Third Pole Adventures

It all started over a casual conversation with a Ladakhi in a Bihari Cafe in Auroville.

Sonam Wangchuk is a lot of things. For starters, he inspired the character of Phunsok Wangdu in Three Idiots. And that is an impressive starter! I found myself eating fried noodles with him one evening near the beach in Auroville. I had spent two years living an idyllic life in Auroville (see posts below) and was internally itching for some new challenge. And when I paid close attention, this is what Sonam was talking about.

Four young men who had attended Secmol (http://www.secmol.org/index.php) had decided to open a solar earth construction business in Ladakh. Made perfect sense. They were looking for some architect to help out in this venture. I decided to give it a try.

Few months later, I was flying over my geography book. Imagination had never taken me beyond Himalayas. Turned out, I was missing out on a lot. Once the white peaks of the Himalayan range ends begins the land known as Third Pole, a name attributed to the long cold months this region has.

Once you get down at Leh, you don't know what makes you dizzy: the lack of oxygen or the breath taking beauty. Bright blue sky and brown barren earth. A painting with just two colours. Minimalism cannot possibly get better.

At Secmol, I was welcomed with a fresh glass of  seabuckthorn juice and a cozy room. I slept the whole of the first day and let my body get acclimatized to the drastically new surroundings. Soon we began work. The guys were enthusiastic and motivated. They had grown up making earth buildings and so were in no need of technical expertise. I just helped with some drawings, some suggestions to organised the office and so on.

As is always true, life outside the office is infinitesimally more interesting. Staying at Secmol and interacting with young students was like a fresh shot of energy everyday. It was also educating to see an totally off grid school with students managing electricity, water, garbage, food and classroom activities. My favourite was the waterless ladakhi toilet. I took back inspirations worth a lifetime from this! It was difficult to get up at 5 each day for the yoga classes but looking back I had a lot of fun.

I had the chance to visit the bright blue Pangong lake, cross Chang-la, stay with a Ladakhi family, drink yak milk and eat dried yak meat (yeah, I was vegan before i went there). The pink salty butter tea was my favourite and no day began without a warm glass. Also of interest were remote monasteries and desolate palaces, turquoise Indus and small everyday treks to work and back. Ladakhi people are ever welcoming, pleasant to talk to and full of wisdom.

Time passed like an arrow and soon it was time to leave. I have all intentions of going back soon, hopefully on a bicycle. Owing to rapid tourism, the region is also facing its share of difficulties. The sustainable way of life and local wisdom stands threatened with the new fast moving four wheel drives and concrete house. I hope the old Ladakh wins and reinvents itself on its own terms. It is any day a better place!

Utopia Realized: My second year at Auroville

I stumbled back into this world with the chirping of a sparrow. The first light was breaking forth somewhere in the horizon. The morning chill inspired me to lay on a little longer. When it was bright enough I stepped out from the mosquito net, unhooked it and folded it along with the mat I was sleeping on. Last night under the stars had been very relaxing. The clear bright moon had left many impressions that even the cool morning rays could not erase. I picked a neem twig and sat by the pool watching the turtles as I chewed on it. Another day in Auroville had begun.

The second year was about realizations; the condensation of the work and knowledge from the first year. After the lady in the bamboo house left, my responsibilities suddenly doubled. Drawings, accounts, clients and even a couple of projects on the side. The two strong pillars from Kerela helped keep the roof from falling. Realization was completed and people moved in. Post occupancy had its troubles and we tackled them as they came. Green Kasbah took its first baby steps and began to take form and shape. The Spiti project opened up a whole new area to us and the Thelem project taught the meaning of the word responsibility all over again.

It was more than once that I seriously considered starting the new comer process (the official entry into Auroviile). It was a lovely place and pretty much what I had dreamt of in an ideal life. Except there was one problem: was this all that I dreamt of? Was setting tent here equivalent to abandon the wanderings? As long as these doubts existed I could not put in my papers. And the dilemma persisted till the day I left.

I finally started riding the motorcycle, only to get bored after a while and give it up for the bicycle. Anna, our pottery teacher, was a blessing. We studied under her for nine months. She revealed to us the joy of playing with clay, of forming it into beautiful objects, painting it and finally the magic of burning it to alter it completely. She also initiated us into tea ceremonies, pot luck dinners, Russian customs, love stories and what not. Her love and chidings will always be cherished.

After a one day seminar at Quiet Beach I finally took the leap and became vegan. No milk, curd, honey, butter, biscuits and other stuff in which animal products manifest themselves. It was not easy as old food habits die hard. I slipped (unconsciously) many a times. What I lost with milk I found with tofu, sesame, coconut and a whole lot of foods I had not realized the potential of. However Gaumutra was never considered out of bounds.

We also had time to discover the wonders of Tamil Nadu and Kerela. The disappearing land at Dhanuskodi, the huge corridors at the temple in Rameshwarm, Meenakshi temple, the sarees at Kanchipuram, the serene backwater at Allepy, the taste of Kerela food, two hour long ayurvedic massage, the dense forests and wild elephant herds: all discovered on quick weekend trips.

You can never leave Auroville for lesser things, only greater. Sonam Wangchuk came when the dilemma was at its peak. He offered a chance to visit Ladakh. A school he said where there were solar panels, earth buildings, organic farming and paradise. One utopia was traded for another and I left in fifteen days.

There was a book that I had coveted to buy from my first week in Auroviile. It was a story of the first comers: the people who had changed this barren plateau into a lush green bio reserve. However it went out of print soon after and I could never find it again. On my last day I was out to act on some promises. I was delivering a bottle of Kambucha (the last one before I gave up the mother mushroom) to the man who I ate lunch with at Solar Kitchen. Though we knew each other for more than a year know, I did not know his name. All I knew was that he worked at Land Acquisition office. So I went there only to find the office empty. I recognised the gentleman sitting in a corner bench. We had met in a farm walk. I walked up to him and explained my problem. He said I could leave the bottle with him and he would make sure it reaches its rightful owner. We started talking and I summed my two year experience to him. He was a keen listener and wished me luck for the life ahead. He gave two books to keep me company for the journey back. He wrote, “May the Auroviile experience guide your future work”. It was the same book I had hunted for two years. The miracle of the Mother was upon me.

I stumbled back into this world with the whirring of the propeller. The two year adventure seemed nothing short of a dream. The wish list had been striked off completely and I would have to wait awhile before the columns filled up again. 

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.
Leave Home

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!!!

Images for the last post:

Our Last Walk: the one in which we learn lessons in rural hospitality

The luxury of college life has alas come to an end. 4.5 years in BIT were a great learning and un-learning experience for many a things. Topping my list of things that will be missed most is the early morning walk. The sakhua forest is at its best when the first rays of the sun break through the leaves and strike the dew drops on the grass. I’ve left the comfort of the bed at 5 to seek and find different things alone with these children of nature. I’ve been the wild rule breaker to run to the river for an early morning swim, the health freak braving the wild contours to digest last night’s Junglee Murg, the object of someone’s affection sought away from public eye, the solitary walker out to subdue my worries in the vastness of the landscape.
The beginning of my end had to be a morning walk. The destination was set to be the potter’s village off the national highway some 14km away. Binitha braved the cold and was my accomplice in the journey. We ran into Krishna Mausi near the bus stand. She asked us if we wished to share an auto ride with her. Too full of confidence we refused saying we had planned to walk all the way. Little did we know that our fates for the day were strangely intertwined.
The journey till the More was uneventful save our rants over having walked too much. The syrupy tea at a dhaba did some good in reviving our energy and we marched forward. A little while later we heard someone call our name. “Munia, Kahan jaat ho?”, Krishna mausi was standing on the road with a Dantoon stick hanging from one side of her mouth. She invited us to have a cup of tea with her. Someway off the highway stood her beautiful mud house. It was a typical Munda house with comb painting patterns freshly done (no later than this Diwali) on the walls.
Being the mud house freaks that we are, Binitha and I asked if we could look around. With a gesture of her hand she said “Be my guest”. The house had a kitchen, sleeping areas, area for the cattle. The coolest part of the house was the attic. It was accessed from a bamboo ladder through a hole in the ceiling. It served as a space for storing and drying grain.
We talked to various members of her family including her old mother-in-law who had dropped her bangle the day before in the field and was worried about it, her sister-in-law who was kind enough to let us into the Handia making room. The smell of fermented rice was intoxicating and our day began with a glass of this rice liquor whose function is to charge the villagers with a high dose of carbohydrates for a long day at work on the fields.
Though we had just stopped for tea, we ended up having hand pound rice, vegetable gruel, bananas, red tea and Handia in generous quantities. It was while relishing this meal that we realise the difference in the way we always greeted mausi for all these years and the way she opened up to us. Whenever she used to come to our room for cleaning we would be keen and keeping an eye, if she asked for something we would either say no or begrudgingly part with it passing a harsh comment on her directness and greed. But here she was, opening her home and heart to us without any strings attached.
I thank Krishna Mausi for all things she gave us that day (Handia making tablets especially!!!) but most of all I thank her for the humbling lesson she taught us. We talk of equality and dignity of all men but does it not get blurred in our everyday lives with unwritten laws dictating “who is to be loved and how much.” We who have plenty sit on it and grow fat bodies and small hearts and she who has little is a much bigger and better human being.

Public Speaking Forum- First Meeting

“How many of you feel we need the lectern?” said Mr. Pant, our anchorperson for the evening. Nervous hands shot up (mine included). “May I ask why?” he asked. “It does its bit to put the speaker in ease” came the prompt reply. “Ah!” said Mr. Pant, almost anticipating the reply, “more of a reason to do away with it!”

I was attending the introductory session of the Public Speaking Forum. It was my way of testing uncharted waters, combat my fear of public speaking and to participate in a few interesting discussions (the poster said they would discuss books!!)

“A lectern in one of the many crutches a speaker uses. We must learn to do without it for the moment. We can always bring it back once public speaking ceases to bother us.”

The first session was reserved for introductions. We had to present an interesting talk about ourselves. I volunteered as the grammarian and grunt master. There were time keepers and general evaluators among the speakers. People came up with interesting anecdotes, jokes and even poems that went on to describe them. I had to pick out grammatical errors and adopted a very draconian approach for the same. So by the time I went up to the mike I had a pair of 25 analytical eyes waiting for me to make a slip. I did, many times over.

“When you think you are speaking fast you are speaking very fast. When you think you are speaking slow you are at a good pace.” Hence spoke the master and we nodded in approval.

Things eased out as the meeting progressed. We had a very rich crowd- from budding politicians to aspiring novelists. Jokes became more frequent and people articulated their thoughts more. Public speaking is the one of the most dreaded thing by many people, some placing it even above death. It is a battle against your own adrenalin surge. Clarity of thought, knowledge of the subject under discussion and practice is the best medicine.

For the next meeting we have three topics under discussion-
Birth and rise of Naxalism
Climate Change
Education reforms in India

Thoughts and suggestions for the same are welcome!!!

Expanding Comfort Zones

1.1 Shifting Base: The Realization

Imagine me in a new city (Bang Bang) at six in the morning. I reached the PG accommodation, paid a ten day advance and entered the sleeping quarters. In a room – 2.5 m X 7 m slept 12 girls in various bunk beds. The sight shouldn’t have bothered me. I had stayed in hostels long enough. However, I had an urge to cry. What was bothering me? Long introspection in the one toilet that served 24 girls led to enlightenment. I was depressed because I had long stepped out of my comfort zone.
For 4 years now hostel life has grown on me like a moss under which I snugly live. I am aware of the challenges I will face everyday and am ready with the solutions. Being in Bang Bang was like being stripped naked suddenly.

Once the wisdom dawned on me it was easy to cope up. In fact I found the idea pretty challenging. What if we constantly and deliberately step out of our comfort zones? Wouldn’t it be just as thrilling as jumping off a cliff with just the bunjee rope for support?

1.2.1 Application 1 : The Newspaper

With my newfound wisdom and a renewed interest towards life I approached the daily newspaper. I had a tendency to skip the business and political news. Now I made an attempt to read and understand it. It has surely broadened my perspective of the world.

1.2.2 Application 2 : The Sports Field

As blogged earlier, I graduated from jogging to basketball and tennis. New games bring about a new freshness each morning!!

1.2.3 Application 3: Public Speaking

I may be able to write a thing or two but when it comes to public speaking I have to wage a war against my adrenalin surges. So I enrolled for the public speaking forum. It frightens me but with each meeting I feel better equipped to fight my demons. J

For now this philosophy gives me something challenging to do each day. It is the kick I get from doing the things I do on a regular basis but with a different approach.

2.1 Bottom Line: Highly Recommended

PS- The structured writing procedure sticks on to my fingers as I just finished writing my 100 page thesis report.

Press Play!!!

There was once a time when seven children had a life that revolved around a sacred playfield. There were days when they would plop off the school bus on afternoons and land up (much to their mothers’ chagrin) on the playground and not on the lunch table or the study table. The sacred playtime was as high on survival priority as food and air.

Running after a football, fielding in cricket, running desperately to find a place good enough to baffle the ‘denner’( help with word root if known)in hide and seek….Sweat flowed, screams echoed and Dopamine reigned supreme.

What went wrong then? Swimming was the first undoing. It is a game in which you excel alone. Your game does not affect others. It further deteriorated down to jogging and yoga which could be done at my own leisure. The crouched study position however took over. The only balls that moved now were the eyeballs scuttling along lines and lines of data to be learnt. It was not that there was never enough time for play. Just that play equated to something evil. It was ok to sit and stare zombie-ish-ly at a maths problem but sacrilege to play.

Lethargy is the worst of all addictions. College meant that there was tones and tones of free time. However sleep was revered above everything else, work was postponed till the last minute so that night outs could leave us drenched out.
The dying flame burns brightest before its end. So with just about a month left before leaving BIT group sports makes its re-entry into my life. Yes, there is a lot of debate in my head at 5:30 in the morning when I have to drag myself out of a cozy bed but when hot sweat from running meets the cool morning air it all becomes worth it.

So we dribble basketball and flex a muscle or two at tennis- both sports I never was very comfortable with. Though I loose miserably the foolish abandon of the playfield beats it all!! Streams of sweat running down my face and heart beating at a frantic rate coupled with wise cracks from my fellows is like icing on the cake.

Bottom line remains……..never give up sports. Never give up on the competitiveness of making your teams win. Never give up on lithe, agility and speed. A sweaty game of basketball remains much more satisfying than killing people in a game of Counter Strike or mindlessly arranging cards in Solitaire.

Listen to me………come let’s play!!!!

“You Don’t Need a Big Place to do Big Things”

It was six in the morning and we were a group of ten architecture students, with a vague idea about Sanskriti Kendra,on our way to Hazaribagh. After a two hour long journey where we encountered the recent havoc caused by underground fires in coal reserves, we finally reached our destination. The metalled road gradually gave way to a winding unpaved path disappearing in a groove of trees. The Sumo was now trepid in its movement and we were wondering what awaited us. Sanskriti Kendra is has been nurtured on a 4 acre lush green site in the middle of Hazaribagh. It is run by Mr. Bulu Imam and his family. We had heard much about him but nothing could have prepared us for the pleasant surprise that lay ahead. He was all dressed up and ready for us. After a brief round of instructions he started talking about his recent work in the field of global warming. A look must have crossed our faces and he read it and said promptly, “You don’t need a big place to do big things. Look what Gandhi achieved operating from Sabarmati.”

As the day progressed we felt our knowledge increase exponentially on global warming, coal mining, tribal art and pre-historic rock art. It is amazing how he linked all of thee for us. But first let’s look around Sanskriti Kendra, shall we?

The main house is occupied by Bulu Imam and has his impressive study. There are a great number of books, research works and phds written right form this center. A number of Khowar and Sorahi paintings adorn the room. Also worth noticing was the female dog and her young pups peeping from the fireplace. Next is a small earth house made by his son. The texture of mud, the play of light and the art on the wall floored us completely. Sustainability could not be defined better. Of special interest to our group was the carom board groove and a rather large collection of beer bottles.

We followed Bulu Imam on a walk down his forest-garden and reached Putli Ganju’s house. She is one of the women artists who live in the campus. Her house again had an array of paintings. Bulu ji explained many things to us here. He said people often wonder how these villagers make such beautiful paintings seasonally and then clear them to make fresh ones every year. Here lies the great philosophy of village life-one that teaches the futility of attachment and the acceptance of change. They treat art as a living phenomenon, an expression of their daily lives. Each year the house is revamped during Diwali and becomes as beautifual as a ‘nayee naweli dulhan”.

A walk further down the groove led us to the old pukka house that belonged to the family and had now been converted into a museum. It housed some of the tribal paintings, metal works, quilts and an audio-visual show. This belongs to the Tribal Women Artists Cooperative a self supporting organization. Each painting sold pays the artist as well as helps in running this organization.

We walked further up and the circuit led us again to the aangan where we had begun our journey. Cool sharbat was waiting for us as we went through the various lists of publications and research works done by the Kendra. When we left the Kendra Bulu ji has given us ample to think about. How do you link tribal art, women, Mahatma Gandhi, coal mining and global warming?

Bulu ji had given us enough web references and cds to research and find out for ourselves. Two days have passed since then and here is my inference- One of the major factors of global warming is burning of coal for producing energy. This coal comes from coal mines. Jharkhand is ridiculously rich in this mineral and has hence been under attack form various mining firms. When open field mining begins hundreds of villages and thousands of indigenous people get displaced and loose their land, homes, forests, rivers and traditions. There are also numerous ancient pre historic caves in this region which are getting lost forever. So what does this single man do to fight national and international mining firms? He takes artwork from the walls of this village, a tradition that has passed down numerous generations, and places it museums across the world. He shows how this unfortunate string of events can lead to the destruction of this art form and its makers forever. The sale of these paintings not only helps womenfolk who have seen this tribe disappear forever but also becomes the ultimate non-violent weapon against the injustice being wrecked upon them. Today, after more than 20 years of fighting this battle, Khowar and Sorhai paintings hang in art galleries in Venice, Australia and USA. Many mining projects have been brought to a halt. One man’s fight to save the flowers along the Damodar has borne its fruits.

For further reading-

http://www.sanskritihazaribagh.com/

http://www.karanpuracampaign.com/

http://www.350.org/

Paintings on mud wall

Students enjoy the painting display

Madhuca longifolia (Mahua!!)
Closures are necessary. Especially when you go to a Jharkhand village one fine Sunday, have an awesome reception, understand what a well means for a village, talk about how the land has changed their lives over the years- taking away of farmland from tribals at as low as Rs. 1, meet the survivor of last week’s cock fight, enjoy tea, see hadia and chullu ( for the uninitiated: local liquor) being brewed in practically every home and promise you’ll write a CD of the umpteen pictures you have clicked and personally deliver it before the end of the week (not to forget the mental note about writing a blog about it).

This was some three years back. The CD was never compiled and the blog never written. The guy from the village who works in the Pharmacy department at BIT bumps into you often enough to remind you of the broken promise but you always manage to console yourself that the promise has not really been broken only extended. Now as you sit numbering your days in BIT closure, as I said, is necessary.

Baijnath was courteous enough to let us into his house and not only answer our queries about neem and cowdung as preservatives or what he did with his DVD player but explain in excruciating detail how Chullu (or Mahua) is made.

Step 1. Mahua flowers are collected in wats and a few Gur ( whatsitcalled in Angrezi? Jaggery?) pieces are thrown in. The Mahua and Gur get acquainted over a period of eight days. The sweet smell of fermentation announces that the mixture is now ready for the next stage.

Step 2- A big fire is prepared in the chulah every Sunday and a complex apparatus with beautiful simplicity is set up. It has three basic parts-
1. The bottom most part is an aluminium matka that contains the fermented mixture and is in contact with the heat.
2. Above this rests the perforated earthen matka that has hidden in its belly a smaller earthen matka resting on three projections at the bottom.
3. On the top is a simple pot containing cool water.

Here is how it works- The heat acts on the fermented mix allowing intoxicating vapors to evaporate. This is mahua in its nascent state. It wiggles-waggles through the perforation on the base of the second pot, touches the cool base of the cold water container and mahua in its liquid form is born. Throughout the day the fire burns and drop by drop the liquor pot gets filled.

In the evening, the precious pot is taken out and all family members (male??) share it. How does it taste? You confidently approach the innocent looking water like substance. The taste eludes the taste buds and you work hard on figuring it out. A lot of sips later, when the curiosity about the taste still lingers in the air it hits you much like nothing else and then boom!!!

As the sun goes down the village forgets about how their settlement is slowly being swallowed. The real estate developer is building hideous row houses where once wheat grew, BIT wants a new building somewhere there, and young lads have been looking for jobs in the city for sometime now. But while the boom lasts they can forget about it. Morning punches them doubly in the face- life and mahua join hands. They sit on their thresholds waiting for the headache to pass only to be replaced by other ones.

Next: Why does the code book say-“ thou shalt not build on farmland or wetland” but they do, they do and they do……………………….

MEMORIES OF FOURTH YEAR

This year lethargy has had its hold on me otherwise this post would have appeared way back in June. This also marks my bloggiversary. What started as an activity for a curious soul on a summer afternoon, maybe to fill the void left by the disintegration of a long letter writing relationship, has sustained itself for four years now. More of this later…..for now let me stick to the topic…

B.I.T was its usual self-the drills had become all too familiar by now. So you find yourself blabbering away to glory in the 2k4 rooms while the ladies work hard on their thesis. As butru often points out, you suddenly have a lot of time at hand mostly because your sole commitment in the college has wooshed away. Yes, you do miss the animal tales, the music sessions, the ‘meet me now (4:45 a.m!!!!)” calls, forest walks and rides to nowhere but you also know that there is no point in getting depressed about it….look beyond.
Things have also cooled down on the academic front. The teachers take it easy and we follow lead. So, with all this time in the world you discover college like never before.

There is a drastic re-definition in friends. You finally begin to pick out the shams from the true gems. Yardstick- “People who do not have to spend an hour to achieve the – out-of-bed-look”. Evenings are free and spent curled up in a corner devouring some book or the other. Ah! You become your former self again….bliss! Society is fine but you need that withdrawing space where it’s you, your thoughts and the spider on the wall.

ANDC trophy work was fun- The visit to the haat every Saturday to study the Hadia and Mahua sellers, the Rs. 12 noodles, herbs and spices from the Jharkhand forest. You also discover a lot of things about your friends during group work- the last minute deserters matched by the crazy all night zealous workers. The last minute sheet finishing at CCD, haggling with the courier guy and reaching back at 9 all drenched.

LIK was better still. The visit to Banaras, living at Kautilya society guest house, the ratri jagaran sabhas, being at 11 pm on the ghats, being at 4 am on the ghats, watching the sun rise over the ganga, the taste of mallia melting in your mouth, hearing Prof. Singh talk about Banaras so passionately on assi ghat, aghoris, fighting for the rent and at last almost missing the train. Coming back- almost living in the design studio, passion of the group that blurred the boundary between day and night and finally the submission!! We did not win but it was one of the most satisfying exercises we have done.

One day you play along and eat the wild mushrooms Kaso so often cooks. Soon there is on spot on your skin that is not red. You rush home and stay back for a month only to return for zonasa in Calcutta. No shosher maach this time but much better performance at the events. You also stop part time view making unhappy with the money and start devoting time to competitions (more money and better satisfaction).

To pick out memories- The Rajjarappa trip will go down in history. You had to convince 6 girls to go with 12 boys they had never seen to a place they had never heard about!! “ See, they are really nice boys. They even touch my parents’ feet when they meet them (yardstick 2)”. “ They are decent and well behaved”. “There will be no drinking-smoking I assure you(yardstick 3).” You had to paint this angelic picture partly out of imagination because even you knew just two of them. You also had to define a code of behavior for the girls. “Don’t act snobbish, be friendly to all and carry some food please.”
In the morning things did not go as planned. The girls were ready by 7 but the boys turned up only after 9. The first impression we got of them- shaggy, stubble and leaning against a trekker at pmc!! The girls would have run back if I wasn’t there pushing them in. Things brightened up as the journey progressed. The initial hesitations were thrown aside hastily and soon people who had never seen each other were using pet names. The temple and boat ride were fun but the company was incredible. We couldn’t see the sulphur springs but nothing else was left un-explored. By lunch friendships has flourished and the laughter was not stopping at all. No body felt like going back so early so we took a detour to rukka dam, saw a nagpuri film being shot, posed for a gazzilion pics and finally came back by dusk. That night, both the hostels were abuzz recounting how much fun they had with total strangers!!

It was also the year of dirty politics. Bitotsav made everybody power crazy. People who were in teams till last year cursing pauaa were now in posts promoting it. Fights, corruption and giant egos all broke loose and I lost all the affection I has for this special event.

Thesis- the topic selection process was too overwhelming; you lost your mind and are still trying to untangle your thoughts!

Visiting the old age home was also an experience. Makes you wonder about the strange ways of nature. The parent-child relationship suffers from such parasitic influences-happy to take but only lies and deception when it comes to giving. However, I will never forget the optimism of the 105 years old marwari lady who washes her clothes, does all her chores, reads and does not have a single regret in life!!!

You see what drastic change retirement brought about in your parents’ lives. From an 8 to 8 schedule they suddenly had nothing to do. It took a while but I think that they are settling in and re-discovering things they never had the time for earlier – Gardening, shopping, cooking (and composting!!), traveling, bathing Mia (v.imp), reading, writing, painting………

Now the last leg of our architectural studies has begun. Thesis is in full swing however you feel very disconnected to the whole thing. Maybe it will get cured in sometime. College seems pretty empty without your batch. Zonasa preps are again gaining momentum. Transtaling Traditions also eats up a lot of energy. Have many plans for the coming session- Hazaribaag, North East, Bihar…….ah! the blessed wings of fantasy appear again.....

Also have to clear up a lot of pending blogs……coming soon- “ Hadia and Chullu- the recipe”.

One man's waste is another's resource.........





As Mayawati goes on making park after park in Lucknow form tonnes of red and pink sandstone straight from Rajasthan....spending unimaginable sums of public money.... local people yet again display qualities of spontaneous bussiness sense.......
The waste stone from Kansi Ram Smarak park is being turned into Sil-Batta( mortar pestel??? (for want of better translation)), statues and what not!!!!!!
What an idea Sir-Jee!!!!






Image 1- Sil- batta sold along the road with Kansi Ram Smarak taking form in the background

Image 2- Aam admi ko kuch to fayeda hua!!!!

LOW COST AND ORGANIC B'DAY

Nothing kills me more in life than cliches'. And spending money. B'days being a regular occurance in our lives tend to loose their sheen if you end up doing the same thing each year. I think all of us have become a bit too old for the cake cutting and smearing(please don't waste food. lot of people would kill for it), the wrapped up gifts and the brutal beatings!
There are a lot of interesting and inspiring tales of people who do charitable deeds, give up old habits and turn a new leaf. ours did good, not so much for others as for ourselves.
It was to be my last b'day in the hostel with my inmates so i decided to be as whimsical as i could. the b'day 'cake' was a 5kg papaya carved to pay regards to a misterious individual called 'psycho sunny' (artwork-Audreza Das). we also served guava with chaat masaala on a dona. Tto wash all this down Anuradha served hot lemon tea (people were requested to carry their own mugs)
At the end of the day, we were happy that there was no heap of styrofoam glasses and cups in our dustbin. we did not feet overtly stuffed rather in the morning a lot of people described their 'system clenzing' tales in explicit detail..........

DASVEDANIA......



If ragging is supposed to be torturous......then how come we laughed our heads off
if freshers is supposed to be an economoical event.........how come we were treated like kings
if if seniors are supposed to be snobby...how come ours worked for us late into the night
if there is supposed to be a batch demarcation........how come we spent all our time in their rooms
if juniors are supposed to bow down in respect of their seniors.....how come we made ours run #$%ed
if good byes are supposed to be good riddance.......how come we cried so bitterly at ours
to the most incredible bunch of girls i met.........muah!!