Shimla Gallimaufry

Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.

2011-02-15T09:00:00.000+05:30

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors

which it passes to a row of ancient trees.

You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you

one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either,

not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,

not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing

that turns to a star each night and climbs-

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)

your own life, timid and standing high and growing,

so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,

one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

I have heard the sunset song of the birches,

A white melody in the silence,

I have seen a quarrel of the pines.

At nightfall

The little grasses have rushed by me

With the wind men.

These things have I lived," quoth the maniac,

"Possessing only eyes and ears.

But you --

You don green spectacles before you look at roses.

~ Stephen Crane ~

I love you for a hundred thousand reasons But most of all I love you ‘cause you’re you

2011-02-14T13:16:00.000+05:30

14th February. Valentine's Day. What better way to celebrate the day than to tell the one you love how much you love them and why you love them! In my case, I dedicate this Valentine's Day to my one true love.

Shimla, I love you for your-

Little lanes and roads. Winding, meandering, rambling, zigzagging to no-place-in-particular

Houses, ramshackle, rickety, tumble-down, rinky-dink ones. Haughty, sumptuous, lofty ones.

Spectacular sunsets: lilac, russet, sylvan, caramel, chartreuse.

People: poet, painter, author, mother, dreamer, healer. Each one of you teaches so much.

Walking: a joy and a luxury not available in most other towns in India.

Summer storms which bring drama thunder and lightning right outside your window.

Beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, sapphire skies.

Early-morning birdsong. Bulbuls, orioles, thrushes, magpies, parakeets, owls, kites, babblers, tits.

Minerva. Munshiram. Kahanchand. Gaindamull's. Bhuttico. Trishul.

Annadale. Sheogh woods. Dhanu Devta. Glen.

Flowers, wild & domestic: gazania, potentilla, wisteria, fuchsia, orchid, columbine, clematis, daisy.

Viceregal Lodge. Yarrows. Gorton Castle. Railway Board Building. GPO. Town Hall. Gaiety. Christ Church.

Mehroo. Sher-E-Punjab. Balji’s. Sol Café. Sitaram. The late, lamented Barista.

Clouds. Ashen. Iron. Peppery. Pearly. Silvery. Smoky. Somber. Blithe. Puffy. Light.

Trees: cedar, pine, oak, poplar, dogwood, rose tree.

Thank you, God, for giving me Shimla.

Ik suKhan aur ki phir rang-e-takallum tera... Harf-e-saadaa ko inaayat kare ejaaz ka rang

2011-02-13T19:55:00.002+05:30

Today is 13th February, the birthday of my friend Ranjani. She and I go back a long, long time. What brought us together all those decades ago was a love of poetry. At a time, when our class-mates, giggly teenagers just like us, were devouring romances or action comics, we were poring over Urdu and Hindi poets' books and swapping favourite bits on the last pages of our school-books.

13th February is also the 100th birthday of one of the greatest poets to have walked on South Asian soil: Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Many learned people have said much about Faiz - this one being a notably learned and non-hagiographic piece.

I'm only going to quote a small poem which is a great favourite of Ranjani's (and, by corollary, mine), written by Faiz:

Nahin nigaah mein manzil to justajuu hi sahi

Nahin visaal mayassar toh, aarzuu hi sahi

Na tan mein khuun faraaham na ashq aankho.n mein

Namaaz-e-shauq to vaajib hai be-vazuu hi sahi

Kisi tarah to jame bazm maikade waalo.n

Nahin jo baada-o-saagar to haa-o-huu hi sahi

Gar intezaar kathin hai to jab talak ae dil,

Kisii ke vadaa-e-fardaa ki guftaguu hi sahi

Dayaar-e-ghair mein maharam agar nahin koii

Toh 'Faiz' Ziqr-e-watan apne ruu-ba-ruu hi sahi

I came across a translation of this classic in English. Deeply unsatisfactory, but it may give those who do not follow Urdu an idea of what the poet says:

Though our journey's end eludes sight, let the quest be;

Though union defies attainment, let the longing be.

The body lacks blood, the eyes lack tears;

Yet the prayer of desire is obligatory, without purity though it be.

Let the gathering come alive somehow, O those of the tavern;

If not goblets of wine, let light-heartedness and laughter be.

If the wait is unbearable, then in the meantime, O heart;

On someone's promise of tomorrow, let conversation be.

In this land of strangers, if there be no confidante,

then Faiz! Let the invocation of homeland with yourself be.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain...

2011-02-11T20:53:00.000+05:30

How serendipitous it is to stumble across these lines by Longfellow!

All day it has rained. I watch this cloudy evening fall after a day of rain. Shimla looks especially verdant after rain. As the light increases, I discover around me an ocean of mist, which by chance reached up exactly to the base of the tall Akashvani tower in Chaura Maidan. It shuts out every vestige of our town, leaving me feeling as though I am only a small speckle in cloudland! All around me, as far as the eye can reach, is an undulating country of clouds, answering in the varied swell of its surface to the terrestrial world it veiled. This is Shimla - such a place as we might see in dreams, with all the delights of paradise.

The naked eye cannot make out any edges or any boundaries, all forms appear dimly still through a mist; but they have no chemistry to fix them; they fade from the surface of the glass, and the picture which the Divine Painter painted stands out dimly from beneath. The world with which we are commonly acquainted leaves no trace, and it will have no anniversary.

Some figures go past me, cloaked. They walk cloaked in mist and rain and suddenly I feel a commingling of a contemporary elation, new fervour, old griefs and griefs not yet begun. It is as though the pale blue mist has wandered absolvingly past all it touches, yet hangs like bated breath....

The damp stands on the long green grass

As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass

That breathe of other years.

Emily Jane Brontë

Poetry - the higher algebra of metaphors.

2011-02-09T09:59:00.002+05:30

I am an unabashed lover of poetry. I do not remember a time when I have not loved it, even at a time when I was too young to go looking for it, poetry, as with Neruda, came in search of me.... Wherever I turned, there it was: like a gleaming piece of glass found on a vast beach, like a gentle drip-drip on a rainy afternoon, sometimes a bright flame, at others, a warm fire. It fills me with a sense of magic to discover the secret of life in a sudden line, it grabs me by the throat, shakes me up and says "how could you have missed the blindingly obvious?" It has been profound as philosophy, it has brought me the sort of delight a child finds in a picture with bright colours. As William Carlos Williams says, it has helped me close the doors of sense and to roam in other worlds, my anguish mended, my doubts answered, my anxieties borne away on the wings of a page or just a few lines..... It has been my solace in dark hours, soothing, comforting and uplifting me by turns. It has imbued me with ideas, it has spurred me on with heatening tones, made me weep, made me chortle in glee at a recognised discomfort, or delight me with an insight.

Dylan Thomas says it so well:

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

And here are two poems on poetry that I love tremendously:

Introduction To Poetry

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
~ Billy Collins ~

Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents and

school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

~ Marianne Moore ~

Chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow....

2011-02-08T21:09:00.001+05:30

Hiatus [hahy-ey-tuhs] is a break or interruption in the continuity of a work. Sometimes, it's a natural fissure, other times, a missing part, or lacuna; but if viewed sympathetically, wholly necessary at all times! I've been away too long from Gallimaufry, because I have been away from Shimla, from writing and from photography. But hopefully, with the blessings of the Higher Spirit, the Pledeian High Council or whoever it is that controls thoughts and actions of mere mortals, one shall be back in the creative groove with renewed vigour...

January was a cold month for us. But the cold, which preceded and followed the two snowfalls was wholly welcome. Snowfall in Shimla, as elsewhere, is an event much recorded and celebrated. However, another interesting phenomenon unfolds gently and quietly on the sidelines. And that is the formation of icicles. An icicle is a spike of ice formed when dripping water freezes mid-air. Icicles typically form when snow melts in the sunshine and the melted water runs off into an area where the temperature is below 0°C, which causes water to freeze again! The continuous run-off of water helps form icicles.

As a child, I had seen icicles in Srinagar, Kashmir and so I was struck with wonder to see lovely cold tassels decorating the eaves of my roof. They looked like a row of daggers pointed downward, their pointy edges thrown in sharp relief against a cobalt blue sky.

I'm reminded of some lines by Shelley:

Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes,

Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair,

In which the warm current of love never freezes,
As it rises unmingled with selfishness there,
Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care,
Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise,
Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies

Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart.

2010-10-26T14:49:00.001+05:30

"Walk, Shimla, Walk!" exhorted the wise Sushil Tanwar. On 23rd October 2010, We walked from Chaura Maidan to Cecil. I'm happy to report that the young in Shimla responded with fervour. This says a lot about their spirit and their foresight. I'm equally disappointed to report the near-absence of older people. This tells me a lot about their indifference and their cynicism. I was chagrined not just because they did not show up, but because so many people came up with excuses for what kept them away... When, dear Shimlaiites, are you going to wake up to the ills that plague our lovely town? Are you ever going to involve yourself in its affais, or must one quote the poet who said:

"Ay mauj-e-sabaa de inko bhi do-chaar thapedey halk se

kuchh log kinaarey par se hii toofan ka nazaaraa karte hai"!

Sushil Tanwar who runs Ashadeep. A source of inspiration for all around him.

Little girls with big ideas.

"Pollution! Pollution! Trees are the solution!" was a popular slogan that day.

A lovely poster depicting pollution and the damages it causes.

Placards which said: "Save the environment". "Plant trees. Make Shimla beautiful". "All is well. Without trees, all is hell"!

It isn't the size of the placard, but the intention that matters!

Curious onlookers.

Curious onlooker #2.

Still, on a day of hope and excitement, we chose to focus on the positive and could only say "Sabko sanmati de bhagwaan"! (May God grant everyone good sense).

The wisdom of age: don't stop walking.

2010-10-23T10:06:00.000+05:30

The redoubtable, wonderful Sushil Tanwar of Ashadeep and I are taking Shimla for a walk today. The idea is to remind Shimla of its old tradition of walking. How great was this, how good for the health of its denzins, and for its pure air which never carried anything more than the fragrance of the evergreens and wild flowers growing by its roadsides.

Wish us luck, dear reader, that we are at least able to light a flicker of awareness in the residents our beloved town which is so beautiful and so generous.

As always, I cannot leave you without quoting some verse!

I look and look

Looking's a way of being: one becomes

sometimes, a pair of walking.

Walking wherever one's looking takes one.

The eyes

dig and burrow into the world.

They touch

fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamour.

World and the past of it,not only

visible present, solid and shadow

that looks at one looking.

And language? Rhythms

of echo and interruption?

That's a way of breathing

breathing

to sustain

looking

walking and looking,

through the world

in it.

~ Denise Levertov ~

Solvitur ambulando

2010-10-21T11:40:00.000+05:30

“Solvitur ambulando”. It is solved by walking, goes the Latin saying, and never was a truer word spoken.

Walking is an excellent means to de-stress yourself, to re-energise, to stretch, tone and relax, to acquire poise and focus, and indeed, activate the natural healing energies within yourself. A Zen master was asked, “What is the Tao?”. “Walk on”, he replied. The human body is the ultimate exercise machine, and walking is the easiest, cheapest and safest way to burn away the harmful effects of stress and to bring back energy into your life. People often say to me “But where do I begin?”. Well, you just have to step out of home, go for a walk to the nearest park, or walk around the block. How far you go, or how fast you walk is not relevant. The important thing is to begin.

Here are some basic steps to follow:

· Poor posture is more often than not the culprit behind many a body problem. It saps our body of vitality and puts a stress on all our vital organs. So first off, think tall. Imagine that someone has run a string through you and is gently pulling you upwards. When you walk, keep your back straight, pull in your stomach and tuck in your buttocks. Your shoulders should be pulled gently back, but relaxed, your eyes looking forward.
· “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got the swing”, went an old Irving Mills song. This is true of walking too. Walk tall from your heel upwards. Have a smooth, rolling heel-to-toe motion. Lengthen your stride to as much as is comfortable. Swing your arms in opposite motion. Remember the mantra “heel-toe… heel-toe… heel-toe”!
· If you can afford it, invest in an iPod or a mobile phone which can play music. Music adds rhythm, energy and tempo to the walk. Mix the musical pieces to change your stride. However, remember that headphones may block out sounds of traffic and other dangers on the road. Be careful not to use earphones when walking late evening, or in lonely spots as it may make you unmindful of strangers with bad intent.
· Oxygen is free! Use as much as you can. Energise your walks by gradually increasing the speed. Remember, the speed should not be so high as to spoil your natural rhythm. Walk several paces at normal speed, then pick up speed and gradually reduce speed again. This helps prevent injuries such as pulled muscles. Do not push yourself too hard. A good test to see if you are going too fast: can you have a conversation without getting out of breath.
· Your feet carry all your weight. Be kind to them. Buy yourself a good, comfortable pair of shoes. My personal trick for testing comfort is to buy shoes at the end of a day. You see, by evening, feet are tired and sometimes gently swollen. When you try a new pair, always check whether there is enough space around the toes. Don’t fall for sales talk which tells you about how shoes will stretch – they never do! If a shoe is not comfortable, it’s not for you.
· Don’t let walking become a chore. “Roamertherapy” is a great way to live a quieter, simpler life. If you have children, or a dog, take them on any weekend for an impromptu walk to a scenic spot. Let Nature work its magic on you, stand and stare, climb up, down, just stand and stare. This does not have to always be about achievement, just about slowly savouring peace and beauty.
· I also love ‘’walktalk’’ therapy. In troubled times, it is great to go for a walk with a friend. A walk in the woods, or by the sea, or just about anywhere all the while talking away your troubles can be better than expensive therapy, or drowning your sorrows in alcohol or drugs! Take your partner, your children or a friend out for a walk – and watch your depression evaporate.
· Weather or not, just walk! Don’t let the extremes of weather faze you. Observe the changes of the season and prepare accordingly. In summer, set your alarm for early and enjoy the early-morning coolness before heat sets in. Wear light-coloured cotton clothes which reflect the heat. In winter, cover up your extremities and wear light layers which you can add or remove. Follow your inner light. Ignore negative self-talk which says “It’s so much better to catch those 15 minutes of extra sleep”, or “why go out into the cold when you can be comfy at home?”
· I love walking meditation. The idea is to nurture mindfulness and self-awareness. Savour the sights and sounds around you. Open your mind to a beautiful sunrise, to the chirping of birds, to the laughter of children. Consciously empty your mind of all thoughts, focusing only on your stride, your rhythm and on your breathing. Count your paces if you find it hard to focus. Breathe in and out at each pace. If your mind wanders, let it do so. Allow thoughts to come in, welcome their presence, then let them go. Bring your thoughts back to the number of paces you have covered.

W We lead sluggish lives most of the time. We think that working a lot, or simply rushing about from place to place equals activity. The truth is that our heart rarely gets to pump hard. Oxygen rarely courses through us they way it ought to – making us feel alive, energetic and vital. But exercise can change all that. Walking can change all that!

T The beauty lies in simply walking without bothering about destinations or goals. Thich Nhat Hanh says “Your steps are the most important thing.” Forget about removing stress, losing weight, finding energy or any of those things. The important thing is to simply focus on your steps. Take one little step at a time, whether on your walk, or in your life.

And you will see – solvitur ambulando!

Through the silence shines a stretching light-

2010-10-12T10:42:00.001+05:30

Living in Shimla, one often takes this humble bush for granted. For all of Septmeber and now, when e are well into October, this pretty blue plant is dotting the road-sides, clinging to hill-sides, creating a veritable sea of blue in the woods. At first glance, I thought these were gentians. But my favourite website on flowers Flowers of India clarifies that this is not so.

These flowers actually bleong to the blue trumpet bush, also known as strobilanthes tomentosa. I've seen it grow in the woody, partially-lit slopes of the Sheogh woods, in Chaura Maidan and also near the United Service Club on Jakhoo Hill. It grows up to almost four feet in height. The leaves appeared very interesting: dark green on top and white on the underside.

The flower, as you can see in the picture, is shaped like a trumpet and stands at a 90-degree angle to its stem. It has a narrow tube which widens a little as it goes upward, finally opening into five round petals.

What a joyous aspect: little trumpets of bright blue, silently blowing the last clarion call of spring even as it is over and autumn steals upon us quietly, with a red melancholy....

The sight of these flowers brought to mind that wonderful Mary Oliver poem:

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It was what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking,

about the exceptional.

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant -

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these -

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean's shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

The pedigree of Honey, Does not concern the Bee.

2010-10-11T11:31:00.000+05:30

I love Emily Dickinson and am proud to share with her a love of nature and an excessive fondness for bees! Yesterday, while walking in the woods, I came across so many burly dozing ones, honey-heavy, bees fluttering from flower to flower, truly justifying the metaphor busy as a bee. I love the sight of a bee, how cleverly it suspends itself mid-air, its gossamer-thin wings supporting the weight of its body, greedily sipping nectar from a flower and yet never ever trampling the petals or crushing the aroma.... Emerson calls the bee a "zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer". Truly, he's a sailor of the atmosphere, sailing through the air and a yellow-breeched philosopher....

His labour is a Chant —

His Idleness — A Tune

Oh, for a Bee's Experience

Of Clovers, and of Noon!

The Bee is not afraid of me.

I know the Butterfly.

The pretty people in the Woods

receive me cordially!

And then there is that wonderful haiku by the master himself - Matsuo Basho:

A bee
staggers out
of the peony.

The Shimla Class

2010-10-03T07:38:00.001+05:30

Next in the series of guest posts on Shimla Gallimaufry is one by Varsha.

Varsha writes a superb, deeply knowledgeable and really useful blog titled Wholesome Options. From Varsha, I have learnt to look at wellness as a way of life, learnt that healthy habits and fitness can be incorporated in daily life without any sacrifice or extra effort. Aside of being a full-time mother and wife, a wellness guru and a fitness maniac, Varsha also takes a wonderful Poetic Break from her bureaucratic life every now and then. She speaks here of lessons learnt from our common love, Shimla:

The Shimla Class

Hills have a way of teaching you to slow down.

Of drawing you in the web of alluring sunsets, sun-dappled valleys and mist draped mountains. Of using that oldest means of transportation – your legs. And escaping at least partly from the whizzing world of honking cars and seething road-rage.

When I recall my Shimla days my best memories are about nature.

I was living with a bunch of strong-willed and rambunctious colleagues in extremely cramped quarters. Tempers frequently got frayed and patience wore thin. Walks were a way of escape-getting away from it all- initially. They became a balm and an addiction soon. A way of tucking in the splendid perfection of the Himalayas in different seasons and moods.

What did I learn in the Shimla Class (presided over by the old man Himalayas)?

Putting things in perspective.

I was incredibly lucky to be able to see the glorious Himalayas from my window on waking up each morning,

They always overwhelmed me. They gently reminded me everyday that I was not that important, my petty problems were not that important, nor were the shiny trophies of the rat race that important. The mountains would stand there even if the damned deadline was not met or if I did not ace some silly test.

The art of Appreciating beauty.

In Shimla, it was so easy to meet the perfect creamy rose-bud or a round, plump wild strawberry, a sudden stream bubbling after the rains, an old friendly tree, clad one fine day in magnificent bloom, a spectacular evening live show of the thrust and parry of the dying sunset and the ascending night. One had to stand and savour it reverentially. I learnt that when you see perfection – you must acknowledge it.

When we move in the bubbles of our own self-importance and obsessions, we become far too busy and blind to beauty around us. We must open our eyes, see it and savour it.

The art of inner Quiet.

Shimla also taught me to have a holy communion with nature. To get away from the noise around me I needed an inner quiet. I learnt being quiet with myself, by myself, for myself.

The art of appreciating History around you.

Any walk around Shimla is full of heritage and History. One keeps coming across rambling cottages with quaint names and distinguished ex-residents. There are majestic buildings scattered over the place. Steeped with tales of a faded era and set against the backdrop of the timeless Himalayas these gems of a bygone age taught me to appreciate History as well as the blip that my small lifetime is in it all.

Let prayer be fire: admire, re-light, relate, regain.

2010-10-02T19:38:00.001+05:30

Victor Hugo once observed that certain thoughts are prayers. There are certain moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees. Today, gentle reader, your blogger turned another year older. Today, I'm praying. Not asking, merely expressing a longing of the soul. Making candid demands of The One Above that I usually don't, when I pray.

The following lines are from M. M. Kaye's "Far Pavilions". This is a prayer uttered by Ash as he looks at Door Khaima, the mountain peaks at a distance which give him solace and hope and heart's ease:

"Oh Lord, forgive these sins that are due to my human limitations.

Thou art everywhere, but I worship Thee here;

Thou art without form, but I worship Thee in this form;

Thou needest no praise, yet I offer Thee these prayers and salutations.

Lord, forgive my sins that are due to my human limitations."

For Asha to have a safe journey free of worries.

For Phil to recover her health completely.

For Hannah, success in her interview.

For Prabha, heart's ease.

For A, a visa.

For Ranjani, the time to do the things she wants to.

For Varsha to have intelligent and sensible people around her.

For Naheed, also a visa.

For Rani, peace and good health.

For Varun, success in all he does.

For H, resolution and closure.

For Chinu and Gunjan, success and peace.

For all my family and my friends whom I haven't named here: contentment, good health, joy and abundance.

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze, a dreamy day

2010-09-19T22:13:00.001+05:30

Small, shapeless drifts of cloud

Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky,

With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright,

By the late sun caressed; slight hazes shroud

All things afar; shineth each leaf anigh

With its own warmth and light.

O'erblown by Southland airs,

The summer landscape basks in utter peace:

In lazy streams the lazy clouds are seen;

Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut squares

Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze,

With shifting shade and sheen.

Hark! and you may not hear

A sound less soothing than the rustle cool

Of swaying leaves, the steady wiry drone

Of unseen crickets, sudden chirpings clear

Of happy birds, the tinkle of the pool,

Chafed by a single stone.

What vague, delicious dreams,

Born of this golden hour of afternoon,

And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss,

Transpierced like yonder clouds with lustrous gleams,

Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them, spun

Of gilded nothingness!

All things are well with her.

'T is good to be alive, to see the light

That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh

With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes stir

Among the garden roses, red and white,

With whiffs of fragrancy.

There is no troublous thought,

No painful memory, no grave regret,

To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour:

The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without,

Forgetting grief as sunset skies forget

The morning's transient shower.

Emma Lazarus

Bring the pure wine of love and freedom.

2010-09-14T15:58:00.001+05:30

I sipped some of love's sweet wine,

and now I am ill. My body aches,

my fever is high.

They called in the doctor and he said,

drink this tea!

Ok, time to drink this tea.

He said, Take these pills!

Ok, time to take these pills.

The doctor said,

And get rid of the sweet wine of love's lips!

Ok, time to get rid of the doctor.

~ Jalaluddin Rumi ~

The powerful, fortress'd house...

2010-09-14T11:20:00.001+05:30

Gondhla is a pretty little, topsy-turvy village located on the banks of the River Chandra. About 18 kilometres along the way from Keylong to Manali, crane your neck out from the window of your bus or car, and you will spot this gorgeous fort considerably off the right side of the road.

A rugged pile, you notice the timber-bonded pattern which is typical of Himachal's forts and castles. Penelope Chetwode observed that this structure was common to both sacred as well as secular buildings. Stone and timber alternate in layers in these walls and are held together by clay. Experts say that it is this style which protected the tall edifices from seismic shocks. Apparently, the absence of mortar between the dressed stone, according to Chetwode, allowed the walls the chance to quiver with the quake instead of opposing the earthquake's movements. What a simple, yet ingenuous solution!

Displaying another typical feature of Himachali forts, a wooden gallery runs around the top floor. I am guessing that this would have served the local ruler to conduct public audience, though what he would have actually heard of his people's grievances is anybody's guess! Certainly, the height of this lovely old building inspires a sense of awe. The very act of craning one's neck upwards makes one aware of one's small size in relation to the fortress.

There are wonderful little windows with intricate bars across them. Great for looking out, but impossible to look into. I am sure they would have served the women who lived there well, considering how little airing women of royal families got in those days! The wooden frames of the windows are delicately carved with geometric and floral motifs.

The related page of the Lahaul & Spiti District Administration describes the interiors and its wonderful contents. But the sad fact is that in the middle of 2010, my friend SdS and I found rubble all around the fort, the main door locked with masonry fallen over it. Bits of the little "kharokhas" - the little wooden balconies projecting out of the windows - have crumbled, the wood eaten away by termites and by the ravages of weather. Parts of the roof and the top room are also falling away. It is tragic that this wonderful heritage of our state crumbles away before our eyes and all we can do is mourn its passing.

Through this blog, I appeal to anyone who is reading to suggest a way. If nothing, maybe we should petition the Government to protect this building which is, by sarkari accounts, over four hundred years old.

Poetry is a matter of life, not just a matter of language.

2010-09-10T20:46:00.014+05:30

"An empty mind is the devil's workshop", I have been repeatedly told since I was a child. Yet, it was on one of those very empty evenings that it struck me that I could invite a friend, or maybe even three friends to write a guest post. The one thing that I love about my friends, whom you shall meet by and by, gentle reader, is that they are always game for an adventure. This is Part 1 of that enterprise.

I've known Asha for longer than I care to remember. She breezed into my life and stayed back as my rock, my sounding board, and the shoulder on which I would cry on countless times.

Asha is an expert trainer and has worked with some of the world's biggest corporations. Deeply interested in issues relating to the development of self, she writes a wonderfully thought-provoking blog called Self Leadership. In her blog, she manages to raise issues that we all need to ponder on, but about which we rarely stop to think systematically.

However, here on my blog, she writes not on leadership or decisions or self-awareness, but moves to our common love, poetry. Her thoughts are placed below:

Let me start off by saying that poetry is not one of my current ‘can-dos’. Would I like to compose poetry? Yes! Have I attempted it? No! Having said that, I love reading poetry and one volume that I’ve perused a few times ia ‘Ariake’ – a collection of poems of love and longing by the women courtiers of Japan.

The foreword by Lisa Dalby summarises ‘Ariake’ as follows: “Ariake or ‘the waning moon at dawn’ was an image associated foremost with love in the ancient courts of Japan. Few societies integrated poetry into daily life as devotedly as the court of Japan’s Heian era (A.D. 794 – 1192). The most renowned poets of this era were women. They were passionate and demonstrative – a far cry from the typical portraits of passive objects of desire drawn by Westerners.”

A few samples from this rather fascinating collection!

Were you a string of beads

I would wind you about my arm,

But since you are a man

Of the actual, mortal world,

You are hard in the winding.

~ The Elder Maiden of the Otomo of Sakanoue ~

Look at this keepsake

And remember me, my love;

All the gem-bright year,

Long as its thread of shining days,

I too shall think of you.

~ Lady Kasa ~

As night succeeds night,

I seek in vain to decide

Where my pillow should go.

How did I sleep on the night

When you appeared in my dream?

~ Anonymous ~

My favourite Indian poet is Sahir Ludhianvi. A deeply passionate man, he lived and died a tortured soul. A genius with words, he demonstrated how a lot could be said with very few words. There are so many of his poems I love, and here is one of them.

Maine jo geet tere pyar ki khatir likhe

Aaj un geeton ko bazaar mein le aaya hoon

Aaj dukan mein neelam uthega unka

Tu ne jin geeton pe rakhi thi mohabbat ki asaas

Aaj chandi ki taraazu mein tulegi har cheez

Mere afkaar, meri shaayari, mera ehsaas

Jo teri zaatse mansoob the un geeton ko

Muflisi jins banaane pe uthar aayi hai

Bhookh, tere rookh-e-rangeen ke fasaano ke ivaz

Chand ashiya-e-zaroorat ki tamannai hai

Dekh is arsaagahe-mehnaton-sarmaaya mein

Mere naghme bhi mere paas nahin reh sakte

Tere jalve kisi zardaar ki meeras sahi

Tere khaake bhi mer paas nahin reh sakte

Aaj un geeton ko bazaar mein le aaya hoon

Maine jo geet tere pyar ki khatir likhe

Last but not the least is a piece from Harold Monro on ‘Solitude’. I know Geetali has done a post on ‘Solitude’ earlier. I picked this out of An Anthology of Modern Verse that was gifted by my friend Irene Hawkins. If you ever come across this post my friend, know that you are in my mind and that I miss you.

When you have tidied all things for the night,

And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,

You’ll pause a moment in the late firelight,

Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood

In sympathetic silence all the day

With that old kindness of domestic wood;

Nevertheless the haunted room will say:

“Some one must be away”.

The little dog rolls over half awake,

Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,

Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,

That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor

Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door;

Silence is scattered like a broken glass.

The minutes prick their ears and run about,

Then one by one subside again and pass

Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear.

Solitude walks one heavy step more near.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

2010-09-09T23:18:00.008+05:30

What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream! --

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, -- act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~

Small, contained, fragile, intent.

2010-09-03T16:29:00.003+05:30

That is how I would describe my friend the snail, met in a leaf in Sheogh.

And on seeing her, I was reminded of this John Bunyan poem:

She goes but softly, but she goeth sure,

She stumbles not, as stronger creatures do.

Her journey's shorter, so she may endure

Better than they ehich do much farther go.

She makes no noise, but stilly seizeth on

The flower or herb appointed for her food,

That which she quietly doth feed upon

While others range and glare, but find no good.

And though she doth but very softly go,

However, 'tis not fast nor slow, but sure;

And certainly they that do travel so,

The prize they do aim at they do procure.

For through my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell.

2010-08-23T07:59:00.004+05:30

Those of you live in Shimla, or have visited it will have no trouble recognising this place: the Barista on the Mall.

How many friends have we met in this our most favourite of watering-holes in our little town? How many cups of cappuccino, hot chocolate and ginger tea did we down while waiting for someone to arrive, or someone else to leave before we could get cracking with the important business at hand: of catching up with friends? How many happy moments have we had doing the one thing our town excels at and which the world, in its hurry to win the rat race has forgotten, watching the world go by?

From here we gathered important tid-bits of what went on in town. Here we sat and wrote post-cards to people in a faraway places. Here it was that we read a book desultorily. This was the perfect place when you wanted to be alone but not alone. You need not have anyone sitting at your table: it was enough that there were people around: giving you that semblance of company without actually intruding. Barista was the pits-top before you walked on your way across town.

It was here that you first nodded to someone you had seen as a fellow Barista-addict. It was not about the coffee. It was never about the coffee! It was here that nodding acquaintance turned into introductions and sometimes, serendipitously, into firm friendship. It was here you escaped for a quick respite when the goings of the day got much and you needed a friendly face to smile at or a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. This was the place you headed to when you wanted to meet someone but felt too lazy to walk to wherever it was that they lived and the sentiment was reciprocated. It was here that you did the Peyton Place thing" "Hmm, did you see who is walking with who?"!

As a Bombayite, you understood the commercial maxim of ''location, location, location". Yet it was not just that. It was a whole package of friendliness, openness and warmth that brought people back over and over again.

Oasis. Asylum. Hideaway. Resting place. Retreat. Watering hole. Barista, you were many things to many people.

They say all good things must come to an end. And so it will be with Barista. Going by yet unconfirmed information (only about the date, not the event itself), as on November, this most friendly of coffee-shops will be downing its shutters. Its place will be taken, we are told, by some international clothing chain, selling stuff that we in Shimla neither patronise nor need, but such is the way of all flesh....

Farewell, dear little place. We shall miss you.

Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed...

2010-08-21T19:13:00.006+05:30

The road which leads from Bairagarh to Satrundi and onwards to Sach Pass in Himachal's Chamba district is a truly magical one. Early morning mist renders the scenery like a scene out of a Basho haiku. Other times, it feels like an expertly-etched sumi-e painting.

The velvety grey of the sky is relieved by the chartreuse, the moss, the viridian and the beryl of the trees which line both sides and dot the hillside. The true delight for me came from the innumerable species of wild flowers which spring up in the rainy season.

I spotted a blue poppy!

Flowers of the meconopsis genus of the Papaveraceae species are often mistakenly lumped by the common name of blue Himalayan poppy. However, like the holy Roman empire which was neither holy, nor Roman, nor completely an empire, a blue Himalayan poppy is not always blue and certainly not found in the Himalayas alone.

The one that I found would probably fall in the meconopsis acculeata category, being the only one of its family to be found at such a high altitude. Legend has it that the legendary climber Mallory first spotted it in Bhutan and carried a plant back to the United Kingdom after his famous failed attempt to climb the Mount Everest. It is therefore appropriate to mention that this is the national flower of Bhutan.

The genus comprises of 45 to 50 known species and almost all are native to the Himalayan region. Some may occur in lower but nonetheless montane altitudes. They are found from central Nepal to the Tibetan plateau, from China to Kashmir and Himachal Pradesh.

The flowers were about 5 to 7 centimetres across, with four almost rounded petals. I found the golden yellow stamen-filaments to be a wonderful contrast to the pale blue petals. The petals were paper thin, water seemed to run off them speedily, which was just as well, considering how heavily it rains in the Pangi region. The leaves (not visible in these photographs) grow in a sort of rosette, and are widely-spaced and pinnate in shape. The stem of this herbaceous perennial has bristly hair. The blue poppy was found growing in well-drained, but sunny spots and rocky crevices.

This wonderful, show-stopper of a flower is commonly known as Vanita (वनिता) in Hindi and as gul-e-neelam ( गुल-ए-नीलम) in Urdu. So rare has it become that I feel it was a divine blessing to have been able to see it with my own eyes.

Loneliness is solitude with a problem!

2010-08-17T19:21:00.004+05:30

I have in the past written on solitude. I have treated mine, as Collette says, like "heady wine". Octavio Paz sums it up so well when he says "Solitude is the profoundest fact of human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone". I have found my mind to sharper and keener when subjected to uninterrupted solitude. And I love Sandburg for saying that solitude is creative if you are strong, for that's what has been revealed to me!

Today, I came across a gem of a video made by Andrea Dorfman based on a wonderful piece written by Tanya Davis. I hope I am not infringing any copyright laws by posting this video, but it is just too beautiful not to be shared. It is called "How To Be Alone".

The text is placed below the video.

If you are at first lonely, be patient.

If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.

We can start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library, where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books; you’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.

There is also the gym, if you’re shy, you can hang out with yourself and mirrors, you can put headphones in.

Then there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there’s prayer and mediation, no one will think less if your hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously avoided based on your avoid being alone principles.

The lunch counter, where you will be surrounded by “chow downers”, employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town, and they, like you, will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with “eat lunch and run”, take yourself out for dinner; a restaurant with linen and Silverware. You’re no less an intriguing a person when you are eating solo desert and cleaning the whip cream from the dish with your finger. In fact, some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it’s dark and soothing, alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then take yourself out dancing, to a club where no one knows you, stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching because they’re probably not. And if they are, assume it is with best human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats, is after-all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating. And beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things. Down your back, like a book of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you. Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, they are always statues to talk to, and benches made for sitting gives strangers a shared existence if only for a minute, and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversation you get in by sitting alone on benches, might of never happened had you not been there by yourself.

Society is afraid of alone though. Like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements. Like people must have problems if after awhile nobody is dating them.

But lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.

You can stand swathed by groups and mobs or hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company.

But no one is in your head. And by the time you translate your thoughts an essence of them maybe lost or perhaps it is just kept. Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those “sappy slogans” from pre-school over to high school groaning, we’re tokens for holding the lonely at bay.

Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.

It’s okay if no one believes like you, all experiences unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relived, keeps things interesting, life’s magic things in reach, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected, and the community is not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it.

Take silence and respect it.

If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it, if your family doesn’t get you or a religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you need it.

If your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

~ Tanya Davis ~

There is flattery in friendship.

2010-08-15T22:02:00.002+05:30

Not my words, this is what the Bard observed.

So this post is not about Shimla, or about its author whose not-so-occasional rambles readers have been so tolerant of. I just want to talk about my friends and the wonderful ideas they're thinking up and sharing with the world. Here they are:

Meet SdS, she writes a great little blog Grant Me Bookshelves. Book-mad noone quite reads books the way she does, her perspective is always amazing and her impressions and insights deep and astounding.

Asha has only just begun to work on Self Leadership. I look forward to being with her on this journey of examining beliefs and values related to leadership.

Autar Mota is a deeply sensitive, poetic soul. His photographs and words on Chinar Shade sear the reader and leave you numb and joyous by turn.

Imran's a seeker. He may choose to describe himself differently, but I am yet to come across a person like him who combines his sense of adventure with his spirituality with such grace and felicity. Imran's pictures, worth more than a thousand words can be seen on his photoblog Imran The Trekker on Flickr.

Ranjani has been a healer and empath for as long as I can remember. In her blog Reiki Rhapsody, Ranjani is trying to help us, her readers, regain and hold on to the precious rhythm of life through music.

Kaushik is young. His perspective, fresh and innocent like his mind. Looking at his photographs, I just know it in my bones that this young lad will go very far in life.

Vinayak's take on things, like his blog At The Edge, is sharp and sapient. Just when my ideas begin to feel stale, I go look at his blog and am blown away once again.

GP is witty, wicked and utterly irreverent. I totally wouldn't like to be at the receiving end of the bon mots he comes with on Noise Of India which claims to, and succeeds in, "putting the mock back in democracy".

Varsha is my wellness Guru. Through her blog, Wholesome Options, as also through fortuitous personal acquaintance, I have picked many easy tips and tricks and have had many a health myth shattered.

Thank you, each one of you, for sharing your perspectives and insights. My life, as indeed that of all those who visit your blogs, is richer because of you.

That foolish fort, a heart...

2010-08-14T11:59:00.008+05:30

Some of the best things in life happen unexpectedly. SdS and I had wandered up into the polychromatic gompa at Ghemur. It was one of those days you just know will be magical. You just don't know how... The sun had been playing hide and seek and shadows of the clouds overhead dappled the mountainsides. The monastery was closed and all the Lamas had left for Khardang where they were celebrating special prayers.

But an unpredicted bonus awaited us in the form of a little old man. We met Nyema Dhondup. By having wandered around the gompa open-mouthed and ooh-ed and aah-ed over an amazing collection of carvings on stone which represented various incarnations of Buddha, somehow, SdS and I had managed to unbend the old gentleman. "Would you like to see a fort?", he asked. Being old hands at fort-spotting, yes, yes, we almost babbled in excitement. Follow me, he said.

So up, up, up we went. This was a narrow overgrown path, leading up from Ghemur. Thick bushes of primroses, harebells and buttercups leaned onto it. We were out of breath in no time at all. But could not decide: was it the steep climb? The sheer variety, colour and fragrance of the wild flowers? Or the stunning vistas all around? It was hard not to fall to one's knees and thank the Almighty for letting us be here.

We followed a village trail. Women were bent over, harvesting peas. A man lazily chewed a stick of grass. A big brown cow looked up inquiringly from its grazing. The narrow mountain path had abruptly widened into a valley, sometimes skirting the river Chandra, other times going farther afield from it.

There, rising towards the mountains, with lines as straight and precise as to gladden an engineer's heart, lay the stupendous fort of Khangsar. The shape of fort makes an enchanting vision: its glacis into the river below counterpoised by its linearity. The solitude of the scenery was unbroken, except for a tier of house here and a chain of chortens there.

Made of mud and wood, its walls smoothened by age, it sat in the midst of the little village like an old soldier, tired and resting after a long war. The thing I love most about old structures, particularly those made natural materials is their colours: chestnut, terracotta, auburn, sorrel, ochre, puce, ginger, burnt sienna... they are a delight of browns!

The inside of the fort is every bit as awe-inspiring as the ramparts viewed externally. It is hard to tell from outside that this little building contains one hundred and eight rooms. Interestingly, all rooms are built around a sort of atrium. However, unlike the classical atrium design, the roof does not open into the sky, or is covered with glass. It is just a normal roof, covered with mud and thatch and wood. There were, however, a number of small windows which let in a sufficient quantity of light.

To me, the most interesting aspect of the fort were the little well-like structures in each room. You will notice one in the photograph above. It is a small square arrangement with wooden slats all around, perhaps to prevent the curious from falling in! The interesting thing is that looking down you find yourself staring into a giant kitchen. In the old days, big fires were lit in the cooking area. These were used not only for cooking, but also for heating water. More importantly, following the well known theory of physics, the warm air rose and managed to warm the entire castle. What an ingenuous system!

Ask me about the one feature that struck me about the Khangsar fort, and I will say it was the carving on the wood. The patterns were incredibly delicate, so finely-wrought in their detail. It is like seeing lace on wood. The motifs, interestingly, find resonance in many gompas around Lahaul. The dragons, the inverted flower buds, the lotuses, the waves and the pearls in flames. You also notice the typical and incredibly lovely chequered pattern hewed out of the wood and then embellished in bright cobalt blues and forest greens.

Entering the sanctum sanctorum of the fort, one finds the usual spot designated for the deities of the family. Now here is an intriguing aspect. An ageing sepia photograph reveals the Rana to be a gentleman of distinctively Indian features. He looks as though he could belong to anywhere in Himachal and is probably a Hindu. His face is unlike the people he would have ruled, whose features are Monogoloid.

Juxtaposed with this is the fact that the area of worship is completely Buddhist - whether it is the religious texts, swaddled in colourful silk, the deities, mainly Avalokiteswara and Padmasambhava, and all other accoutrements of devotion: the offering bowls, the butter lamps, the prayer wheels, the drilbu (the bell, rung during prayer), the kapala (in this case the skull was that of a goat!) and the dorje, the small sceptre which represents Buddha's compassion.

The little fort, standing up valiantly against the rampage of weather and time, betokens an age of grace, of tolerance and a culture that was urbane while existing happily in the midst of wilderness. The deliciously straight lines, the sumptuous colours, the projecting terraces topped with a pillar in turn embellished with rams' horns. One never gets tired of uttering exclamations of joy!

Dogs got personality. Personality goes a long way.

2010-08-11T08:59:00.005+05:30

I have loved dogs for as long as I can remember. Couldn't have been otherwise, since this is a genetic predisposition, inherited from dog-mad parental units, one of whom has the penchant for kissing any dogs which happen to cross her path and bringing waifs home ever so often.

Unlike cats, dogs aren't narcissists. You won't find a dog wasting time grooming himself. He would rather roll in dead fish, and emerge - like Botticelli's Venus - with a triumphant grin and a distinctly ripe air. I could swear there are dogs which lie awake at night thinking up good deeds to do the next day! They just want to please! Call a dog, and it will run to you helter-skelter, even at the risk of breaking its own neck. Call a cat and what you will get is a look which says "What's in it for me?" I like dogs because, like humans, they understand ladder-like social arrangements. Cats, on the other hand, see themselves as the hub surrounded by spokes of human minions, all reluctantly acknowledging the superiority of the despot!

I find the first encounters between dogs highly entertaining. These are thrilling and pregnant with possibility. There is a curiosity, tempered by constraint. An atavistic canniness stops them fro going utterly overboard even at the whiff of future friendship. The mutual reluctance to pass each other is amusing to watch.

Shimla's strays have afforded me the opportunity of petting and playing with dogs at a time when I am, thanks to my itinerant habits, unable to keep a pet. They have given me the warm affection of close acquaintance which stops short of a familial relationship. Shorn of any mutual responsibility, our meetings are joyous, but free of expectation. If only these could be replicated with some two-legged creatures I know!

By this merit may all attain omniscience. May it defeat the enemy, wrongdoing.

2010-08-08T15:42:00.007+05:30

Wander anywhere up, down and around the Himalayas and you are bound to come across wonderful domed structures, made sometimes of clay and wood, at other times of concrete. These wonderful representations of piety called chortens or stupas dot the entire stretch from Himachal in the West, right up to Nepal, Burma and beyond to Thailand. Southwards, you find them in Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra and in Sri Lanka. It is interesting to note how these, while retaining the fundamental shape and elements of structure, have acquired variations on the theme in different parts of the world. I am not going to make an exposition on the chortens of the world here, but merely share pictures of some I've seen in the wonderful state of Himachal Pradesh.

Khangsar, Keylong.

Gemur gompa, Keylong.

In Sanskrit, ''stupa'' is used to designate a top-knot, one that is created when hair is gathered on top of one's head. This Wikipedia article gives us an interesting and detailed explanation of what chortens or stupas symbolise.

Khardang, Lahaul.

Shashur, Keylong.

A chorten is a sort of equivalent of a reliquary of the Catholic faith, developed from pre-Buddhist grave mounds, serving as the final resting place for saints. These eventually became destinations for pilgrimage, or at the very least, places of worship or meditation.

Pilgrims and travellers circumnambulate chortens as form of respect and devotion. According to my friend Nyema Dhondup, movement along the circular path (Tib. kora) is clockwise, so that the right shoulder is always facing the monument.

Gondhla, District Lahaul

Gemur, near Keylong.

The basic structure of chorten consists of a square base which symbolises the earth; the dome symbolises water; the tapering steps (13 in number) are meant to symbolise fire. These lead up to a sort of stylised furled parasol which represents the wind, topped by a twin symbol of the sun and moon. Made of mud, wood and butter, the perishability of the materials used is meant to symbolise the illusory nature of all objects, including those considered sacred.

Shansha, District Lahaul.

Tayul, District Lahaul

Chortens are revered because they represent Dharma, the body, mind and speech of Lord Buddha. As such, they act as a reminder to all passers-by that they are on the path of enlightement. The structural design of the chorten also asks us our eyes to travel from the base to the dramatic image of the sun and moon at the very top - a reminder of the need to travel from this base existence to a state of enlightenment.

So the next time you pass one of these wonderful domed structures, don't forget to circumnavigate them clock-wise, asking for the well-being of all creatures living and dead.

The dew-drop carries in its eye, mountain and forest, sea and sky,

2010-08-07T23:32:00.002+05:30

Kobayashi Issa, the great haiku poet puts it so well:

"A world of dew is, yes,

a world of dew,

but even so"

Trusty, dusky, vivid, fleeting, the world globes itself in a drop of dew. It is impossible not to see a dew-drop and not melt at the sight. A row of stars threaded on a cobweb. A diamond shining on a petal. A pure circle expressing a greater heaven through its lambent light. A tear trembling in mournful glint.

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

~ Christina Rossetti ~

The motion of light, spills itself in astonished seed

2010-08-03T10:01:00.003+05:30

I dragged myself away from beloved Shimla recently. Favourite fellow-traveller and good friend SdS and I went gallivanting over the hills from Kangra to Chamba to Lahaul to Kullu. Over hill and dale, past many a waterfall, it was a marvellous journey. I leave it to SdS to tell that tale since she does it far far better than anyone else in our circle of acquaintance.

En route from Chamba to Lahaul falls that magical place called Pangi Valley. Its beauty deserves not just a blog post, but perhaps an entire book, and even so words will not ever be able to describe, nor any camera be able to really capture the bounty that Nature lays out before human eye.

SdS and I stopped innumerable times to smell the flowers, so to speak. For a flower-lover Pangi is a treasure trove, and more so in the monsoons when many rare flowers bloom for a short while only to disappear for a whole year until the rains arrive the next time.

Home

So, somewhere between Bairagarh and Satrundi, on a path unknown, this bright yellow bouquet caught my eye. Growing in a tight tuft, there was a cluster of leaves at the base of this plant. Its stem was delicate but erect. The flowers grew in an interesting, interlaced arrangement, as you can see above. They were about 2 to 2.5 cms in length including a spur that was half as long, growing straight or in a gentle downwar curve.

My vade mecum, Polunin and Stainton, tells me that the name of this plant is Corydalis govaniana Wall, Family fumariacaea. My entourage (which excludes SdS!) told me it is locally known as "bhutjata" "bhutakesi" or "bhutbishi". I also found this flower being referred to as "Govan's Fumitory".

A common alpine species, corydalis govaniana is usually found at a height of 2400m to 4800m on open slopes. Narain Singh Chauhan in his book "Medicinal and Aromatic Plants of Himachal Pradesh" says he has found these along places as disparate as Rohtang, Churdhar and Lahaul.

The leaves are radical, growing in a dense tuft and reminded me of those belonging to the marigold plant, or even coriander. They were clustered at the base of the plant. The stem arose from the centre of this bunch.

The root and juice of this plant have several uses. These range from the cure of dandruff to the use of the juice as a diuretic. Interestingly, I found citations in the US Food and Drug Administration daabase which state list Corydalis govaniana as a poisonous plant. (Ref: FDA #F05964, GRIN #11624). The Indian Journal of Experimental Biology also includes this plant in its acute toxicity data. Amazing, that a flower so beautiful should have beneficial powers and at the same time be so toxic!

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe... flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

2010-08-02T22:54:00.009+05:30

It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfilment.

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life
lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies
they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins
in their old age.

Soothing, old people should be, like apples
when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft
stillness and satisfaction of autumn.

And a girl should say:
It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! -

And a young man should think: By Jove
my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!

~ D H Lawrence ~

Prayer is the world in tune, A spirit-voice, and vocal joys, whose echo is Heaven's bliss.

2010-07-31T16:31:00.008+05:30

Of all duties, prayer certainly is the sweetest and most easy. A prayer sent from the heart's deep core is a sally of the soul into the unfound infinite. Prayer may be inaudible speech, bit it is necessarily a candid dialogue with that higher entity, it is an attempt to represent yourself, in order to go to the roots of action.

I love to give thanks in solitude. For me, it is wordless, and mainly takes the form of thanksgiving. Thanksgiving gives my prayer wings and it goes where it must go. My prayer knows much more about it than I do. I say my prayer without giving the Almighty reasons why he should grant this, or that; he knows best what is good for us.

Prayer is not necessarily sitting before an idol, or telling beads, or reciting shlokas... To pray is to pay attention to something or someone other than myself. Whenever I concentrate my attention something so that I completely forget my own ego and desires, I am praying.

Prayer

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf

Than that I may not disappoint myself,

That in my action I may soar as high

As I can now discern with this clear eye.

And next in value, which thy kindness lends,

That I may greatly disappoint my friends,

Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,

They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith

And my life practice what my tongue saith

That my low conduct may not show

Nor my relenting lines

That I thy purpose did not know

Or overrated thy designs.

Henry David Thoreau

Hope likes justification, but can do without.

2010-07-30T14:23:00.005+05:30

Ideas have been Gods for me. My consciousness a harmony of devotion to sanguine expectation. Hope, to me, has been that liar whose veracity I have never doubted even when belied. There have been times that I have despaired and, as the Bard says, "been at enmity with cozening hope". But such times have been few and far between, for I have found truth in what George Eliot says: "What we call our despiar in only the painful eagerness of unfed hope". The trick, I have found, is to confront suffering with hope. Hope triumphs every single time!

Hope has sometimes been fragile, and trembled like a harebell. Other times, it has been as solid as a rock and been my bulwark when all around me failure raged like a sea in storm. I have, however, refused to abandon what my friend HS calls my "pathological" belief in the occurrence of the impossible!

Here are some things which give me hope:

My faith, which is my anchor, my guide and the lantern which lights dark paths.

Children. Because they have two things in abundance: joy and a sense of wonder.

Dewdrops, which stand for all that is fragile and fast-disappearing and yet so essential in life.

Song of Hope

O sweet To-morrow! -

After to-day
There will away
This sense of sorrow.
Then let us borrow
Hope, for a gleaming
Soon will be streaming,
Dimmed by no gray -
No gray!

While the winds wing us
Sighs from The Gone,
Nearer to dawn
Minute-beats bring us;
When there will sing us
Larks of a glory
Waiting our story
Further anon -
Anon!

Doff the black token,
Don the red shoon,
Right and retune
Viol-strings broken;
Null the words spoken
In speeches of rueing,
The night cloud is hueing,
To-morrow shines soon -
Shines soon!

~ Thomas Hardy ~

Thousand feet of sparkling water -- the Milky Way pouring down from heaven.

2010-07-29T11:20:00.009+05:30

THE SEEKING OF THE WATERFALL

They left their home of summer ease

Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees,

To seek, by ways unknown to all,

The promise of the waterfall.

Some vague, faint rumor to the vale

Had crept--perchance a hunter's tale--

Of its wild mirth of waters lost

On the dark woods through which it tossed.

Somewhere it laughed and sang; somewhere

Whirled in mad dance its misty hair;

But who had raised its veil, or seen

The rainbow skirts of that Undine?

They sought it where the mountain brook

Its swift way to the valley took;

Along the rugged slope they climb,

Their guide a thread of sound and foam.

Height after height they slowly won;

The fiery javelins of the sun

Smote the bare ledge; the tangled shade

With rock and vine their steps delayed.

But, through leaf-openings, now and then

They saw the cheerful homes of men,

And the great mountains with their wall

Of misty purple girdling all.

The leaves through which the glad winds blew

Shared. the wild dance the waters knew;

And where the shadows deepest fell

The wood-thrush rang his silver bell.

Fringing the stream, at every turn

Swung low the waving fronds of fern;

From stony cleft and mossy sod

Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

And still the water sang the sweet,

Glad song that stirred its gliding feet,

And found in rock and root the keys

Of its beguiling melodies.

Beyond, above, its signals flew

Of tossing foam the birch-trees through;

Now seen, now lost, but baffling still

The weary seekers' slackening will.

Each called to each: 'Lo here! Lo there!

Its white scarf flutters in the air!'

They climbed anew; the vision fled,

To beckon higher overhead.

So toiled they up the mountain-slope

With faint and ever fainter hope;

With faint and fainter voice the brook

Still bade them listen, pause, and look.

Meanwhile below the day was done;

Above the tall peaks saw the sun

Sink, beam-shorn, to its misty set

Behind the hills of violet.

'Here ends our quest!' the seekers cried,

'The brook and rumor both have lied!

The phantom of a waterfall

Has led us at its beck and call.'

But one, with years grown wiser, said

'So, always baffled, not misled,

We follow where before us runs

The vision of the shining ones.

'Not where they seem their signals fly,

Their voices while we listen die;

We cannot keep, however fleet,

The quick time of their winged feet.

'From youth to age unresting stray

These kindly mockers in our way;

Yet lead they not, the baffling elves,

To something better than themselves?

'Here, though unreached the goal we sought,

Its own reward our toil has brought:

The winding water's sounding rush,

The long note of the hermit thrush,

'The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of pond

And river track, and, vast, beyond

Broad meadows belted round with pines,

The grand uplift of mountain lines!

'What matter though we seek with pain

The garden of the gods in vain,

If lured thereby we climb to greet

Some wayside blossom Eden-sweet?

'To seek is better than to gain,

The fond hope dies as we attain;

Life's fairest things are those which seem,

The best is that of which we dream.

'Then let us trust our waterfall

Still flashes down its rocky wall,

With rainbow crescent curved across

Its sunlit spray from moss to moss.

'And we, forgetful of our pain,

In thought shall seek it oft again;

Shall see this aster-blossomed sod,

This sunshine of the golden-rod,

'And haply gain, through parting boughs,

Grand glimpses of great mountain brows

Cloud-turbaned, and the sharp steel sheen

Of lakes deep set in valleys green.

'So failure wins; the consequence

Of loss becomes its recompense;

And evermore the end shall tell

The unreached ideal guided well.

'Our sweet illusions only die

Fulfilling love's sure prophecy;

And every wish for better things

An undreamed beauty nearer brings.

'For fate is servitor of love;

Desire and hope and longing prove

The secret of immortal youth,

And Nature cheats us into truth.

'O kind allurers, wisely sent,

Beguiling with benign intent,

Still move us, through divine unrest,

To seek the loveliest and the best!

'Go with us when our souls go free,

And, in the clear, white light to be,

Add unto Heaven's beatitude

The old delight of seeking good!'

~ John Greenleaf Whittier ~

The very form, the very scent, not heavy, not sensuous, but perilous perilous of orchids

2010-06-28T15:26:00.005+05:30

I've been meaning to make a post on orchids for a while now. Say the word and you get a range of intriguing reactions from people. It goes from outright delight and wonderment to sheer aversion. William Faulkner goes so far as to say "Nasty things. Their flesh is too much like the flesh of men, their perfume has the rotten sweetness of corruption."

Personally, I am enamoured by their complexity and diversity and above all, their cosmopolitanism! They appear in almost every sort of habitat you can think of. Excepting glaciers and deserts, of course. The largest number of species occurs in the tropics, but is followed closely by countries in the temperate region. Very few orchid-lovers know the startling fact that the number of orchid species is almost twice that of bird species and almost four times the mammal species.

In my hunt for orchids to photograph, I found interesting variation, which I'm going to illustrate in my deeply unscientific fashion. I found two whorls: an outer one with three sepals and an inner one with three petals. The upper medial petal appeared to be much more enlarged and modified, perhaps to aid pollination. There are three stamens whose filaments appeared fused or joined to my untrained eye.

Reading up about orchids, I cam across some interesting facts. Like the one that everyone's favourite flavour, vanilla, is an orchid genus. Or that orchids are used for making hot beverages, for flavouring ice cream and even rum! In Turkey, certain species of orchids are considered to have aphrodisiac powers.

Here in Shimla, I've found the prettiest orchids being grown by Shri Mela Ram Sharma for the Indian Institute of Advanced Study. My friend R's venerable father-in-law also grows gorgeous ones. Orchids which he's brought from Sikkim and Meghalaya and which, miraculously, survive the heat and humidity of Sunni.

For the detail-minded reader, some limited information:

Kingdom: Plantae

Order: Asparagales

Family: Orchidacaea

Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things

2010-06-16T21:42:00.006+05:30

My journey to Ani had been uneventful, bordering on the boring. For one thing, a road-block at Theog had forced me to back-track up to Basantpur and make a detour via Luhri which was hot, hot, hot. Ani itself was unspectacular, constructed along the highway, all it had to show for itself was a row of really unattractive shops. I couldn’t wait to move on to Khanag where the memorial plaque for Penelope Chetwode (I’ve written about this earlier) waited to be explored.

At the guesthouse, I bumped into some men who work for the Public Works Department. Anything interesting to be seen in these parts, I asked them. Well, there’s a little temple at Shamshar. Nothing great, you see. But it’s not bad. Considering that I’d been starved for any sort of cultural relief, I grabbed at this opportunity. The men were headed the same way and agreed to go with me to show me the temple.

I won’t go into a detailed description of the temple as is my wont. It was a typical Himachali temple: chalet and spaceship rolled into one, quaintly attractive, unobtrusive and tremendously colourful. There were two taller structures behind it. One squat, painted white and embellished with the most attractive wood carvings you ever saw. The second was built in the typical “dehra” style. A tall building topped off by a pagoda-style roof, painted in candy shades. This temple was draped with a huge rope whose diameter was thicker than my wrist. Idly, I asked one of the PWD men if Himachal had a tradition of people physically pulling the Gods’ chariots with these ropes. Oh, no, no, he said. And thereby hung a tale. I am going to recount it almost as he told me.

It is said that on the orders of his father Jamadagni, Parshurama had killed his mother Renuka. When asked what boon e would like for this act of extreme obedience, Parshurama begged his father to bring his mother back to life. However, he needed to expiate the sin of matricide, so he donated land to the Brahmins of Nirmand and deemed that a “yajna” every three years and “bhunda” (human sacrifice) every twelve years.

The person who offers himself as sacrificial victim is called “beda” and comes from a community of people which has, for generations, offered one of its members for this purpose. He is required to plait a rope over 500 metres long. This rope will play a very important role in the “bhunda” ceremony. During the fifteen days preceding the “bhunda” ceremony, the “beda” is fed and clothes at the expense of the temple and is associated closely with the goddess as he is no longer seen as one of the human race.

The rope the victim has plaited will be slung out over a cliff and the “victim” will have to slide down this rope. Should he be fortunate enough to survive this slide, his life is spared, but in the old times, death must have been a certainty. Hundreds of devout volunteers carry the rope which has been carefully plaited by the “beda” to the site where the “sliding ceremony” will take place. Meanhile, the “beda” is taken to the temple and formally dedicated to the goddess Ambika. Draped in a shroud, he is carried to the sacrificial site by other devotees. Weighed down by sacks filled with grain and/or sand, he is made to walk on the rope.

As I’ve said above, death is a certainty, but there is insurance for his widow. When the “beda” is dead, his widow is allowed to select any of the items she sets her sights on. Whatever she touches is hers that day. In this way, tradition ensures that she is not left destitute by the demise of her husband.

So important is this ceremony that Gods of neighbouring areas specially visit Shamshar in full ceremonial regalia. They are taken out in a procession their path lit by huge flaming torches. An interesting aside to this event is that a sacred water vessel belonging to Parshurama is brought out especially for this occasion. Water in this vessel is replenished by a sacred spring in the village. Legend has it that the spring appears only the year “bhunda” is held. It remains dry, indeed, invisible for the entire period when Parshurama is in retreat.

Once the ceremony is over, all ritual articles and the image of Parshurama are taken back to the shrine. The visitng Gods depart for their homes, taking with them the masses of curious, innocent villagers who had come to witness this unique ceremony; the massive doors are bolted, not to be opened for a further twelve years.

The memorial majesty of Time, Impersonated in thy calm decay

2010-06-16T12:28:00.007+05:30

I was travelling from Sojha to Banjar, when like my more famous travel predecessor, Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala, I decided to stop off at Bagi to check out the Shringi Rishi temple. I have repeated ad nauseum my dislike for the blatant and impious skullduggery that is Indian's temples. Shringi Rishi proved no different. Also, unlike Himachal's temples, the keepers of this one allow devotees to climb right into the sanctum sanctorum. What results is a lot of noise and typical filth carried in my human feet, and an all-pervading wretched fragrance which is a mix of human perspiration, cheap incense and decaying flowers.

Exeunt temple. It must have been an attractive one before it went commercial with a vengeance. Sitting outside was an old couple who watched my entry and speedy exit. Would you like to see a far more beautiful jewel, they asked. Of course I would, I replied, somewhat indignant that this pair of strangers should doubt the extent of my curiosity. Right then, you see that trail going up? Just follow it and you will see one of the most beautiful forts in all Himachal.

I am glad I listened to them, or I would have missed this nonpareil, this pearl of a ziggurat!

Chaihni is what Wordsworth would be delighted to call "a hoary pile". Not visible from the main road, this gorgeous castle is a couple of kilometres of walking at an almost 40-degree angle. The walk is breath-taking, and I do not say this with irony. For most part, you have a 360-degree view of dense evergreen forests and a patchwork of step-cultivated farms. Here and there, you come upon picturesque little barns with piles of golden, sweet-smelling hay, here an abandoned loom, there a curving path. This is a tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

It s not as though there is no toil or strife. But on the whole, a silence pervades. You feel that Nature breathes ease into the lives of those who live here in Chaihni, high up, in steadfast peace.

As you walk up, you are forced to tilt your head to look up at this gorgeous castle, standing there in all its sublime beauty, a picture of fortitude in the face of the ravages Time wreaks on men and material alike.

The fort is 125 feet tall. An architectural marvel of unknown age. Is it a temple, a watch-tower, or a citadel, it is hard to tell. Like forts and castles all over Himachal, in a sense, it is all three. It displays all the attractive features of timber-bonded stone topped off by a chalet-style wooden roof. A little ladder clings precipitously to one wall, the only tiny symbol of a pageantry this imposing hulk seeks to impose on its viewer.

As I've mentioned before, it is not possible for anyone to enter such an edifice, doubling up as it does for a citadel, temple, and village treasury. As luck would have it, I had met the priest or caretaker of the Chaihni fort on my walk up to the village. This kindly old man had, in the span of the thirty minutes it took for me to huff and puff up the hill, developed an amused interest in my antics. It was only logical, he said, that if the Gods had willed me to come thus far, that I should be allowed in the celestial presence. So off we went, up into the fort. The sight was magical and to this day, I do not know if I was giddy from the height or the idea that I was being allowed into the sacred space. But the way that roof rises to the sky in fatastic pride makes blood rush to the head...

The sight was a fascinating one. Gods piled upon Gods. Polished to a burnished gold. Decorated with flowers and Chinese-made baubles and doodads. Up here, the divinities appear content and amenable to being propitiated. The priest asks me if there's anything I want. And foolishly, like a beauty contest participant, I blurt out: world peace!

Go see Chaihni if you are travelling in the southern parts of Kullu. It will surpise and please you yet.

Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art...

2010-06-10T11:28:00.008+05:30

Still, still my eye will gaze long fixed on thee,

Till I forget that I am called a man,

And at thy side fast-rooted seem to be,

And the breeze comes my cheek with thine to fan,

Upon this craggy hill our life shall pass,

A life of summer days and summer joys,

Nodding our honey-bells mild pliant grass,

In which the bee half hid his time employs,

And here we'll drink with thirsty pores the rain,

And turn, dew-sprinkled, to the sun,

And look when in the flaming west again,

His orb across the heaven its path has run;

Here left in the darkness on the rocky steep,

My weary eyes shall close like folding flowers in sleep.

~ Jones Very ~

I spotted Columbines in the woods of Sheogh in June last year, thanks to Dr. Suresh Nair. This year, they were closer at hand in Sanjiv's lovely garden. In Sheogh, I found it growing in partial shade, whereas at Sanjiv's place, it grows in full sunlight. Its height in both places was about 15 to 20 inches. Sanjiv says the plant is partial to a well-drained soil, but is hardy enough not to require mulching or protection in the winter. She informs that she propagates it by seed.

Elegantly formed and coloured in shades of lilac, violet and white, this flower is very easy to distinguish because of its five backward projecting spurs of the inner petals. A row of inner and outer petals form the columbine, which grows at a 90-degree angle to its stem. The leaves appeared similar to ferns to my untrained eye.

The botanical name of the columbine Aquilegia comes from the Latin word aquila, an eagle, perhaps, in reference to the claw-like spurs which grow at the back of the flower. The name columbine comes from columba, a dove.

Scientific details:

Kingdom: Plantae

Division: Magnoliophyta

Class: Magnoliospida

Order: Ranunculales

Family: Ranunculaceae

Genus: Aquilegia

The love-gift of a fairy-tale

2010-05-16T21:16:00.007+05:30

I love fairy tales not because the imagery I find in them conforms to what goes on within me. Also because— although a fairy tale gave body and content to all the angry, anxious thoughts in my mind — these stories always result in a happy outcome. What better than to wander discouraged and confused as Hansel and Gretel through a dark wood of witches! To strike the hot right way suddenly, but just as suddenly to mire, to drag, to speed, to shout Hurray! To fall asleep, to submit to revelations, certainly to curl a lip, to doubt, unnose a disdainful snort, snick a superior snicker, curse, and then at some point not very pleasantly to realize that the story I am living is the story of life itself!!!

Therefore, on one of my rambles, I got unnecessarily excited to stumble upon a gingerbread house. To look at it made me feel like I was 10 again. I looked at it with trepidation and a thumping heart. To walk up to it, to knock on its door, and perchance to have the Wicked Witch open the door... But no such thing happened. For one thing, I got lost in the woods, and had to make my hasty way out before dark fell. For another, when I did reach the house, it was opened by an unbearably sweet young lady who looked more like Gretel than the Witch.

Ah well... sometimes it is better let a fable stay in your head.

Here's the fairy tale:

Hansel and Gretel are the young children of a poor woodcutter. They have an evil step-mother who convinces the father to abandon the children in the woods as there is not enough food to feed the whole family. Hansel, aware of the plan, leaves a trail of pebbles back to the house so he and his sister find their way back home. The step-mother is angry and locks the two children up for the night with only a loaf of bread and water.

The next night, the woodcutter attempts the same plan again; this time Hansel leaves a trail of bread-crumbs but they get eaten by hungry birds and the two children get lost in the woods.

After wandering around, Hansel and Gretel stumble across a house made of gingerbread and other confectionery. They are very hungry and begin to eat it. It is owned by an evil old witch who lures them inside. She traps Hansel in a cage and forces Gretel to do the housework, continually sweeping the house. She feeds Hansel lots of food with the intention of eating him. Eventually the witch turns on the oven. Gretel comes up behind her and kicks her into it, shuts the door firmly and padlocks it.

They hang around in the house for a couple of days eating the sweets and they find some valuable gold coins. Once they are convinced that the witch is completely burnt they successfully find their way home and are met by their ecstatic father. He tells them that his evil wife is dead and they are now rich because of the gold coins' value.

They all live happily ever after.

An uncertain heaven, received into the bosom of the steady lake

2010-05-13T12:32:00.013+05:30

Little puffy clouds dotted the sky. I had a glorious wild view of the little lake called Tanu-Jubbar which was no larger than a big pond. All around was a damp and intricate wilderness. Boundless forest undulated away from its shores on all sides, densely packed, and enveloping nameless mountains in its succession. It was a perfect lake of the woods.

The morning was a bright one, and perfectly still and serene, the lake as smooth as glass, no ripples marking its surface. The surface crinkled a little when the wind gently blew over it. The dark mountains about it were seen through a glaucous haze. The wood thrush sang as if inspired by the morning, his song came distinct over the lake to me... What was more remarkable, the echo which ran round the lake was much louder than the original note; the sound being reflected like light from a concave mirror.

Tanu-Jubbar is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. The trees growing on its shore are the slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are its overhanging brows.

A little temple sits at the edge, much like a friend who decides to give you company because they sense in your countenance a contemplation that needs no words, nor any validation.

[Note for the detail-minded among my gentle readers: Tanu-Jubbad is best accessed from Narkanda. It lies a mere 10 kilometres from Narkanda if you travel on the highway which goes past the path leading up to Hatu Peak. A little further on it there is a fork in the road, one leads towards Baghi and Sungri and the smaller one towards Nankhari and eventually, Tanu-Jubbad. There are no eateries, stalls of any sort close by, so if you plan to picnic by the lake-side, please carry your own food and water. The usual injunctions of leaving behind only footprints and taking away only memories apply!]

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd...

2010-05-10T09:29:00.004+05:30

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd