Reflections on a Chappal: My First Year in Auroville

Today I wore my shoes after one year. On my first day here they were pushed aside for the casual and light sandals that suited the new environment better. The sandals clung on for some time till the rains came and since then the bata chappal has reigned supreme. The sandal joined the ranks of the neglected shoes. My companion for the long kilometres on BIT roads enjoyed the initial rest. But soon cobwebs began to form and when the monsoon came fungus grew. I put them in the sun, brushed them clean and promised to use them in sunnier days. Those days did arrive but the ease of using the bata chappal was a comfort I was reluctant to part with. Slip it on in the morning for the bathroom, wear it to work (not really, because everybody here de-shoes themselves at the threshold), wear them to site and sometimes even to sleep. Today I decided to suck it up, clean the shoes and wear them for the full day. It wasn’t so bad you see. In fact, it made me reflect on my life over the last one year.

It seems that I have found my bata chappal. Let’s begin with the work. After shuttling here and there to find the architect who was green inside out I think I have found mine. He is brown though. An earth lover to the core who does not budge for lesser projects and does not paint a false picture sometimes even at the cost of losing a project. It is nice to see someone who has fought the battle of ethics and emerged victorious and in now on the other side enjoying its fruits. Projects trickle in from all sides and people beg for consultancy. He however hand picks a few and takes them till the end.

Then it’s the site. You are responsible to make your own drawings, take them to site, show them to the mason and see that it is built. That’s the way it is supposed to be right? Not so in the big world of construction where you sit in an air-conditioned office drafting toilet details of a client in some first world country and release a sigh of satisfaction when the contractor sends a picture of the complete work. And boy is it humbling! Five years of education does teach you a lot however they leave behind the important bits that make architecture work: The ¾” flowing into the 1” via reverse reducer, the four coloured wires inside the electrical conduit, the pressure valve behind the WC, the “tippy level” Mani uses for foundations, dipping the block wet before putting and the three times a day curing. You learn and learn and learn and learn. Everyday.

Then is life in the biggest man-made bio reserve. The very fact that this tree filled land that I walk on today was once a barren plateau gives me enough hope to walk on. Yes, there is an alternative way of life that does not cut trees but plants them, that shits in a dry toilet, that separates garbage, that uses mooncups, that rides a cycle, that lives under a keet roof and that eats organic rocket spinach. All for the polar bear to have his piece of ice to sit on. Bienvenue Auroville!

Auroville, the Mother envisioned, would run without money. Services would be exchanged. You be “a willing servitor to the divine consciousness” and rest shall follow. Though this may have been far from achieved it is heartening on how they feed you vegan cookies at Sadhana Forest for coming to watch their movies, how you can walk into town hall auditorium without a ticket, how Matrimandir does not have an entry fee and how volunteers from all over the world come and contribute in body, mind and spirit to make this place grow.

Something about the women who shared my living space over the last one year: the curly haired crazy Palestinian who tried to understand the Mahabharat every night and who in turn explained how her country bled each day. The lovely American who let me lick her on moped rides and who cooked up a feast each night (am living off the garbage since she left). The Italian tornado whose pertinent questions helped me understand structures better and who inspired much craziness. The gentle Spaniard who talked about Marquez and saw the human side of each worker. They will be loved and remembered always.

They say work on your self and I tried. Odyssey classes with T every Friday for an athletic break never went beyond “Choke-4”. Mudra Chi turned out to freakier that we ever imagined and was dropped after the first week. Swimming became monotonous too. Pranayama stretched for two weeks till it breathed its last and the warm blanket hailed victory. Hammock knotting classes never happened and the punching bag was never hung. Still we tried and are happy for it.

For the things that did happen: swam in the sea, paddled in a pond, jumped in a canyon, climbed a mountain, saw a gopuram, waded across the back waters, biked the bullet and cycled for 40Km.

An Aurovillian once said that in a city you run into unique characters once in a while. In Auroville, however, every second person is a character. Aviram is growing a forest, Gerald is tending to his red tomatoes, Jeorge is making his own wind pumps and Gecko is tailoring bamboo fabric. Each individual has a story to tell and his life is experimentation with either matter or spirit. It is invigorating to be a part of this madhouse of ideas.

Life always plays this cruel comfort game on you. The green field of Chetham Lines made you wish that childhood would never end, D’s letters made you seek no more in love and the walk back on the OC road on a wet monsoon day made you wish for time to stop. Along your journey on this interesting path of life you reach a point which is the perfect meadow, clear skies, blue water, plenty to eat and you stop and wonder. “This is it”, you say. Life couldn’t get any better. I must pitch my tent here and stay on forever. But alas! It is only the cruel comfort game. The black temptress begins to act on the mind soon enough. What next, you wonder.

My day shall come too. Acknowledging my shoes is a step in that direction. Rest shall follow. Till then I sip some cool mint refresher and eat organic tofu and watch the world go by from the comfort of this hammock hung between the Two Banyans.

The Princess who played the Prostitute

There are days when being an architect (ahem....cad monkey...ahem) gets a bit monotonous and you flutter and wiggle inside in search of different flavours. I felt strangely liberated when I drove around Pondicherry one night looking for the casting agent’s house. Veronique Meuron had advertised for 100 female and 300 male extras for a French television series and I had decided to check it out. She was desperately searching for someone to play “The Indian Beauty”. The role description was not as flattering as the title. The bad guy (played by Jean-Hugues Anglade) is in bed with two women when his sister (played by Milan Jampano) breaks in with through the door to kill him. The two frightened girls jump out of bed and run out screaming. I was to audition for that role. She took a couple of pictures and showed us around her office cum apartment. There were print outs of giant Excel sheets all over the walls co-ordinating actors, animals, props etc with the shooting schedule. We would be engaged for three days to shoot at a palace in Chettinad and paid a decent sum of money for it. It sounded a perfect paid vacation plan.

I was hopeful of getting the part when a call from her shattered my dreams a few days later. She had found someone better and moved on. I was bitter about it for a couple of days but eventually overcame it. There were other pressing things to take care of at work. Life, however, never moves in straight channels but meanders and twists when least expected.

The agent called me again in the middle of the afternoon and said they urgently needed someone to play the part of the servant, would I be willing to come? I forgot all the drama and heartbreak of the previous days in a second and nodded like a puppy dog. So, while the female protagonist in the script goes from being a deported prostitute in France to a princess in India, my role took a reverse turn.

Morning found me stuffed in a car with a troupe of other actors being transported to Chettinad. It is quite amusing to be trapped in a van with aspiring actresses for twelve hours. Other than the constant re-touches to the makeup there was incessant talk about actors, directors and future assignments. It is sad to see these little girls carry the weight of so many dreams on their emaciated shoulders. I felt like a bit out of place but did my bit to participate.

When we reached the shooting location in the middle of nowhere an ugly shock awaited us. Because of the rains they had rescheduled the plan and had already shot the scene for which we came all the way from Pondicherry. The casting manager was in a soup and did not know what to do with us. We were beginning to get really angry at the situation also. A few frantic cigarettes later he managed to squeeze us in the third day’s schedule. We would get paid as promised but for different roles. We accented.

To shoot, we moved to the ghost town of Kanadikathan in the Chettinad region of Tamil Nadu. It took the production team two days to figure out what they wanted to do with us. This gave us enough time to explore the region around. I had read a lot about the grandeur of Chettinad houses but nothing can prepare you for the real thing. One house stretched for half a kilometre and had a thousand windows. The magic of courtyards, the magnificence of hand carved granite pillars and the mystery of dark rooms and windy staircases was enchanting. Sadly the trade from Myanmar that supported such extravagant lifestyles stopped long back and the younger generations moved to the cities leaving behind these architectural relics. Some houses just decay behind huge padlocks while others have a negligent keeper or squatters selling the richly carved pillars one at a time.

These architectural distractions calmed me down a little as the vanity of the whole venture had begun to trouble me. By the afternoon of the third they called us to another palatial house were the scene was to be shot. A fake market was being set up complete with fruit and vegetable stalls, cows and goat, beggars et al. Inside one of the courtyard the makeup team had set base and were dishing out French soldiers, Indian kings and natch girls by the minute. There was lots of confusion as the French and Indian crew tried to co-ordinate with each other.

We were dressed up in 19^th century natch girl style (I had 10 other mates doing the same thing) and waited for our scene. The central courtyard of the palace was set up like a king’s pleasure house. We were required to stand along the edges of the scene to entertain French guests. The main female character would then burst in to rescue a kidnapped child. The scene for so silly that me and a couple of other extras had a hard time controlling our laughter. It was shot 17 times with different camera angles. It was midnight before we left for home.

The ridiculousness of the whole adventure still makes me laugh. A part of me now exists on celluloid somewhere in French television (if it is not cut off during editing). It was nice to peek into another profession albeit for just three days. I now have a newfound respect for the movie industry people for the amount of time, money and energy they put into making films.

114

Knights in shining armour no longer ride up in stellar horses to our doorway. Here is what happens instead......
The five o’ clock air was chilly. I could feel her sit close for warmth. After we left the bumpy mud road and touched the tar, the machine steadied itself. As I accelerated the trees crept in closer and my path became a dark and beautiful tunnel.
She was a Royal Enfield Std 350, affectionately called the Bullet. As I went along I could almost feel her fuse to my body, her thump vibrating with my heartbeat.
80: I could still hear her talk. We were steering well through traffic on the village road. Her rock solid stability needed no slowing down.
90: She was silent now. She was feeling the build up with me. From the rear view mirror I caught a glimpse of her eyes fixed in concentration. She was beginning to understand the poetry too.
100: It was just us on the highway now and her thump never sounded better. I signalled to her and she gave thumbs up. There was no stopping now.
114: The moment of power, love and respect had arrived. I could feel the rider’s ecstasy tingling inside me. All three of us were now one. The road, trees and landscape disappeared into non existence. We had released from this world into sheer happiness. Nirvana had been achieved.
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The Other Side




Remember your first trip to the zoo? It is almost a ritual in families with young children to picnic on Sundays in the nearest zoological garden. The trip is supposed to expose the child to the rich biodiversity that exists and a face to face encounter with it. Why then do these children grow up to become animal skin traders, corporate heads who bribe the state into wiping out rainforests or simply people who crush out snake heads in their backyards and melt honeybee nests by setting them on fire? Why do we become sterile to the blatant disregard for animals around us?
It is because something is greatly amiss in the first encounter.
When you see a Royal Bengal Tiger behind bars, sitting dejectedly and looking into blankness and being troubled by loud passersby, nothing appears Royal about him. When you see a mating pair of lions being photographed (flashes on!!) by over five hundred people on honking Sumos you almost begin to look at it as an object. And when you see pythons and cobras behind glass boxes in artificially lit nocturnal caves you realize that there is only one animal worth his salt: Man
Respect comes from watching a deer run wild in its habitat, a crocodile lie undisturbed on a sandy beach for hours or an elephant being the master of his own will and splash in water. Respect comes from observing it from behind bushes and not disturbing the animal’s peace and space. Respect comes from acknowledging that he too had a right to life and privacy.
We, with our giant footprints have left no space for animals to exist. They can now either die of extinction or exist in zoos and national parks as objects where their life and death is a public spectacle.
I can almost imagine a day in the near future when the divide between the robbed and the rich would be so great that nobody would raise an eyebrow to exotic human exhibits: Tribals from Madhya Pradesh, Baby foetus floating in glass boxes and aborigines from Andamans.
For reconsidering your way of life and thought please watch: http://www.greenthefilm.com/

Chasing the elusive Yarsa Gambu

When he was a young boy, G would allow me to follow him on Hisalu Hunts (HH as it was secretly called) up and down the then green forests of Nainital. I tried to match his pace as he walked with much enthusiasm and talked of Bumblebees and Bichu Buti. Now, twenty years later I found myself following him once again. This time the hunt was bigger and better: the multi million rupees Yarsa Gambu or Keeda Ghans.
For the uninitiated, Keeda Ghaans is a unique entity. A worm during winter, it wriggles under the snow somewhere at an altitude of 5000 meters and dies. Fungus grows on its dead body and when the snow melts out emerges the plant: a 10 cm long wriggly brown shoot easily missed by the untrained eye. It sells for Rs. 3 lacks a Kilo across the border where it is used in Tibetan medicine and in recent times to make steroids for athletes and Viagra for others.
Keeda Ghaans has brought about something of an economic revolution in the villages beyond Dharchula. Each year thousands of families climb up to the peaks of Himalaya 4000m and beyond to collect a few grams of this organic gold.
When we reached Himkhola it bore a deserted look. It was late in the afternoon and old men were immersed in a game of cards, puffing hard on their biris as they went along. Women were hard at work drying out Dhania and attending to cattle. Everyone else was out on the hunt. Pradhaan Jee was kind enough to allow us to sleep in his son’s room (now a student at Allahabad). For the evening walk we went over to the nursery run by the forest department and found out about:
Thunair (Taxus Bacata) A pine like tree that is a sure shot answer to cancer (its bark extract sells for Rs. 4 lack per gram). It is rare in the forest so the forest department is trying to grow it and spread it out to provide a source of income.
The real fun began after sunset. All men sat with a glass of Chakti: the locally brewed daroo. Uncontrolable laughter and exaggerated stories of hunting two tigers with one bullet followed.
Next morning we set off with Pradeep( Pradhan jee’s son) as the guide and Shyam with his horse(Kris) to assist our “bloated and unsustainable” luggage. Paksa, the world’s best forest dog, decided to tag along. So we set off from Himkhola village to Karangdang top: a vertical distance of 2000 meters with an almost eighty degree incline. The first few kilometres were easy and enjoyable as we followed the gadhera( stream). The climb was eased by Pradeep’s encouraging words, Shyam’s titbits( from chewing gum to mouth freshners) and Tiwari jee’s anecdotes.
The first day ended when we camped on Maidan no 2 ( Pancha Sua?)as it was close to the water source. We bonded that night with rapid fire rounds of antakshari and dance by the bon-fire. The tent G brought along was nice and cosy so we were doubly charged next morning to reach the top.
A word about relieving yourself in the open: could nirvana be any different?
The Bugyal comes when the tree line ends. Ekla-Rukh(single tree) marks this transition. It’s just grass after that, so you get to meet some interesting shepherds who live here for 4-5 months in summer. Their lives are almost as calm and serene as the mountains around them (except when the wolf comes or the sheep jump off the hill). Groups of Gamboo hunters would stop at the shepherd tent to exchange news. Everyone talked about the huge party at 5000m where most families camped. Imagination was assisted with their description of hot Jalebies being made and Chakti flowing free. There were difficulties though- rain to freeze your bones and the un-named blue flower at Nasa Marti that caused hallucination by merely looking at it.
View from Karangdang top allowed us to view two valleys and the river in between. We made a few dance-song videos and interviewed the locals on their thoughts on Yarsa Gambu. Their songs would always have memories of the beautiful girl in the village who awaits their arrival and it is these memories that give them strength. It was also interesting to note how the folk song described the actual geographical route for reaching the top and beyond.
Climbing down was sad and fast. We drank Thuner tea and chatted up about the problem of unemployment in the hills, migration and whether Gamboo hunting was a good enough alternative. It was on the ride back to Dharchula in a rickety Sumo way past sunset that my thoughts were pre-occupied with moving to Himkhola for ever. My faith in the magnanimity of the hill folks was restored . The little girl who had followed the little bigger boy had found out why they said that you can take a man out of the mountains but never mountains out of a man.

Credits:
G : now popularly known as Almora Boy (almoraboy.blogspot.com)
Tiwaree Jee: an excellent driver and an even better trekker
Shyam: Rider on the storm
Pradeep: Climbs the hills during his summer vacations but is otherwise working on his B.Ed in Allahabad
Paksa: Dog is a man’s best teacher and guide.
Special mention: The bird that eats smoke off campfires!!!

Cheap and Best

"Ija, the flush is at it again!"
We stared helplessly at the anti-peristaltic movement of the WC. Monsoons in Almora were always marked by our war against the sewage system and the defeat thereafter.
The winner each year,however, was Devi Mistry. This local plumber had learnt the art of twisting p-traps and turning s-traps at eighteen when the British first introduced it. Now, at eighty one, he practised it like wizardry.After each monsoon he married off a daughter or two with enough to last the dry spell.

By next day my patience began to wear and I cribbed about his monopoly and high handedness during crisis period. Ija calmly sipped her Lopchu and recounted the year they almost ended his dominance.

Our newly formed hilly state was just beginning to discover its limbs. Almora's drainage system had always been a sore so the ministers and bureaucrats discussed it at length in the first assembly and decided to solve the problem once and for all. A week long visit to Almora was announced immediately.

The government rest house was dressed up like a doll. Shama uncle still thanks the bright street lights they arranged along Havelock Road during those days.He managed to clear his university exams by its grace while his not so fortunate friends sat brooding in the darker parts of town.

Government cars carrying our agents of change, their family and trail of acquaintances drove into Almora. During the day the ministers were occupied in meetings, flipping through papers held in designed folios (hand painted by some expensive artist in Bombay). Meanwhile their families visited the local places of interest and graciously accepted gifts for blessing the people with their presence.
Meals were always a grand affair. Local cuisine as well as gourmet food was served with the best accompaniments and drinks. Almora knew how to keep its guests happy. Especially ones who were labouring hard to provide them basic sanitation and clean drinking water.

At night entertainment reigned supreme. After all, even hard(ly) working officials needed mental relaxation to prepare them for the next day.
The meeting ended three days later with a "very positive outcome". Devi Mistry was seen secretly flipping through the local employment news. The cars rolled out and six months later when monsoons came, so did hope.

A soul troubled journalist published an account of the expenditure of this fruitless meet in the newspaper the following week. Approximately twenty lakh rupees of the state fund had "gone down the drain" leaving it more clogged than ever. Ija read it out during a ladies' meet. Situ's mother shrugged and said with flooring simplicity," Hmm, ten rupees and a nice cup of tea is all Devi jee needs!"

SUMMER: here already!!!