Origami Meditation

Among the many things you resign to your utopian bucket list, to pick up a hobby and to meditate often feature in our I-don't-have-time-to-smell-the-flowers-or-my-sucky-cappuccino life. Images of either clichéd dance & music classes or dorky philately are conjured in both, the writer as well as the reader's mind. Sorry to break it to you, love, hobbies don't work that way, meditation doesn't come that easy.

I've lately discovered that people in pain, or suffering some kind of catharsis often turn to work, or some kind of physical activity outside of work to keep them distracted. I was in doldrums too, about three years ago, when socialising or any kind of recreation seemed like too much work. So I signed up for a play-reading group that met once in three weeks to a month on a Sunday afternoon. Not enough to keep me from plunging deeper into the murky abyss of negativity and pessimism and a general lack of productivity.

I took to watching tv series on my laptop for a while, but that would only lead to more late nights, a wandering mind, and restlessness. On one such evening when my binge watching session was preceded by Facebook prowling, I stumbled upon Aziz's profile picture on Facebook back then (below).

Posted by Aziz Mansur on Friday, 23 November 2012

Of course, what you see in the picture is a highly complex and skilled piece of tessellation that I might hope to achieve in perhaps the next decade. However, it inspired me to pick up a square piece of paper and start folding. In less than a week, I had a whole shelf dedicated folded paper animals, since those most fascinated me - a yellow elephant shared the corner with a centaur and a pegasus and a cat and a bird and even a turtle...

I later discovered a hole in the wall stationery shop on one of my jaunts out from Bandra station. This was the big break, for now I found paper specifically made for the purpose with vivid prints and textures so the folds would hold and not disintegrate.

The peacock that Mr Gandhi taught me

Soon I felt the need to inject some method into the madness that origami had become for me. since I was already on Meetup, I looked up the forum for contact groups that met regularly nearby, to learn certain folds better and explore the possibility of getting better paper, but alas, in vain. Then I remembered Aziz mentioning Origami Mitra, the group that met in Dadar.

At the end of that wonderful afternoon learning what paper to fold, and being presented with a peacock that Kamlesh Gandhi folded for me, he asked - "how did you know about us?"

A year before that afternoon, I had organized my first storytelling session for Pratham Books in September 2012. To make things more interesting for the kids, I asked Aziz if he'd be willing to conduct a basic origami session. Unfortunately, he was on the road, but recommended Himanshu Agarwal from Origami Mitra, and that really is where my tryst with the craft began. The wonders of turning any monochromatic piece of square (sometimes not even!) paper into (almost) any shape you desire!

The classic swan by Mr Kamlesh Gandhi

In my conversation with Mr. Gandhi, he told me about the origins of Origami Mitra. The entity was founded by the grand daughter of Lokmanya Tilak and a few friends in the late 1980s. Members range retirees, homemakers, and young students alike. A math teacher, regular at the fortnightly OM meetings, gives tangible form to math through origami. A couple of kids and young mothers and craft teachers were part of the motley that day too. Gandhi himself also deals in paper for origami folding among other things.

Apart from these meetings, Origami Mitra conducts marathon day-long sessions and annual exhibitions as well.

Most dismiss the art as a kids thing, but if the scale of international championships and convention events are anything to go by, both, the process as well as resultant models are nothing short of serious business!

My first real attempt was the Yoshizawa Butterfly and then a Fumiaki Kawahata Elephant and a frog. Easy it isn't, but if you're up for a challenge - John Montroll's giraffe that Himanshu and his 12 IIT-B student mates accomplished in 103 moves and 70 creases would be the standard to surpass. There are as many layers of study to the paper-sculpting hobby as to any other that one might take up. The world, largely divided into designers and folders.

My first folds

But how do I classify it as meditation?

Having trained in Hindustani Classical music, the level of precision involved in achieving the perfect final product is high. Not only does it require one to concentrate, but also be nimble handed and patient. I remember a dry throat and aching thumb when I attempted my first bat. Obviously I was jumping the guns, and eventually gave up in absolute frustration. But the multiple fold-imprinted paper occupies centrespace in my closet as a constant reminder that I must keep trying, and strive to get there someday, soon. The list of personality traits necessary to dive deep into the mesmerising realm of origami don't end there. You need at least a basic aptitude for symmetry, if not geometry, and the ability to judge the right kinds of paper - much like an editor's obsession with grammar - the instructor at my Origami Mitra session, Geeta ben threw a fit when she saw my marble paper!

 Origami frog tutorial

Kirigami cards at Temple Street, Hong Kong

The gathering at the Origami Mitra meet up felt more like a disorganised tuition class, chaotic and distracted. And that first visit was already the death knell to any subsequent visits. YouTube has proved a useful platform for learning, exploring the same methods in better detail, and of course discovering new designs and tutors in the comfort and confines of one's own room or office or even a commute. Finding funky craft paper was not a challenge, but I grew ambitious. Now I wanted various kinds of paper that would lend itself to more fluid designs.

Bestie, Twara's demand, a little sunny snail

So I asked a friend in Kuala Lumpur if he was to return any time soon. Not only was he confused trying to look for the right paper, he was also boggled by the sheer variety. He simply gave up. On my recent visit to Hong Kong however, it didn't occur to me to look for some myself, though I did stumble upon a roadside Kirigami card seller at Temple Street.

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Nov 21, 2015 at 4:12am PST

I have since experimented with with quite a few designs and even been to a few exhibitions. But as old Prof. Salat at MSU as well as Prof. Ashok at EFL said, you have to internalise to remember for posterity, to pass on these precious pieces. And so I decided to parse the folds. I practised and practised till I could remember the butterfly, the classic crane and some varieties of boats. however, I leave you here with my little zoo!

So this weekend #diy project finally saw the light of tonight! #birdcage #newspaper #origami #canary

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Jul 20, 2015 at 12:31pm PDT

Inspired by @chinmayajailwala and have been practicing for a few days now #origami #crane #hobby #handmade #paper #craft

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Sep 3, 2015 at 9:50am PDT

The beginning of a laborious #longweekend #origami #boat #joyofgiving #daanutsav2015

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Oct 3, 2015 at 1:11am PDT

Reubens, et. el.

Much like my post about my Ajanta-Ellora visit back in April 2013, writing about my morning stroll along a few walls lined with 17th century Flemish art was not easy. Their documentation of a time in the past, their maintenance, their precision and detail was so remarkable, I kept looking for other references to club with the subject and write in my sort of meandering style, connecting them all to make melody out of the notes. Alas, this too, was too beautiful to be spoken about in any plural form.

'Winter' in Bombay, is more a pleasant time of year meant for sweatless walks out in the open, not so much about bringout out your fall-winter collection. It begins with art. Public walls being repainted by kids or graffiti artists, contemporary displays at Jehangir or even at the Kala Ghoda Festival and travelling exhibitions from across the world. The latest to take Bombay by storm, is a phenomenal collection of Flemish paintings at the Prince of Wales Museum (Chattrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalay for those who care more about bloody political correctness than the enchantment that is this heritage building itself) on its first visit to India. My friend from Pondicherry, Dirk first posted a link to the Hindu Business Line story and Mumbai Boss did another short piece later too.

I asked my faithful culture explorer friend, Anuj to accompany me and he said yes right away! He made for the best part about the walk - patiently waiting for the school-kids visit to get out of the way and see each piece quietly, unlike the noob art critics who can't zip their opinion. A big rooter of the Art-For-Art's-Sake school of thought, I steered clear of those and wisely so. We did a leisurely late Sunday morning visit to the museum and weren't disappointed.

The first three paintings that greet you, as if with a gentle, pious, pristine 'hello...', are Reuben's. Angels sometimes peeping from, and sometimes making, the clouds. It was the Van Dyck steed, that despite its slightly distorted proportions, impresses with its sheer magnitude. And the museum guys have placed a little settee strategically in front of it for those who'd care to be wowed by it in peace.

Like all things ancient, these paintings instill an instant sense of awe - of being able to see a piece of such exquisite art at such close quarters, all these centuries later. It is much like watching teacher and disciple in tandem. Like having heard Abida Parveen and Sanam Marvi in a span of barely a few weeks a couple of years back. The graduation, evolution and encouragement to rise above norms is clear. And while I may be jumping the guns to some extent, sauntering past Tenier, Wautier, Coques, Gysel, Lytens and Francken's evolving styles made for an excellent insight into what probably graduated to Impressionistic art in France is not entirely hard to make, especially Lytens' Winter Landscape.

For me, the oils on panel were a personal discovery and so were the engravings. The latter, a fine example of how the printing press might have had some history in the painstaking detail of hand-engraved copper plates used to print multiple copies of certain scenes from the Bible and Greek mythology (look out for the Samson & Delilah piece at the fag end of the display). There are some brilliant landscapes - easily classic even in our times and where we live, especially scenes from Antwerp's town squares that show vivid movement (including a pair of canines humping).

It is little wonder then, that the exhibition of the 28 exclusive paintings from the collection of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp and 25 engravings of the print room of the Plantin-Moretus museum, opened by Princess Astrid of Belgium from November 27 should be on your next weekend list of things not to miss! For those short on time, plan a visit in the month to come, since it's on only till Feb 8th. Gift yourself this visit first thing in the New Year.

Gannu Drowns

18th of the month was not my first Visarjan in Bombay. However, the experience was vastly deviant from the expected. And yet I don't know where to begin. So the best place would be work. Like all offices in SoBo, ours too shut early that day (late afternoon which extended into early evening really thanks to work taking unusual affinity towards a day everyone was looking forward to running back home soon). The roads were comparatively deserted and a colleague was kind enough to drop me at Churchgate.

The train was emptier than Sunday afternoon in general compartments and the weather added its two bits. When I was exiting Bandra station though, the drama of an unusual quietness struck me. I touched KFC at Linking Road in a record three minutes. Suddenly I had a LOT of time, no crowds by which to be bothered, with all the shops still open, thorough policing on the roads and nothing to do. So I shopped and managed to walk home.

I still had time on hand and so decided to go visit my cats. By this time night had fallen and I could already hear drums and recorded dance music hollering from the loudspeakers on the roads. 'Shit' was my first feeling. So I avoided the main road and trod the inside roads of Khar to get to the closest exit near the old Santacruz house. I prepared myself at the last leg (read: the last crossroad where I had to turn left towards Linking Road) to confront the cacophonic crowd.

I was shocked. One side of the road was completely empty. The other side had people dancing, vans-trucks-motorbikes-wheelers carrying the deity as well as at least 4 bazooka speakers that played one or the other of the (by now-) standard 5 item numbers. Traffic was still passing smoothly beside them, and people were fearless to walk past them.

What took me completely by surprise was a servicing tradition I have never witnessed anywhere ever. Several housing societies that line the arterial road were out supporting & cheering these pedestrians out to say goodbye to the elephant Lord for the year, imploring him to return again next Chaturthi. But the act wasn't empty - they had set up stalls with water, soft drinks and other light refreshments to keep up the morale of these night walkers. But not for no reason - for all said and done, this was quite a show! The procession of colours, music and creatively rendered forms of Ganpati enthralled an audience not only of passersby and the refreshment stall attendees, but also attracted more who had parked their cars and were sitting around with their own popcorn-n-cold drink for the show.

On my way back, I even saw quite a few oldies sitting out on plastic chairs firmly footed on the pavement on the opposite side for a comfortable view!

I've seen this city enjoy free shows of all sorts. The other day a tight-rope-walker distracted me while I was in a cab taking my boss's call. Brawls in Dadar and the chawls of Bandra and Dharavi are probably everyone's favourite live (& free!) entertainment. Watching a Ganpati Visarjan rally was something of a novelty that will take its time to wear off...

The room of my dream

The first time is always hard. It's as if snippets of its appearance or fragrance or layout are from another time and space. Unknown yet familiar. Like they belong to several parallel universes. Like déjà vu. Like a Freudian slip coming back. The darkness pierces and comforts, all at once.

It is a simple standard square. The dulled pale yellow distemper on the walls and oil paint on the room; balcony doors & window frames, at first sight, make the place look stale, unlived-in, un-cared for, for a while. The latent odour of seepage and peeling paint begins to build something of a personality in your mind. But before you form a middle aged graying figurine in your head, a whiff of cool breeze from the window and balcony, that was just opened, hits you to shake things up. It's the effect that twilight's hues have on a dusky face, taking away the years, adding charm and youth.

You begin to look at this space in a new light. The light of street lamps along the highway that seeps in from the window, the high mast florescent light within the oil company's housing campus in Bandra, in the wee hours of the weeknight. The light of comfort that leads to a new excitement, and opens avenues for the brewing anticipation.

The room is compartmentalised in clutter as well. A wall closet and another steel almirah, a functional desk laden with assorted items of use – a strip of medicine, a shaving kit, some books, a pair of spectacles. Hooks on the adjacent wall do their job with assembly-line efficiency. At a level a tad lower than one's hips is a plain sand-papered wooden shelf, about six feet long and peppered with more items of male clothing. I notice a swivel chair later too – happily filled, not with the wearer but with his wares - a towel, laundered clothes, freshly discarded garb - the yield of the exploits from that building store of energy dying to pound.

Wires, papers, a water bottle, a wrist watch - all jostle for the spotlight on the little bed-side table. They all struggle to tell their story. A story of exhaustion from a long day at work, of haste to get out as soon as one gets in.

Then there is the flooring - an 80s style mosaic - functional; serving the dual purpose of lasting sturdiness and camouflaging occasional aberrations, smoothed over the years. Clean.

I have been here before, says a voice inside. Then I remember my friend from Baroda whose dad too retired from the same organisation. Memories of a simple standard layout company quarter come surging. Memories of laughter, late night tangents and giggles and gossip ensue. The immediate present slaps me back to reality almost instantly. A slap almost welcome. For this moment too has been joyous, perhaps in a more evolved way - hardly qualifying to be grown up, however definitely as peaceful and satisfying.

The last time, I noticed a metal name plate on the door too. In a child-like notion of being grown up. Not his name. Hardly the idea of the current occupant. This room of my dream is more real, more tangible, more accessible, hardly embellished. I stepped out of that dream and woke up to a reality that is truly liberating. Space comes in so many forms.

Wondering about Wandering

8 good things about that bane called stability

I heard myself say this last evening to a person I have met recently: 'I love Bombay.'
It's strange that it came out so strongly, so spontaneously. Was I trying to impress him? Was I lying? Did I ever hate it in the first place? I wonder now.

For the first time in a while, I've begun to enjoy the convenience that this city practically brims with. e-Commerce flourishes here and commuting is a no-brainer. Domestic help knows what to do from Day 1 and instructions are usually extended only for really individualist needs - a pet or specifics in food, etc. But I still find it hard to digest the fact that I said it. I love Bombay. What kind of love? And wasn't I disenchanted with this place completely even until a couple of months ago? The stench at KalaNagar, the Rats on the railway tracks, the roaches near the sea faces...

Anything even akin to love is quite unimaginable in the present context. Not because I know some different unlikeable version of it, or because of the chain of big and small events that have shaped my very recent past, but because I have indeed met an exquisite crop of natives and non-natives here at the onset of this third stint. And while some have proved to be sour and/ or bitter, more have found a special place in my heart.

Bombay is indeed like New York, isn't it? Lines from Baz Luhrmann's Sunscreen Song come to mind:

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard
Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel.

The hiccups that ensue moving towns are nothing short of royal pains, especially when you do it at a frequent flier rate. And so, this time I'm in the mood to stay put for just a while, even if, to enjoy what they call stability. Looks like a rather peaceful space to be in and this is how!

1. Paid Leave

Imagine being paid your work pay for 7 whole consecutive days away from your smartphone and laptop and number crunching and deadlines and sheaves of paper and late nights - instead getting a massage on a secluded beach, sipping on a long island iced tea or getting yourself some wholesome family time gorging on your mum's awesome delicacies! I've had the chance only once before, and I blew it by not taking it. Now I'm determined to make use of the mundane perk.

2. Taxes

I did my own taxes this year, and the anxiety and last minute frenzy was far from fun. For a math challenged human being with absolutely no patience for government forms, this was torture personified. Finding an agent at the 11th hour may have been a blessing, but it cost me a stiff fee that worked fairly well as a lesson for life.

3. House Hunt

As a veteran home searcher in Bombay, I may have lived in all kinds of spaces - hostel, PG, rented accommodation, a relative's house, a friend's bachelor pad, and more - but the peace of familiarity and conversation with neighbours, the knowledge of all the provision stores, doctors and salons in the vicinity and being able to walk around without losing your way (very possible when you are me) is beyond compare.

Of course, the task of looking for a place to stay and the irks and pains that accompany - agents, misfits, inappropriate spaces (or the lack thereof), last minute denials - squeeze the life out of you even if for just a few weeks at most.

4. Soaking Local

And by that I don't mean having to be the sponge that must bear the wrath of sweaty co-commuters on local trains. Every place offers its unique flavour in terms of food, people and architecture - India is blessed that way - and getting acquainted beyond your neighbourhood usually takes at least a couple of rounds of the cycle seasons.

5. Weekend Trips

All the three cities I've lived & worked in so far are blessed with fantastic weekend getaway options galore. With a fantastic natural boulder-laden landscape in and around Hyderabad and the ghats as well as beaches around Pune-Mumbai, one should be driving out/ taking off at least once every month if not more frequently. There's so much ground to cover, literally!

6. Phone Number

Changing numbers is such a pain! Letting people know, and then changing the number in all official documents and some forgotten ones complaining on public digital forums about how irresponsible you are as a social animal... no ya.

7. Suitcases...

...and therefore packing and unpacking is possibly one of the biggest and most tiring chores of moving frequently. Instead of a trash-discarding activity, it becomes a matter of how best to pack it all and lug it around. The number of bags begin to feel meagre and stuff just keeps collecting. Often, memories begin to be thrown with what may seem dispensable in the short term.

8. Pets

Anyone who has had them will vouch for just what a source of comfort domesticated animals can be. Whether you have a farm for a few horses or just a little balcony for a guinea pig, and all the beautiful creatures in between, they all require time and love and staying put makes for wonderful time off with creatures other than our own kin.

Of course, there are minor advantages of staying put - the little DIY projects you may take on, hosting Couchsurfers or just old friends on stopovers and catching up or even just a weekly off or holiday with that someone special over a game of chess or scrabble. As a wanderer and pseudo nomad coming of age, I'd say injecting structure into your jaywalking isn't that bad an idea!

Guhagar: 6 things you'll love!

Last weekend was the beginning of Rao & my joint exploration of Maharashtra - we figured we might as well tick off all that's on this immediate travel list instead of day dreaming about utopian distant lands (in terms of time as well as miles). We began with Guhagar. Rao had sung paeans about the place and that had sort of made me a tad skeptical. However, on arrival, I realised he didn't do justice to his description. To have a clean stretch of sand in your backyard and staying at a simple cottage is a regular feature of accommodation at several places along the Konkan coast. But even that is not it.

Getting there

Guhagar is about an hour from Chiplun by the rickety State Transport bus (no private ones, or cabs - sorry). It's about 270 km from Bombay. You can take an overnight sleeper to Chiplun and then the hourly ST bus from there to Guhagar. The care-taker of our cottage (we stayed at Nishigandha, more on that here), Deepak told us he could arrange for a cab so we could drive around and go to Hedvi too. But we decided paying a full grand instead of the unbargained 400 bucks was a steal.

Besides, Konkan's beaches are dissimilar not so much for what's right next to the sea, as the things and places you stumble upon in the villages. That is not to discount the beauty and charm of Hedvi, but as a professor once said to me, 'where you have been twice, you must go a third time.' And so perhaps Rao will make it to Hedvi as well next time, and hopefully I'll be lucky to be his companion again!

Stay Put

Surprisingly, even thought there weren't many tourists to be spotted in Guhagar, there were several guest houses all around town. We later discovered that most foreigners on their way to Goa on New Years' Eve invariably break the journey at Guhagar. This little snippet of information made the plethora of places to stay obvious. All these places are more or less cottages and promise access to a little piece of private beach.

In themselves, they're clean and well ventilated. we had access to a fairly spacious attached bathroom as well. Only, the hot water was a challenge on day 1 because the boiler had burst. But our host actually came in early on Sunday and boiled a full two bucketfulls of water so we could dunk ourselves in fresh, hot and steaming peace!

Painting the Town

Guhagar is a small Mahadev & Laxmi-Narayan-worshiping town. In fact, the cottage where we stayed was right across the road from what seemed like an ancient structure. Gargoyles in animal forms were seen on all the outer roof skirting. However, the compound was large enough to house not only two medium sized temple buildings, but also a badminton court!

Guhagar also has quite a few 'kund's or ponds. The water, as you may imagine, is not clean, but green with algae and out of maintenance. Some of these stepwells are quite apparently meant for washing. I saw once in the marketplace that was all marble!

The narrow lanes make walking around town even at midday quite easy with all the share of shade - of both trees as well as shops and houses. We had to walk about 10 minutes to reach the town centre, and realised it was so much easier getting around here on foot! I even got my long-pending revenue stamps at the post office on the way to one of our lunches.

Houses in Guhagar are just the most charming you might ever come across. They all have sloping roofs with drying little premature coconuts fallen from the coconut trees in their gardens. You'll catch an octgenarian or a couple of women in the neighbourhood gathered in the mornings in the verandahs preparing one or the other food item. The compound walls are all moss ridden and thick - the bricks that give them their form can easily be mistaken for red stone - somehow, the holes in them and their texture gives them the appearance. You can see that the people of Guhagar take good care of their abodes.

The shy Starfish - it was actually as big as the outside outline of the sand
that looks all dug out!

Sea Surprise

The beach is a pristine stretch with hardly a soul around. We spotted a few starfish on the shore - tiny ones and rather dull looking. But then, I guess when you look like that, you hardly need colour!

But that's not the only way to take in the vast exposure of Guhagar to the sea. Drive up to the lighthouse for better views - you'll pass steep slopes and a mesh of mango trees growing wildly on them along the way. You have to cross a bit of the goats in a rickshaw and the valley views are as pretty as they come. And then you suddenly rise to a flat table land. The surprise wears off in a while but the cool breeze even at midday is refreshing. You might spot remnants as well as developments on the Enron project. The facility runs for miles and so does heartache. We end up ruining so much in the name of infrastructure. The steep slopes of the valley are all chockablock with mangos trees. You can only imagine how much they've cleared off to build their factories and smoke emitting power stations. The ones that are now out of commission because the company filed for bankruptcy to save the asses of a few suits.

Gobble-de-Gook

It took me a while to begin this section. Not because I had a hazy memory about it all, but because there's just so much to try out. It's not a tourist town, so you won't find any hip shacks like you would in Goa. The Lagoon comes closest to what one might call a diner. We entered the town and had poha-sheera-chai at the first place we could find, Musale, which later turned out to be run by the same people who ran our guest house. But those who've visited Guhagar swear by Suruchi.

And while this unremarkable-in-appearance place has a community kitchen sort of seating, with everyone in town (from local affluent middle aged businessmen to young Bihari labourers) and the tiller attended by 3 different people depending upon the time of day (the owner in the morning, the caretaker/ waiter/ steward in the noon and the missus in the evening). Suruchi serves classic Maharashtrian fare - thali-pith, misal, vada, bhakhri, puri-shrikhand, sol kadhi (which I have finally come to LOVE) and the standard limited thaali.

Rao had more than his fill of the local sea fare at Annapurna. His Kalamari and prawns even made me salivate! The sol kadhi competed with Suruchi's, however the difference was stark - this was quite apparently made of fresh ingredients while Suruchi's was some sort of a pre-made concoction. The service at both places was unintrusively attentive.

Round and about

Ah! This is my favourite part - the juicy bit of the whole trip. There's the Anjanvel lighthouse about half an hour from the town. A pleasant drive along the river that ultimately meets the sea at Guhagar, you can hire a local auto-rickshaw for about 400 bucks. The chap should be willing to wait and also take you around to the nearby fort.

On your way to the little lighthouse, you encounter hundreds of mango trees that grow on the steep slopes of the hillside. Much like other parts of the Western Ghats, you'll definitely spot the trademark red mud. What you'll also see is a combination of that and yellow and black soil. Something that flummoxed me beyond words. However, a sight that is both overwhelming and hurtful both at once, is Enron's now-dysfunctional plant. Just their cooling towers occupied the length and breadth of a whole table land! The only thought that raced through my mind was... what a waste. Of time, money, resources. Such a compromise and deep impact on the environment this scam made. What was the outcome?

You leave this cry for help behind as the road finally yields you to the coast again - through a little town and then a dust track upwards again to the light house.

I was perhaps singularly unfortunate in not being able to get entry into either the lighthouse or the fort. The lighthouse at Guhagar is open to public only between 3:00 pm and 5:00 pm, which no auto guy chooses to tell you. But we did get to walk right up to one of the many tips of the land mass and take in the mighty ocean in its entirety - its currents, its colours, the fishing boats and the crooked rocky coast.

If you go there later in the evening though, may be after your lighthouse visit, you can walk down to a site that seems to be in the preliminary stages of development as a particularly fine viewing point. Situated just 10 minutes away this viewing point is at the end of a long dust track that is currently being flattened and concretised. You'll find a railing only at the end (they were probably hoping that will prevent a truck from sliding on and tumbling over). The pathway itself if the upper slope of the hill parallel to the road that leads to the lighthouse, and the other side is yet another steep slope that overlooks more of the rocky façade that runs along Guhagar. In short, don't venture there with your kids or even wobbly, accident-prone adults (like me). I imagine that as one of the many tips of land spilling into the Arabian Sea, this would be breath taking - with the water shimmering and the mellow breeze. Actually, it'd make for a swell sunset point!

View from the temple outside the lighthouse

Our information on the Shivaji Fort nearby too was outdated. Apparently it's closed to the public since someone has actually claimed ownership of the property and cordoned it off as a private mango plantation. You can still take in breath taking views of the sea from around both these spots.


So that is Guhagar. With its decent men, hardworking women, coastal weather, views of the hills and some awesome food even for vegetarians this little town really set the tone for our series of sojourns!

Pondy Hopping I

This time the Pondicherry trip series will have loads of meat in a day 1 to 5 form. I'd written a series of mails to 5 of my favourite people - to have them live a bit of the fun we were having. Here's day one, from the time we were on our way...

So we just got done with our first midway stop to Pondicherry from Chennai. The first thing to hit me, was neither the dark nor the deserted highway cafeteria itself. The strong cool humid breeze is what freshened me up instantly. Add to that the sweet filter kaapi.

Uff...

Some old Tamil music plays on the radio, lovely Carnatic lull to it, the ghatam and mridangam adding the finishing touches to the first experience of the East Coast Road - one of India's most premium connecting routes.

Needless to say, I've been adequately roused from my sleepy hangover of the train journey. The highway is well fitted with direction reflectors, milestone signs, freshly painted road markers and dividers. Lined with foliage, punctuated by palm trees, about 20 minutes into this second lap, we witness daybreak - almost an ominous
welcome for us into the sojourn, as if telling us to sit back and take in the magic that is Pondicherry...

Oh! We just crossed Pearl Beach! And now the cab races right beside the sea - barely a couple of metres from the road is the coast running parallel - we're hoping to see the sun rise on our way...

Later that night...

The view from Seaside

Pondicherry is like a place of pilgrimage. It calls out to you... And then nothing can stop you from walking the path. But until then, it's an elusive idea. I lie on my bed at Seaside Guest House, tired from the evening jaunt, listening to the sea. The waters are choppy tonight. No, choppy isn't the word, aggressive, in rage, at war almost. Yes, the ocean sounds as if a battle ground. It collides against the land, pushing, hauling its sword, shouting in true warrior fashion to instill fear in its sworn enemy so half the battle's won.

I began my day with a visit to the Eglise de Notre Dame de la Conception Immaculee Church or the Church of the Capuchins here on Rue Dumas. We rented out bicycles and loitered around town afterwards. for 75/- bucks a day, the mostly circles and random lefts and rights seemed something of one's childhood's happy return. Add to that, the beauty of a well planned town - you'll never hit a dead end, though I reckon if you're drunk you'll definitely get dunked in the drain!

We intend to exchange our cycles for motorized 2 wheelers tomorrow so we can go visit Paradise Beach and Auroville, both about 6-8 km from the guest house. Rao says Paradise Beach truly personifies the name.
Looking forward.

I think we shall also end up doing the jetty the day after or on Thursday. The availability of so much time and so much to do is such a rare occurrence...

Written in the last minutes of waiting outside the board room at a Nationalised Bank rebranding pitch

In the ante room of the board room of Bank of Maharashtra, two ad agencies sit in cold comfort, to borrow a Pink Floyd phrase, waiting to wage a war.

Two women have parked themselves on the two-seater sofa right opposite from where Swati and I have perched ourselves. Leadership representatives of the rival agency resemble watermelons wrapped in gunny bags. Competition is stiff. Our top boss is almost like the human twin of the alien dog-like creature from John Carter.

Busy on their smart phones, it would be interesting to see a Mario Miranda cartoon inspired by the trio. Like two pigeons perched on a live wire and brooding under their breaths as to how best not to look as fat as they do, as two slender young 20-somethings steal furtive glances at them giggling at least internally if not dying of roaring laughter.

The unconscious pout and feathery hair-do are getting you nowhere near the pitch, m'darlings. The John Carter dog's too large a presence in the local advertising market.

Of course, about these two young ladies, the less said the better. One, unprepared for any sort of formality whatsoever, in her pistachio green denim capris and creased sleeveless tunic with vermilion specs and not even an attempt to look presentable. The other, fairly traditionally turned out, yet any hint of professionalism clearly missing from the picture.

The sidekicks are adequately unsuitable to be present as well. Already as though out of skin, discomfiture stricken faces. Clad in struggled formal clothing, both, at extreme ends of their 20s and the size scale, would rather fill dandy hosiery and denim containers than be bogged by the stuffed shirt formal wear - garish gray and boring brown. The rival side is worse off though. The sloppy assistant with his wannabe goatee looks like the worst piece of jewelery at a kitschy corner store in Shaniwarwada.

On the whole, we present adequate variety for visual humour to the client - dressed boringly in their Safari suits and tapered shirts. This is all I can handle this morning man.

Highway to high way

3 days. A long weekend. Many cat lovers. And a chocolate cake. As soon as I had moved to Pune three months ago, I knew this place had energy in store for me. I began to unlearn all my previous paces: of home, of Nizami thaat, of hapless filth. Even before I had arrived, I had been sold its lures. And the lure didn't lie so much in the monuments, in the food, in the city's chaos, oh no. Just people.
Plain vanilla people. 

Women with pishvis, men in collared tee shirts or bush shirts, young techies with id cards dangling around their necks like nooses, kids in uniform with oil drenched hair, the big cars and their humble drivers, the autowalas and their माझ. Indeed, the rosy winters and the perennial bougainvillas did their bit in making me fall in love with Pune, but it has, honestly, been the people who have visited me or the friends who I've met whilst they were here on business, that have strengthened the heartstrings even more. I am yet to strike out any of the items I had jotted down on my to-do list while I'm here. But no matter. There's a vintage Beetle, ragged and rusty, cobwebbed, with its paint chipped, waiting each day for me to turn right from - a landmark not preempted. A charm that has the power to surprise everyday.

And yet that is also not it. What about Veeram's house? What about my own? What about my favourite restaurant? And its काली दाल and बैंगन bharta that I've yet to savour again?

So Sajani was here over the weekend. Here only to see me and, on short notice, also to rescue Duffer, my newly adopted tom. Having known Saj for almost seven years now is a tad hard to believe, because really, it was only that first week of spending concentrated hours with each other several times that account for our experience of each other. For our knowing of each other. For our comfort of each other. We have never lived in the same city, leave alone studied or worked together. We come from culturally diametrically variant backgrounds. Our achievements differ from one another's, and so do our losses, but expression has been so liberating with her! And perhaps our judgement and opinion of each other came about painstakingly slowly, but it is only a thing of wonder how often through both our car rides to and from bombay this time, we seemed to have been having two parallel conversations with each other: a verbal one, that goes yaketty yakk, and then there's our eyes that meet almost as often as there is stupidity prevailing. And Saj's talent allows her to speak even with a poker face, where I may be tempted to break into a giggle, roll my eyes or simply hit my palm to my face.

I reckon that our judgement of people comes partly if not entirely, not only from our experience of the world, but also from our mothers. We often don't get their kinks, and yet. For hours, we would lie in our PJs analysing the people we love and hate, and when a third person would enter, suddenly shut our eyes - Eyes, gobs, tolerance too actually.

Bus ride with Sajani, Bombay, 2010

And that familiarity manifests itself in myriad ways. Whether it is her calming me in my own house after an especially tiring trip by articulating my thoughts exactly, whether it is to get chatty with my roommate, whether it is taking a bus ride across town right after a long flight or train journey, whether it is to wait in the lounge area of my office as I get my stuff and swipe out after bunking half the day in my boss's absence, whether it is to tolerate an especially irritating boyfriend for his inane and dated arguments and fielding each one with a hard verbal slap back in the days, whether it is cycling in the hot sun across her university campus. And yet none of these episodes quite define the scope of our friendship. If she were a guy, I'd have probably professed my undying devotion to him. Not only for what he'd've been, but for what he was doing to me.

Her pune trip, like all her visits to all the cities I've stationed myself for a while in, was short, but not meaningless. It was rich in conversation, in experience, in details and in thought. She fished out a teracotta ring for me with a grumpy cat on it from Milan. She took care of Duffer in his most critical first journey across towns. She ate whatever I gave her. And she drank simply. She walked, because she enjoys roads and trees just as much as I do. She warmed up to Veeram simply for the warmth I had for him. She fussed not. She complained not. She remarked. She judged. She dismissed.

She got me a box of strawberries so I could sing for her and we could smoke outside a shut shop sitting on the ledge in Aundh.

To be friends with Sajani is not an ordinary honour. She takes forever to warm up. Her mocking smile is hard to fathom - am I her subject of scorn, and therefore ridiculed, or does she truly respect me? Three years it took me to know what she thought of me, and she chose to bare all one evening in 2009 when all was beginning to look bleak, loss seemed inevitable, and abandonment seemed to look like the only way out for us cats.

There are people we feel the need to understand in order to love. Then there are people we must accept and love.

Accident ho gaya rabba rabba

So almost a year after my last right leg injury, a new one decides to make its presence felt. I've always seen accidents as signs. I've now had three fairly major ones with men whilst riding pillion on their bikes. Same leg. Different spots (god's been kind?). Heck I love them. And accidents with a man for company are even better. Not the injury, of course, just the whole follow-up frenzy ensuing the mishap.

The rush to the closest clinic to get the injury checked, being lifted by three men because I’d have fallen otherwise, to be bought and brought a way-too-big bar of chocolate and glucose to prevent me from fainting, the cleaning of the wound, the stitches, the dressing, the affectionate care, buying medicines, getting me to eat (evidently I’m pretty difficult to bring to that at such times), the making me comfortable… The process is much like taking a trip with someone. Suddenly you know so much about him or her. Kind'a in isolation, because he or she takes on the carer's role. And when you're away from home, you can't really take them for granted unlike the mother at home.

I reckon, like anyone else, I too prefer physical injuries to hurt of the heart.

But I think what I’m already beginning to enjoy even more than I did last night, as I told Veeram, is his house. Our Saturday night haunt, Veeram’s house aka The Weekend Getaway (TWG :P) is truly just the therapy one wants at the end of an especially unfavourable week. Of course, when you arrive at the humble 2 BHK abode, the clutter of mattresses, antique furniture, clothes, curios, books, condom and cigarette boxes, rum bottles, sheaves of papers, musical instrument first hits you and you want to flee as soon as. Then a veteran privileged holds your hand and leads you to the sanctum – the shrine of Veeram – and then it dawns upon you  as you take in these extremities, that this house is really beautiful!

To be absorbed into V’s space is a lot about one’s personal fortune. By nature, the man (and one of the most cultured hosts) is a recluse. His space is so his and shut away from all things commercial and dispassionate, that you’d have to be a musician to gain license to enter. And once you have won his approval, you could be a third grade architecture student or even just an ordinary copywriter, and yet be personally invited for successive weekends to spend hours elaborating and exploring the intricacies of Raag Desh punctuated with some Puriya or the dreaded Todi, and gracefully end with Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.

And yet V’s place is not even about the things in it, or its people. It’s really about him. How warm he makes one feel on the coldest winter nights, how free he can set you from the clutches of where you come from and where you must head afterwards. You might get to listen to staples and a few new numbers. Some classical, some jazz, some baroque melodies.

There is of course, the conversation that meanders with sharp turns and steep falls and sudden heights of passionate discourse about music, love, freedom, values, religion, food (of course!). To most, V would seem something of an idealist oddity amidst compromising commercialization of our time and place. And even that is not what defines his home. One time he might tell you how he egg-napped a pigeon’s egg to teach it a lesson to not hover around his balcony again, and then he would also keep it safe. One of those puppy kidnappers, this.

I have still not managed to articulate what it is about V’s place that elates me each time I’m here. Veeram says, (about the walls in his house) “they have absorbed everything in the past two years.” And why not? The evidence is all over the place. Dates, arbitrary mind-thoughts, caricatures have been graffitied on all the walls of the house – in paint, felt pens, pencils even (like a 4-year-old that’s just learnt to write and draw)!

I have now flown kites here, spent nights, taken in the night’s horizon and the day’s view of the hills, swum, cooked, lay injured, sang and confessed in this house.

Comfort is an understatement for what one experiences here. Let it suffice to say then, that it’s the only place in years where I sleep like a child. For someone who is a light sleeper, it’s like letting a mask slip. Deliberately. In blind trust.

 

Love, of course!

Mushy Bollywood songs galore at the office this morning, and while I was just beginning to nauseate, Paroma laid her cards - I hate all these pink love songs! On impulse I reasoned that the Beatles too wrote them, but then I withdrew it. Not because I was suddenly confounded by the feeling that I was wrong, but because Valentine's day seems to have lost all meaning.

Someone at work asked me a few days back if I was doing anything special. And pop came the answer, "Valentines Day is for love. Not awkward fumblers." And a few days later I was told "I hope you're not expecting something spectacular...(for Val's day, that is)", and of course i dismissed it with all the dust and smoke doing the rounds in the confines of Aditya's 1 BHK.

Subir once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeves. Not so much a cassanova as a दिल फ़ेंक. Back then, it felt like a jab. A jab of judgement. Of being told off. For having just the infinite ability to love someone to bits, to love selflessly. Anyone. Anyone who was willing to receive. Anyone who was willing to acknowledge. Not even return. Just tolerate it. Honor, perhaps. Respect it. Keep it safely, if at all (?), in something of a sealed treasure box so no one stole it.

I even remember when this conversation with Subir had happened. Last January. Or Feb. I wept on the phone as I told him about my decision of leaving town. Almost achingly. That afternoon, because I had finally confronted my broken heart. Like often before. Of all oftens, Subir has known. Perhaps I spoke to him because he too has loved and lost but not stopped out of fear.

Somehow, every time Subir asks me to be careful, I chuckle to myself. What's love that isn't ruthless? What is love that hasn't that element of gay abandon? A certain mad glint in the eyes, a wild ring in one's laughter, some sarcasm, some confession, some forgiveness, all truth and nothing left to the imagination. Love isn't a game of reward and punishment. It isn't even an equal barter or equitably divided. There's no more, or less of it. It's not darts in the dark. It's a law that sees. Understands. And still plunges head first.

So sure, there must be quite a few who weigh the pros and cons in this transaction, but one half of the balance will always be heavier. That half will always demand more or give more or laugh more or forever weep!

So why must one love still, with that complete disregard for hurt and its ancillaries? Well, because that's how it's done. Because without love, February would be January! Because they don't call love a form of madness for nothing. It is not a task that must be carried out with preset steps, milestones and goals. Those are hurdles that cause falls. A fear of loss. And of course, like some people who think tattoos are addictive, love's hurt is no less heady! Distance, space, jealousy, indifference, callousness, abandonment - even if momentary - heck, just sleep.

But man the scar is beautiful. And to admire its story at a later date is nothing short of the greatest exhilaration, the pride of having earned it.

Tonight, I do fear losing. Tomorrow I might even lose; I might or might not be lost. It's 2012. the world is ending anyway. We lost our favourite and one of our first Profs at undergrad university on Sunday. A little bit of love can't kill anyone! So Love... Love... Love...

Hair

THIS short

Cutting my hair THIS short is always an unplanned affair. The itch begins a few weeks before though, but it almost always ends in this length or shorter. Of course, I've achieved a feat I've striven for, practiced and finally mastered over the past 7 years on several occasions. And while both roomies have been spectators, actively eventually assisted me in getting there tonight, and even applauded the outcome, the happiness is of simply losing it all. Yes, it's true. 

I've seen women cut their hair on film in a few films. One image I distinctly remember is Kalki Koechlin at it in Dev D. That is not to say, of course, that my attempt germinated from some sense of anger or suppression. If anything, it has made me so happy, I could dance all night! 

Not only does the loss of all my midway and reluctant-to-grow-more tresses that much less weight to bother with on myself, but also seems like a metaphorical unburdening from all the stress of having to cover my head and fuss over it all the time thanks to the dry and dusty weather of Pune. 

Social commentators the world over have maintained, as has research established, that short hair is the ultimate sign of confidence among women. Well I don't know about all of that. I know it doesn't make me look horrid, and I know my long and slender neck looks fabulous! 

I finally feel like shopping again! Finally going back to being the 13-year-old who cared two hoots about the frivolous housewives in the neighbourhood who thought my mother was mad not to encourage me to look more feminine (yeah, try growing up with a bunch of ruffians for boys, woman!). I don't know if I shall go back to my long hair. The only time it appealed was when I was so preoccupied with the charm of hyderabad; when I thought I didn't even have time to catch a breath because, oh god! there was so much to be done - classes, plays, concerts, assignments, my journo work, music, hanging out with friends who mattered over midnight cups of tang and elaichi cream biscuits. 

No, I am not that anymore. It was my time of being lazy, and stable. That was, actually, my only truly linear phase of life. Uf. Look at me, analysing phases and connecting nonexistent dots over a blasted hair cut!

And remember, घर की खेती... whatever makes me happy... it ain't yours babay!

Pondy Shondy VII: You didn't do Auroville?!!

Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry, a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road in the middle and its occasional motor vehicle, an adjoining ten-foot pavement and its decorative pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.

A series of seven posts have covered some aspects that kept me preoccupied during the last five days. As the last in line, I can't help but touch upon spirituality as a major element that attracts several to its realms.

So even before we returned from our holiday, the prospect of the refrain has been involving inventive responses in me. While on one level, it has proved to be daunting, at another, it is as simple as “No.”

The last place of worship I did was, yes, on my birthday. You might even call it an overkill, ‘two churches?!” And I was drawn not to their obvious proportions or intricate pieces of beauty, but the subtle peace and mundaneness. The ceremonious silence of every Ashram campus is a little hard for me to fathom (at least here at Baroda and at the one in Delhi). To me it is yet another form of violence. Almost rendering the visitor feeling a little unwelcome.

Why must serenity be so overtly compelled? Why can’t a place evoke the feeling? And if it cannot, then what is the difference between its almost suppressing discipline and the suffocating straight jacket of an imperialist boot camp. Sure, many benefit from the institution’s dicta and generosity, but that at the cost of one’s freedom of expression? I see a problem there.

Pondy Shondy VI: The Retreat's own queen mother

An old lady walked into the dining hall the night of our arrival as we hogged supper. Solo, in a confident slow gait, the wrinkled demeanour did not succeed in veiling the beauty she must have surely been of her time. In her pale pink salwar kameez and well set salt and pepper hair, she settled alone on a small table to dine. We noticed in her plate unusual portions for a woman that old and that petite. Even we ate less!

“Please,” I said, holding the door gesturing for her to pass first at the reception later that night as I made to go for a stroll with Twara after our meal. “No, no,” she insisted I pass through first. After a short battle with the obstinate old woman, I relented. It was embarrassing of course, but the beginning of a rendezvous that would last the duration, at least of our stay at The Retreat.

And of course we invited her to join us for breakfast next morning. Over the period of our time there, we ate several homely meals together at the guest house dining hall. Conversations revealed that she has been a regular to Pondicherry now for 11 years and spends a full two months beginning each December.

But here’s where this ancient relic became an indelible memory of my second trip to Pondy. I got shamelessly greedy for an extra birthday wish on my birthday and let it slip over breakfast. Not only was she the loving Punjabi granny to embrace me on the morning of my 27^th, but when we returned from our jaunt the next day at lunch, we found a plum cake from Grand Bakery waiting for us at the reception, the tag said “Best wishes from Indira Kapoor, R. 211”.

The ways of knowing someone’s name…

Pondy Shondy IV: Putting up and getting around

Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry, a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road in the middle and its occasional motor vehicle, an adjoining ten-foot pavement and its decorative pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.

A series of seven posts cover some aspects that most appealed to me and kept me preoccupied during the holiday.

If you’re a lover of trees and the colour ochre, and if rising wave and ebb means music, then hiring one of the many gearless motor two wheelers would not be an option for you. And a bicycle might be more your thing. Staying at one of the several guest houses on the promenade or on the road running parallel to it is a great idea – for they are fairly inexpensive, located conveniently in the midst of all things nice and clean.

Of course Pondy has enough for the five-star hospitality lover (boutique hotels, heritage bungalows turned into hotels, a sexy Accord coming up at the city entrance) who would prefer buying branded underwear and baby clothes (Casablanca’s definitely your haven!) and do the spa trip mid stay. Hire yourself a day long taxi service or even one for the entire duration of your stay (grumpy Kamraj at Autocare will be more than cheerful if you’re doing that rather than putting forth a tiring enquiry about his bus service to Auroville, said Mrs Indira Kapoor – more on her later) and you’re good to go!

Pondy Shondy III: Taking it in

Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry, a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road in the middle and its occasional motor vehicle, an adjoining ten-foot pavement and its decorative pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.


A series of seven posts cover some aspects that most appealed to me and kept me preoccupied during the holiday.

The thing to do is to pile up on the booze, because it’s cheap, and go see Auroville (which I refused to do) and buy Hidesign products and eat at Satsanga. If you love to stop and gape at anything that catches your fancy, you’d instead loaf till your legs say no mas! In the French areas. And eat when you hit upon an interesting café and plomp on one of the several seats along the sea side. Don’t touch the lentil concoction commonly sold on the promenade. It is boring.

The French fries and Café Dip ice cream at Ajanta, yes yes yum yum

Do make space for a genuine Italian meal at Corelli’s Don Giovanni, run by the jovial, always drunk and Camel smoking flirtatious Max from Bologna. The Ravioli pesto and homemade pizzas are a must try. You could also combine taking a stroll at Le Maison Rose’s knick knack store and binging on their French food. But a personal favourite was the fine dining set up at Le Dupleix. The tiramisu is to die for. Ahaan.

Or walk into, instead of by, the grand churches that may catch your fancy (photography allowed – the nuns will even bestow one of their pious smiles upon thee). One you may spot from the promenade, though you’ll have to get onto the back street. This is the church of the Capuchins (Eglise de Notre Dame des Agnes) with a rather interesting piece of history attached to it.

The Cathedral at Mission street

The defunct jetty is not open to only-women travellers

Perhaps you’d try to buy your way into the Port Trust jetty. The place is not open to only-women travellers, so make sure you find yourself an impressive bloke for the evening and then throw him over on your way back. Alternatively you could just get under! Walk all the way beyond Le Café and the back side of Park Guest House right in the corner, where a little path opens to the quay. If you’re too lazy to explore one of the beaches some distance away, this works perfectly.

Pondy Shondy I: The Retreat

Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry (Puducherry I’m still not quite comfy with and they’re not too bent upon it), a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road and an adjoining ten-foot pavement with an occasional motor vehicle and pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.

A series of seven posts cover some aspects that most appealed to me and kept me preoccupied during the last five days.

There are few things about which one can say they are, as you left them. The Retreat at Pondicherry’s Goubert Avenue is one of them. Dressed just like the Sea side Guest House a couple of blocks away, where I put up last year on my birthday, this new extension of the older Shri Aurobindo Society guest house is a replica. And while same-same predictable has always put me off, the comfort of returning to The Retreat’s familiar white-and-rosewood, simple elegance is more than worth its 11:15 pm deadline. (I hear the scoffs already)

The basic layout and furniture apart, they even managed to find more from where the old fittings and frames came from! Door knobs to electricals and the back garden – it is much like taking off from where I had left.

Khushboo Gujarat Ki

Sole trees on desi meadows of parched grass, geometrical angularity on sugar fields mid-harvest, asbestos roofs and abandoned control rooms of the railways - the elements one spots on the Gujarat landscape along its rail routes are mostly dull.

Much like its crops are the people of Gujarat. Frayed yet revealing solidarity in times of crisis are the Kathiawaris of Saurashtra - you'd think they muster their gall from the groundnut they produce. A race of accepted norms of beauty are the Naagars. It has been said about them, that they are a strain of the Aryans that have strayed into this side of the country (highly speculative); they are to Gujarat what the Bengalis are to the country. Intellectual, educated, artistically inclined, service oriented. Add to that the obsessive fairness prevalent in the stock and a brand of humour impossible to find elsewhere, one would imagine them to be exotic creatures. Insufferable they are.

The plains of Gujarat are not picturesque as in the North. They do not overflow with pretty mustard fields. The aridity of cotton and tobacco hits first by its sheer shortness and then its lacklustre textures. Their latent heaviness prevents them from dancing with the breeze even at full length. There seem to be no tips. The Patel-like thickset grand dames have no use for such esoteric charms. The sugarcane rise high, much like the tall Gadhvis tower above other communities, keepers of rights and what must be preserved within society - tradition, values, prerogatives. Men who will storm into a nationalised bank with guns and have the security guard seal the place from outside until the backlog is cleared. The police can only turn deaf ears. Yet they are the very same that come together when a Kurien rises to modernise the cooperative dairy development model and revolutionise the way the country drinks milk!

But as one trudges southward, the breeds change. Businessmen in Ahmedabad and Surat, though birds of a feather, would never flock together. The former know not the art of pleasant speech, the latter sound sweet despite the generous slathering of expletives. Their mangroves, their chickoo orchards, their berry trees seem to seep into their veins as the most pleasant to be around.

But what about where I come from? I suppose a city where one is born and raised has so many layers of meanings and connotations for different people at different junctures, that beginning at one's own birth, or one's ancestors', or the 2500 year old history of its erstwhile fort walled contours could all seem false or unfair or both. To say the least, Vadodara is myriad things to as many people as it lends itself. Twara n I have always maintained, it's the cosmopolitan with reachable boundaries. Like a lot of the metros and mega cities, the city is host and eventually becomes home to several communities from outside the state, and from across the country.

For want of a more emancipating word, traditionally the city is like a marriage consummate, a naive cultural space with little or no regard for conventions or political agendas or ideologies. It has been like a third grader's exploits in the laboratory accidentally successful in some inexplicable and purposeless way. The Emergency was marked by one of its earliest and most controversial turn of events here with the Dynamite case. Countless communities invaded, trickled in, emigrated, got transferred, stopped by and stayed in this city. Vadodara derives its name, among other explanations, but most simply and satisfactorily, from its banyan trees. वड़ in Gujarati is what the tree is called.

Much like the aerial roots of the tree are its people. Rooted, outgoing, earthy, individualistic, subdued, its strength. And don't be surprised if our educated bourgeoisie judge you correctly on the basis of what might seem insufficient data. As the Big B proclaims in the Gujarat Tourism advertisements, प्रगति की कठिनाइयों को दिल पे नहीं लेते यहाँ के लोग... (The people here do not take to heart the hurdles of progress) कुछ दिन तो गुजारो गुजरात में (Come spend a few days in Gujarat)!