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

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.

Hope likes justification, but can do without.

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 ~

Expecting rain, the profile of a day, Wears its soul like a hat....

No words, just a swirl of colours, and as always a little poem, not wholly apposite, but sort of mandatory!

While the hum and the hurry
Of passing footfalls
Beat in my ear like the restless surf
Of a wind-blown sea,
A soul came to me
Out of the look on a face.

Eyes like a lake
Where a storm-wind roams
Caught me from under
The rim of a hat.
I thought of a mid-sea wreck
and bruised fingers clinging
to a broken state-room door.

~ Carl Sandburg ~

Peddler of dreams

Got me a new job today -
catching sunbeams
and hawking them
to those in need:
the only requirement being
a hungry heart
and an outstretched hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Peddler ---

Lend me, a little while, the key
That locks your heavy heart, and I'll give you back--
Rarer than books and ribbons and beads bright to see,
This little Key of Dreams out of my pack.

The road, the road, beyond men's bolted doors,
There shall I walk and you go free of me,
For yours lies North across the moors,
And mine lies South. To what seas?

How if we stopped and let our solemn selves go by,
While my gay ghost caught and kissed yours, as ghosts don't do,
And by the wayside, this forgotten you and I
Sat, and were twenty-two?
Give me the key that locks your tired eyes,
And I will lend you this one from my pack,
Brighter than colored beads and painted books that make men wise:
Take it. No, give it back!

~ Charlotte Mew ~

Aankh se door na ho, dil se utar jaayegaa...

said Ahmed Faraz one day. Not likely, beloved poet.

On your birthday yesterday, 14th January, I raised a toast to your memory which lives on in my heart, and in the hearts of all those who love your work.

Jis simt bhii dekhoon nazar aataa hai ke tum ho
ai jaan-e-jahaan ye ko_ii tum sa hai ke tum ho

ye khvaab hai khushboo hai ke jhonkaa hai ke pal hai
ye dhundh hai baadal hai ke sayaa hai ke tum ho

is diid kii sa_aat mein ka_ii rang hain larazaan
main hoon ke ko_ii aur hai duniyaa hai ke tum ho

dekho ye kisii aur kii aankhein hain ke merii
dekhoon ye kisii aur kaa chehraa hai ke tum ho

ye umr-e-gurezaan kahiin thahare to ye jaanoon
har saans mein mujh ko ye lagtaa hai ke tum ho

har bazm me.n mauzuu-e-sukhan dil zad_gaan kaa
ab kaun hai shiiriin hai ke lailaa hai ke tum ho

ik dard kaa phailaa huaa saharaa hai ke main huun
ik mauj mein ayaa huaa dariya hai ke tum ho

vo vaqt na aaye ke dil-e-zaar bhii soche
is shahar mein tanhaa ko_ii ham sa hai ke tum ho

aabaad ham aashuftaa saron se nahiin maqtal
ye rasm abhii shahar mein zindaa hai ke tum ho

ai jaan-e-'Faraz' itnii bhii taufiiq kise thii
ham ko gham-e-hastii bhii gavaaraa hai ke tum ho

And then, as though on cue, my other favourite, Gulzar mentions you in his poem today!



Aankhon ko visa nahin lagta
sapnon ki sarhad nahin hoti
band aakhon se roz main sarhad paar chalaa jataa hoon
milne "Mehdi Hasaan" se!

sunta hoon unki awaaz ko chote lagi hai
aur ghazal khamosh hai saamne baithi huyi
kaanp rahe hain honth ghazal ke
phir bhi un aankhon ka lehzaa badlaa nahin ---
jab kehte hain
sookh gaye hai phool kitaabon mein
yaar ''Faraaz'' bhi bichhad gaye, shaayad milein woh khwaabon mein!
band aakhon se aksar sarhad paar chalaa jataa hoon main!

aankhon ko visa nahin lagta,
sapnon ki sarhad, koi nahin!


This is a snivelling attitude, but it is impossible not to feel a strange delight, a strange gratitude when reading your poesy..... A perpetual sort of te deum in being given, in you, a source of so much pure and unmixed happiness!

The climate's delicate, the air most sweet, the temple much surpassing the common praise it bears

The road From Shimla to Rampur snakes its way from Cart Road, passing the suburbs of Sanjauli and Dhalli. It winds its way through the evergreen forests, skirting the wonderful Catchment Forest of Sheogh. En route fall those two ugly, concrete-covered tourist traps of Kufri and Fagu. Also on this road, you find some enterprising fellows who have set up shop - for tourists with a penchant for having themselves photographed in ''local dress". (It's a different matter that no local would ever recognise these outfits, much less be caught dead in them!)

This road wends its way past the truly unattractive town of Theog. You'd be forgiven for driving past it without a second look. But then, you'd be missing a little gem of a village which lies just a kilometre outside Theog. The place is called Janog. I found a pair of lovely temples. One all done up in candy colours, now fading to a nicety; the other, a typical wood and stone structure, its stone and wood attractively ageing thanks to the elements of nature.


The "younger" temple is that of Chakreshwar, a local deity. It is a pretty, two-storeyed structure currently squeezed between the homes of the inhabitants of Janog. Like many I've seen in Himachal, it has attractive embellishments: beautiful floral, curlicue patterns edging its sides. As always, wooden tassles, alternately coloured pink, blue, yellow and white, dangle and sway in the light breeze. Also as in Himachali temples, one has to rest content with looking at the structure from outside as noone but the temples caretakers are allowed inside.
The local pujari informs me that Sankranti, a festival falling on 13th January, is an important one for this temple. This is the day when the Gods are taken out to meet the devotees. This confluence of the sacred and the secular is an intriguing one, especially since the presiding deity is expected to troubleshoot on behalf of the devotee. The diwaan of Janog informed me that usually a goat is sacrificed on the occasion, not on the express wish of the deity, but so as to allow the locals to enjoy a hearty celebration meal afterwards!

What you see below is the "older" temple, or the deora. Hindu temples are never de-consecrated, so to that extent this remains a holy spot. However, locals have long since abandoned it in favour of the newer version. It has a little place for the homa, the sacred fire lit for special prayers, and while parts of it are still cheerfully coloured, it wears the slightly folorn look of someone whose time has passed. Devout men and their religious texts do not sound a canting peal in its walls, yet, there is a sense of the resting of spiritual oars here.




This is the frontal aspect of the temple. This is yet again, a pretty example of the attractive sloping-roof style with its typical projecting horizontal pillar.


The roof is graven with a thousand images of joyous celebration, men and women holding hands as they dance to the tune issuing from myriad musical instruments.




The pillars and the cross-beams hold faith firm and encircle the temple sanctum with affectionate gravity. There are no walls to shut out the clamour of the outer world and direct the mind to higher realms. Yet, the mundane and the sacred meld into one here.

Only the knife knows what goes on in the heart of a pumpkin.

Yesterday, I spent a happy afternoon exploring temples in the vicinity of Theog. The sky was the most cheerful blue, the sunshine like molten marmalade. It felt good to be alive, and these lines by Willa Cather sprang to mind:

I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.

A magic web with colours gay

What you see below is a temple I found in a place called Kunihar, not far from Shimla, thanks to my friend Dr. Usha Bande. Loved its psychedelic colours and the dizzy joy in the candy-coloured lines and dots. Ever so often, we seem to forget that religion is not just a space of solace, or redemption, but also of merriment, felicity and the celebration of God's benediction.

By the lamplight stall I loitered, feasting my eyes
On colours ripe and rich for the heart's desire —
Tomatoes, redder than Krakatoa's fire,
Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre,
And apples golden-green as the glades of Paradise.

And, as I lingered, lost in delight,
My heart thanked God for the goodly gift of sight
And all youth's lively senses keen and quick...
When suddenly, behind me in the night
I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick

~ Wilfrid Wilson Gibson ~

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

Today is Christmas day. The sky is a robin's-egg blue. Bright sunshine sparkles over the hills. The air is still. Not even a little chirrup escapes the birds. You couldn't ask for a more gorgeous day. Yet, such is the contrariness of human nature that I look out of my window and pine for snow!

Can't remember the last time we had one in Shimla in the recent past. My own memory of a white Christmas goes back to 1992. Flurries of snow, and then later, pile upon pile of snow as far as the eye could see. Trudging through little walls of crunchy snow all the way from Chaura Maidan to the Mall. Snowflakes melting in a jiffy as they settled on your hot gulaabjamuns.

Still, I leave to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to the do the honours for today's festivities:

I hear the bells on Christmas day,
Their old familiar carols play
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth and goodwill to men.

I thought how, as the day has come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th'unbroken song
Of peace on earth and goodwill to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
"There is no peace on earth", I said
"For hate is strong and mocks the song:
Of peace on earth and goodwill to men. "

Then pealed the bells more strong and deep
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
Of peace on earth and goodwill to men."

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime:
Of peace on earth and goodwill to men.

Food first, then morality

The following story has no basis in fact, but is worth repeating anyway. Apparently, back in the 1600s, poor old Emperor Shahjahan was imprisoned by Prince Aurangzeb in his fort at Agra. All royal privileges were withdrawn, but the old man was given a choice: he could pick some one item of food, which he would be allowed to eat for the rest of his days. The old deposed Emperor chose the humble chick-peas: chhole (छोले) to you and me! This was so because he was assured by the palace (read prison) cook that he could turn out different varieties from this humble legume every day.
Now anyone who lives outside India would wonder what all the fuss is about. After all, this is only one of those ghastly gas-inducing edible legumes, albeit one high in protein and tracing its genealogy to 7,500 years ago!

The fault, Horatio, lies in the preparation! What is it that elevates this humble dish to being saluted as the food fit for an Emperor? It is all about the chhola being cooked to the right consistency, coloured to a nicety and spiced to perfection: admittedly an art known to a very small and exclusive club of cooks. Some names spring to mind: Sitaram Deewanchand in old Delhi, Mama-Bhanja in Amar Colony, and the grand-daddy of them all: Ahuja Chhola-Bhatoora in Amritsar.

This brings us to Shimla. Or specifically, to finding a good plate of chhola-bhatora in our lovely town. Old-timers unanimously recommended Sita Ram And Son.

This is an unprepossessing little place located on the road which goes from the Ridge towards Lakkar Bazaar. The picture above tells a thousand tales on its own. The owners have a Spartan approach to marketing their wares and clearly little or no thought has been spared to embellishing the establishment. You would think that this is so because ofthe confidence they repose in their customers, in what is called "return value" in Bombay film parlance: the ability of a certain product to make its buyers return over and over again.
And this is what puzzles me.
Having sampled the fare, I am totallyat a loss as to what is it that attracts people to this place. The chholas were not as beautifully coloured as you'd find at Sitaram's (a well-kept secret, but one hazards that tea leaves are used), nor is there an explosion of flavour a la Ahooja (all caused by kasoori methis, among other things). They were over-cooked and there was an under-taste of baking soda. Too many slices of potato had been added, something which is a strict no-no in any self-respecting chhola-bhatoora joint, and where were the diced green chillis, the slices of onion and that special pickle/chutney which the more famous names add as a signature to their chhola?
As for the bhatooras, they were a parody - pre-cooked viscosity, a travesty of those golden orbs one has samples in Delhi and Amritsar! Sitaram's were flat, rubbery and re-heated. The re-heating had robed them of the crispness and lightness which is the hallmark of a good bhatoora. Also, the flavour was very doughy and had clearly not been allowed to rise enough prior to being fried. A cautious addition of sooji goes a long way in giving a good bhatoora a je ne sais quoi, but that was rather missing in Sitaram's dish.
All said and a plateful consumed for Rs 20, I'm not sure I'll be returning to this eatery again.
Rating 5.5 on a scale of 10.

Blue skies smiling at me / Nothing but blue skies do I see....

A slash of Blue —
A sweep of Gray —
Some scarlet patches on the way
Compose an evening sky
A little purple — slipped between —
Some ruby trousers hurried on —
A wave of gold —
A bank of day —
This just makes out the morning sky.

Emily Dickinson

The rapt, imperious, sea-going river

I was reminded of these lines by Ramond Foss:

“And you give them drink from the
river of your delights.”

Cool clear untrammeled waters
An endless river of the wellspring of life

Hope in the wilderness
manna from heaven
and the light in the darkness

The path along the way
and our hope for eternity...

And this one by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

I am a river flowing from God’s sea
Through devious ways. He mapped my course for me;
I cannot change it; mine alone the toil
To keep the waters free from grime and soil
The winding river ends where it began;
And when my life had compassed its brief span
I must return to that mysterious source.
So let me gather daily on my course
The perfume from the blossoms as I pass,
Balm from the pines, and healing from the grass,
And carry down my current as I go
Not common stones but precious gems to show;
And tears (the holy water from sad eyes)
Back to God’s sea, from which all rivers rise,
Let me convey, not blood from wounded hearts,
Nor poison which the upas-tree imparts.
When over flowery vales I leap with joy,
Let me not devastate them, nor destroy,
But rather leave them fairer to the sight;
Mine be the lot to comfort and delight.
And if down awful chasms I needs must leap,
Let me not murmur at my lot, but sweep
On bravely to the end without one fear,
Knowing that He who planned my ways stands near.
For Love is all, and over all. Amen.