mughal era, which drew me to it.

Another part of me was worried. Worried because I have a low tolerance for cold and an acrophobia bordering on vertigo. A relative stays on the 26th floor and I am fine at her place as long as I do not have to step out onto the balcony or go too near the wide windows. I instinctively claw at whatever I can cling on to. How was I to handle a cold place in winter, with all that snow, and which had landscapes of (literally) Himalayan proportions?

The place was so breathtakingly beautiful, that all my worries flew out of the window, acrophobia be d****d!

I was left with images of a warm, caring and hospitable people. A people hurt by being caught in the cross-fire between two countries (OK, three, if one counts China). A people who just want to be able to live an ordinary life. A people forced to live under extraordinarily hostile conditions. Wherever one looked, there were the signs of a desperate poverty. No big stores, fine bungalows, fancy malls anywhere in Srinagar. We did not come across any beggars except for an old, bent woman outside the Hazaratbal shrine - a surprise observation in India. Instead, there were people desperate to be able do any little work that they could, to make some money. Hawking exquisite handicrafts off a sheet of plastic on freezing hilltops, walking many kilometers through treacherous paths guiding a horse with rider in snow, sleet and slush with the barest of warm protection, pulling toboggans up-slope with overweight tourists...the political situation obviously makes it a difficult and dangerous place for investors to take an interest in, and that reflects on the state's economy. I was somehow ashamed of being a priviledged consumer there.

Jammu was a bit different. For one, economically the conditions seemed better. There was a significant Sikh population. Although the only person we spoke to at length was the driver of our rented car, somehow they came across as more accepting of being a part of India. Though somehow not as warm as the people of Srinagar.

After coming back home, I read of the news of trouble in the very areas we had travelled to around Srinagar.  It made me realise that I had indeed been priviledged to have been there, interacted with those people, and felt the warmth of their hospitality, no matter what the ground reality. It also brought home to me the fact of the bubble I had been in, as a tourist in a place that had most of its economy based on the tourism industry - and how vulnerable they really are. It made me sad to think of the suffering an unfortunate history and geography bestows on otherwise good people.

Let me leave you with the pictures. Although the Kashmir valley is at its verdant best in summer, the bareness of winter too, has its own beauty.


The craggy tops of the mighty Himalayas. The almost vertical stratifications are proof of their origins- originally under-sea, and pushed up into the skies by the movements of the earth's crust. Think of the powerful crashing of the subcontinent into mainland Asia.

Ski slopes at Gulmarg, accessed by gondolas, the cable cars.

The line-of-control at the highest point in Gulmarg, beyond which there is no-man's-land. The opposite hill has a Pak outpost just beyond the crest.

The gondolas that take you up there. This is sinister, treacherous, inhospitable territory, with snow so deep a man could sink inside.

Wild berries? No. These are rose hips on the wild rose bushes that run riot along mountain roads. One can only imagine the colours when in full bloom.

Chashme Shahi. Built by Shah Jahan for his beloved first son, Dara Shikoh. Where we could imagine bejewelled harem ladies strolling around at the peak of its Mughal patronage. See the snow-capped mountains in the background. It reminded me of our own Lalbaug, with old old trees of chinar and the willow standing around in majestic leafless winter glory, the thickly foliaged Magnolia grandifloras and evergreens interspersed as the perfect foil.

Pari Mahal. A multi-level terraced garden with a fabulous view of meadows and hills. Built by Dara Shikoh, eldest son of the Mughal emperor Shahjahan, a staunch believer of Sufism for his Sufi tutor, Mulla Shah Badakhshi. He, unfortunately, did not ascend the throne after his father, having being disposed off by his ambitious, fanatical younger brother. History might have been a bit different if this gentler, more tolerant and beauty loving prince had become emperor instead of Aurangzeb.

The iconic Dal lake with its shikaras. The water was close to freezing when we were there. Yesterday I read that the surface now has a thin top layer of ice. Everything was lovely- the unhurried pace of the boat gliding over the almost still, greenish hued water, the feeling of calm, the majestic mountains surrounding the lake. The only problem were the peddlers who kept sidling along trying to make us look at their wares. I completely understand and empathise with the desperation of these hardworking people to do anything productive to earn a living, but we would have liked to be left in peace while on the lake.

On the road in picturesque Sonamarg. This was an absolutely stunning place. All around us were snow-capped mountains, and the road followed a clear, gurgling and ice-cold Sindhu river. What the world knows as the mighty Indus, famed for the setting of the Indus Valley Civilisation more than 4000 years ago. This place is closer to the source, and the river is a frothy, playful child as compared to the vast, sedately flowing one that it undoubtedly is later on its journey to the Arabian sea.

The shopkeeper at the shop where we bought some souvenirs, in his phiran and with his kangri - the wicker basket that holds an urn of burning coals, kept close to protect from the cold. A true symbol of Kashmir, we bought one for ourselves as well. Without the coals, of course!

Pahalgam. The place which doubles up for Switzerland in many of our hindi movies for those who don't realize it isn't. The sights on the trek to this place were lovelier than the place itself, IMO.

This was the surprise item. After making visits to all the usual haunts of tourists, we had one extra day left. Our driver, who was a knowledgeable person, suggested this place called Yusmarg, near the revered Chrar-e-Sharif shrine. It a pretty sunny day when we started out. There were many apple orchards along the way. As we neared the place, it started becoming overcast, and it started to snow! It was so wonderful. Suddenly the bare ground began to be covered by fine white flakes. A was ecstatic, and we kept trying to catch the snowflakes on our tongues. It was an exhilarating experience.

On the last leg of our trip, in Jammu, we first went to a town Akhnoor, which is famous for this fort on the banks of the Chenab, built at a site where excavations have revealed the northernmost known remains of the Harappan civilisation. This place is known locally for the Sohni-Mahiwal legend too.

And a picturesque view from the ramparts of the fort overlooking the Chenab. Though in ruins, some parts are still standing up to the ravages of time. We searched for the ruins of the Harappan civilisation, but there was so much of undergrowth that I'm sure it was under all that. Our country needs to wake up in terms of protecting and showcasing our monuments too. There was no guard on duty here, no entry fee, nothing. Just the above notice proclaiming this is national property. Are they waiting for this pretty well preserved piece of history to fall into further ruins before taking some action?

See the wild undergrowth here. The excavated remains of the Harappan civilisation are probably hidden under all that.

Jammu is near one of the border posts where people can go and visit. A milestone just this side of the border says: Sialkot 11 kms, Lahore 141 kms. A member of our army takes you out through a gate bearing the Indian flag into no-man's-land. At the other end of a half-kilometer, one can see the opposite gate bearing the chand-tara of Pakistan. Halfway, is a barbed wire protected barrier, which is the extent of the distance one can go. See that pipal tree- Ficus religiosa? It stands proudly, half in India, half in Pakistan.

We finished our trip with a pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi. A 12 km trek uphill. I feel proud of the fact that my daughter walked up all the way. No pictures, as we chose not to take anything with us. We aren't allowed anything except our faith and the clothes on us into the shrine. So no pictures, but it is a beautiful place the goddess resides in. It drizzled incessantly, turning to snowing during the last few kilometers. It was certainly an experience of a lifetime.  

Of multicultural experiences and winnings

A few months ago, Pageturners had sent out a call for stories, essays, poetry, flash fiction, etc. for a cross-cultural anthology. I had submitted an essay for it. The editor, Robin Lord, had a lot of praise for the article, but there were a lot of entries, of which many were obviously better than mine. The anthology, The Traversal of Lines, is available at the store in Bangalore.

Here is my essay for your reading pleasure.

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Kipling  has famously stated - Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet… this is so true. Until one imbibes the foreign culture and makes it one’s own .

I came to Bangalore around twenty years ago, before which I had lived all my life in Mumbai. Now,  a person who is born and brought up in a place like Mumbai usually does not imagine that they would make a move to another city. Ask someone from New York or London, and they would be equally dismissive of the possibility of any move.

Life happened, though, and before I knew it, I was married and moving to a completely new place , with a completely different culture. At least, it was at the time. Coming from Maximum City, awake 24/7, Bangalore seemed like a sleepy little place ; where shops opened after 11 am, only to close for an afternoon siesta of 2-3 hours,  whole markets closing up after sundown. Even prime business areas  like M.G.Road, Brigade Road and Commercial Street were closed on Sundays- unimaginable now, I know! When and how the laid-back Bangaloreans did their shopping- even grocery shopping- was a mystery to me . People went home early, and the streets were usually deserted by 8 pm .

A place where shopkeepers took umbrage if I browsed through their ware without buying- if I didn't find anything good .

A place where the language was alien to me and people looked askance if I used Hindi or English.

A place with an almost non-existent public transport system: twenty years ago, the buses were erratic at best, almost impossible to get on, with all name plates in the local language. Autos were similarly mysterious to me – not knowing the language; I had no clue as to why a request to go somewhere would be met with a ‘No’. This never happens in Mumbai even now . The metro rail, of course, is a fairly recent addition.

A place that seemed to belong to a different era- however, it grew on me. Slowly, as I became acclimatized to the unhurried pace of life here, and Bangalore became Bengaluru, the happening city; we have managed to meet half-way . Now, of course, I cannot imagine travelling by the local trains of Mumbai- something I did every day as a matter of course- unless I absolutely have to on one of my visits to meet family.

Between then and now, I have been able to travel  to places I had only read about in my beloved books. We were in the US for a year and a half. A few years later, we also stayed in the UK for a shorter period - 8 months, enough to scratch the surface of a culture. Fortunately, having read books from these places made them feel like a long-lost childhood friend.

On reaching the US, as soon as I had stepped outside the tarmac at the airport and got into a taxi, a wave of panic swept over  me…because WE WERE TRAVELLING ON THE WRONG SIDE! It was a gut reaction that I could not help - despite knowing beforehand that the convention is different in the US; one of the many issues of cultural translation that I had to tackle during my time there.  A loaf of bread for $1.40? Hang on, wasn't that a whopping Rs 55 for a meagre loaf? A pint of milk for $ 2 - Rs 90?  I went on in this vein until I calmed down and told myself to stop converting everything into rupees. This was a piece of advice I gave myself again when in the UK, where the translations were worse.

Then there was the strange case of every person I crossed on the streets giving me a smile. I was at my xenophobic best until I realised that people said ‘Howdy!’ to friends and strangers alike. I met my match one day, though. A lady I got to speaking with at the local library was surprised by the fact that I spoke very good English. She was even more surprised when I disabused her of the belief that India was all jungles, half-naked fakirs, elephants and snakes. She was positively amazed when I came out with my knowledge of the US, its history and its literature!

We were in a comparatively arid area of the country, and the extremes of temperature were something I had not experienced before. Public transport, again, was non-existent. Everyone preferred to travel by their own car, and we had just the one which my husband drove to office in. I did venture out, though, on many days to a nearby supermarket on foot. It was quite close - not more than half a kilometre, or in US terms, under just half a mile , but I still remember the looks I got from cars passing by. Pedestrians were found only in the downtown area – that was off bounds to vehicular traffic.

It was some time before my Indian mind could get around the pounds, quarts, yards and miles, accustomed as I was to thinking in decimals; I never did get very comfortable with it. I did get to an understanding of the people and places, though. We travelled quite a lot during our stay there, driving all over  the country, reaching Maine in the far  north-east and San Diego in the south-west, and much of what lies  in-between. We took quite a few walks in places like Yosemite, Natchez Trace Pathway, Grand Canyon and many  other places. Bill Bryson's books resonated with us as never before.

We visited the UK a few years after our return from the US. It was the country of Enid Blyton- my first childhood love in books. Also of Agatha Christie, Wodehouse, James Herriot, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Beatrix Potter, Michael Morpurgo, J.K.Rowling…I could go on. It was all that I had imagined, and much more.

Many things were different now- the main one being that this time I had a daughter. This changed my experience of a new country in many ways. For one, I was happy that I was in a place with an excellent public transport system: it was a boon to be able to take my child out at will, to not be dependent on the one vehicle we could afford. I was also amazed at the patience of all the bus drivers (and passengers) who would wait peacefully for me to take my child out of her stroller, fold it, board the bus with it and the child, stow it in a corner, pay for my ticket, find a seat and sit down, before we could get moving again. There was one other thing that struck me- in India, friends and family would not think much of picking up my daughter. There, strangers would make place for me and my daughter in buses and trains, they would smile at her, even speak to her, but not once did anyone attempt to touch her.

It also helped that people in the UK were more aware of all things Indian: familiar food was more readily available than in the US Midwest. It matters more when you have a child who will not eat anything unfamiliar. We prefer vegetarian food, and on the US visit, a visit to a pizza takeaway put me off it for a while- we had ordered a plain cheese pizza, and the person who cut and boxed ours had just cut and boxed a pepperoni pizza in front of us, using the same cutter. The poor fellow could not understand why we trashed that pizza: it was perfectly vegetarian in his eyes!

Fortunately, we reached the country in time to see the last few days of snow and sleet, and could enjoy most of the spring, summer and fall, coming back to India just before the onset of winter. So, we travelled a lot, and went on quite the literary pilgrimage around the country. We also discovered the culture of walks and, much to our delight, a book on walks graded by difficulty levels. Whenever we could, wherever we could, with a 3 year old in tow, we indulged in  exploring the country-side to our heart’s content. We did things that were unimaginable in India then - like visiting working farms, cheese farms, pick-your-own-fruit farms, animal petting farms - small pleasures that are still beyond the reach of the common person here. The frequent drizzles were like lawn-sprinklers, probably the secret of Britain’s verdant landscapes. Back here in Bangalore, the frequently overcast skies and rains in the evening remind me of our time there.

Then there have been the months we spent in Japan, but that is a story for another time.

Travel has changed me, in some aspects permanently and for the better. The places I have visited, the cultures I have seen and the people I have interacted with have done much to enrich my life. They have made my world-view what it is today, and I am thankful for all of it.

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While on cross-cultural talk, PaperTigers, who are celebrating their 10th anniversary this year, had a fabulous giveaway, in which I was a winner of a surprise book, the fabulous PaperTigers multicultural poster and some lovely bookmarks. I received a copy of Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin and The Good Garden: How One Family Went From Hunger To Having Enough. The second book was promptly devoured by the child. Thank you Corinne, for the books. Thank you, too, for heeding my request for a book that my 11 year old could enjoy. Looking forward to reading both of them.

Also, while on giveaways, check out this lovely Dazzle of Books that are up for grabs over at Playing By The Book. They all sound lovely! Click through to check some amazing collective nouns. I love the play of words there, especially the 'snore of beds'! Just right, isn't it?

It has been a week of the dark now in the Land of the Rising Sun

Nih-on in Kanji script

First- go to this post by Zoe at playingbythebook.net for a link to helping out with relief measures for Japan.

On 11th March, 2011, an earthquake of magnitude 9.0 on the Richter scale hit Japan, triggering many aftershocks and a massive tsunami. Between them, and with the added nuclear disaster at Fukushima, Japan has probably its darkest time since the nuclear bombs dropped on them during WW2.

Japan- Nippon or Nihon, as the Japanese call their country. The land of the rising sun. These are dark days for this most eastern of lands.

Along with the rest of the world, we watched in horror as first the earthquake, and then the tsunami wreaked havoc in those very parts of the country which we had been to in our stay there. We were in Japan, in Tokyo about a decade ago, and I have many wonderful memories of the place and its people. I was in a new place, with no knowledge of the language. Even if I was an Asian myself, the culture was not very familiar, as the books I had read are usually western-centric. (Of course Pearl S. Buck has been a favourite writer, and her books on both Chinese and Japanese backdrops were a revelation, but I still found the culture unfamiliar.) Inspite of this, I did not have much difficulty finding my way around Tokyo, thanks largely to the extremely helpful nature of those I asked for help.

I was there with my husband, but he would be out at the office all day and would come home quite late. I was left to entertain myself, as those were the days before A was born. So the first thing I did was find a book store where I could get some information in English, including a map and books on Japan. With the help of that map, I have freely roamed the streets and sidelanes of much of Tokyo all on my own.



Akihabara at nightfall

 A favourite destination was Akihabara, which was a straight walk of 6-7 kms from my home. It is like walking in New York, the streets flanked by shops and restaurants cheek-by-jowl, with neon signs that light up the place after dark. We lived in Kiba, which is by the Sumida river, or Sumidagawa, as the Japanese called it, and the road to Akihabara was across this river, over a foot bridge. The Japanese are walkers, and on any day, there would be many on the streets, walking to wherever they wanted to go.

I would start off with my map every morning after the husband had left for the office, and I have explored much of Tokyo on foot and by subway- this links to almost all parts of the city, and is much like the subway in New York or London, (of which I have travelled twice in New York, and extensively in London.) with different lines connecting with each other.

I have found that Tokyo is a very safe city to be abroad in, and I never felt the fear that accompanies being alone in a metropolis like this. At least that was the case a decade ago. I have not felt that feeling of safety in any of the other similar metros- well, Mumbai felt safe till fifteen years ago when the riots of 1992 and the blasts of 1993 destroyed that feeling.



Shinkansen

We also travelled a quite a bit outside Tokyo on week-ends and holidays. We took a trip by Tokaido Shinkansen (bullet train which travels at a speed of 250+ kms / hr) to Nagoya which is to the west of Tokyo and passed the Fujiyama (Mount Fuji-the symbol of Japan) on the way. We also visited the Fujiyama and climbed it partially on foot. Travelling by Shinkansen is an out of the world experience. At least it was to me, never having travelled at that speeds except by air. It begins with admiring the wonderfully streamlined shape of the train. Inside, it is as un-trainlike as it could be. And when the train is moving, one barely feels the motion except when passing through tunnels- or if one is looking out of the window and noticing that the landscape is just whistling by.

Nikko in the fall

We travelled to the North of Tokyo to a beautiful place called Nikko in the Tochigi prefecture, just south of the Fukushima prefecture, so badly affected by last week's disaster. We went there by train, the Tobu line, which is much more like the trains here in India. Nikko is a hill station, with a lake surrounded on all sides by hills, and many Buddhist and Shinto shrines. We were there in fall, and it was absolutely beautiful. We took a long 5 hr hike there through beautiful woods with many waterfalls along the way. 

As for the language, spoken Japanese has a certain cadence to it. I had not much occasion of conversing in the language, but I did learn a few key words- like 'moshimoshi' for hello and 'domoarigato' or 'domoarigatogozaimashta' for thank you or thank you very much, with much bowing.

MacDonalds written in Katakana

I tried my hand at their script, too, but couldn't go furthur than just recognising which script is being used. Japanese has a pictorial language, and a script called Kanji is used for purely Japanese words with culturally local connotations. The Japanese word at the beginning of this post is Nihon or Nippon, which is the name of the Japanese for their country. The other scripts are Hiragana and Katakana. Hiragana is used to write native words for which there is no Kanji. Katakana, on the other hand, is used to write non-native words- those which Japanese has borrowed from outside or those which are absolutely foreign.

I aquired a taste for many things Japanese. I had a cousin who stayed in Tokyo at the time, and he introduced us to Karaoke. We also tried typically Japanese food, and loved it. One of my great memories is eating yum, crisp tempuras and yakitori, Japan's answer to street foods, with hot sake drunk from bamboo. Yes, you read that right- pieces of bamboo, cup sized, which could hold a liquid. I have saved them, and still have them with me. I also learnt about ko-cha and o-cha, and the right way of drinking it-- green tea, for which I developed a taste at this time.

It was a lovely stay in a wonderful country, with the lush natural beauty, ultra-modern gagetry, (one has to be inside one of their well fitted and compact houses with unusual space-saving methods to believe it! I had thought it was part of the sci-fi lore of Japan till then.) and gracious people. No matter what is being said by nasty people or people who have suffered due to the Japanese in wars the world over about the country, in this darkest of its hours, I have good memories of them. After all, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, so atrocities have always been committed in the name of war, and all of those pointing fingers at Japan now are not 'doodh-se-dhule' either.

Even the way I said good-bye to Japan has been memorable. I was travelling back alone, as the husband had to wrap up some things, and I needed to be back for a wedding in the family. It was a pre-dawn flight, and soon after take-off, the eastern horizon began to lighten. My window faced the east, and I could see the sun rising in all it's glory- and as my plane moved towards the west, it remained sunrise for the longest period of time- much longer than if it had been seen from the ground. It has remained the Land of the Rising Sun in my mind.

A multi-flavoured vacation

Went for a 10-day vacation to Mussoorie and Shimla in the western Himalayas. The travelling included two flights, three train journeys and two taxi journeys. Which changed to two train and three taxi journeys unexpectedly on the penultimate lap due to our train being delayed by 6 hours thanks to the Gujjar agitation! There was no way we could avoid that, as we HAD to be in New Delhi by evening for a late evening flight back home.

Avoided most crowded city areas (except when absolutely unavoidable) and took many long walks through forested areas. The woods were quiet and cool, with many wonderful views enroute. We saw many snow covered peaks in the far distance- names like Kedarnath Badrinath which have only been heard of earlier. Even A managed the long treks. The longest we walked in a day was well over 16 kms, all uphill-and-downhill. "Aai, why did the British have to build all their towns on hills with such winding roads?" Often when we would be winded by steep uphill gradients, we would pause, catch our breath, have a swig of water, and set a reachable goal in the distance-"We'll walk till that tree covered with red flowers." That was how the two of us covered quite a lot of territory. (I really need to get that exercise schedule going ASAP. It was enjoyable, nevertheless! The husband, of course, had no fitness issues, being a regular exerciser.) 

Of course, we talked a lot about the historical aspects of the places we passed through and visited, with a lot of input from the Outlook Traveller books that we kept refering to. These are wonderful for nuggets of local history and folklore. For these were places where many a war had been fought, with references in the Mahabharatha, Ramayana, Mughal history, and of course the Raj.

Santa delivered on Christmas day, much to A's delight. We missed snow, though, as we had wonderfully clear blue skies all throughout our stay, and there were just a few clouds to be seen on our last day there. Every day we would check the weather for chances of precipitation, and would be disappointed. As if to rub it in, it snowed heavily on the day we were back home, and it was all over the news channels and newspapers. The silver lining was that we didn't get stranded there, as were many tourists who were still there. All roads and trains were non-functional for the next few days.

We also missed meeting Ruskin Bond, something that both A and I were looking forward to at Mussoorie. He was in Bhubaneshwar at that time, and reached Mussoorie quite late in the evening on our last day there. A had made two handwritten and decorated copies of a couple of stories she had written, so that she could gift one to Ruskin Bond and get one autographed from him. Ah, well, some other time. I know Mr Bond was there at a Pratham book event at Mumbai last year and at the the Bookaroo at New Delhi, and will be at the forthcoming Jaipur Literary Festival. Hope we can have something at Bangalore so that we can catch him here. Are you guys at Pratham books, Tulika books, Penguin books, Rupa publications, etc, and the like reading this?

So vacations over, we are back to our normal routine. It was certainly a welcome break, one that I needed. The best aspect of the 'break' was that I did not have to worry about cleaning and cooking for a whole of 10 days, and had some fabulous stuff to eat everywhere we went. The dahi (yogurt) and paneer we had out there was to kill for. Although I'm now scared of getting on to the weighing scales and find out my net gain. I hope some got lost in all those uphill walks!