The Post Office

Oh, I love post offices!
The sight of this one on the foot of the Mall reminded me of our two legends: Tagore & Ghalib.
Originally written in Bengali in 1912, Tagore's play, The Post Office, narrates the story of a young boy. Confined to his house on doctor's orders, because of illness, Amal watches the people pass outside his window and greets all of them, and as he does, he teaches them and the reader some of life's simple truths. This is Tagore's allegory about a journey of spiritual awareness, written with his trademark gentle observations.

Here's a motley collection of Ghalib's sh'ers on letters.... As best as I could remember them.
लिखवाए कोई उसको ख़त तो हमसे लिखवाए
हुई सुबह और कान पर रख कर कलम निकले
Magar likhwaae koi usko khat to humse likhwaae
Hui subha aur kaan par rakh-kar qalam nikale!
(Should anyone wish to write my love a letter, they should approach me
Every morn I step out of home, with a pen stuck behind my ear).

गैर फिरता है लिए यूँ तेरे ख़त को की अगर
कोई पूछे की यह क्या है, तो बताए ना बने
Ghair phirta hai liya yoon tere khat ko ki agar
Koi poochey ke yeh kya hai, to chhupaye na bane.
(I see strangers walk about, your letter in hand
But if someone were to ask me, i may not be able to hide my emotions).

के ख़त मुँह देखता है नामाबर
कुछ तो पैघाम-ऐ -जुबानी और है
De-ke khat moonh dekhta hai naama-bar
Kucch to paigham-e-zubaani aur hai.
(Having delivered (your letter) the postman stares at my face
Is there also a verbal message (from you)?)

And as I started typing out this post, I was reminded of a rather graphic sh'er by Momin!
क्या जाने कह दिया उसे इजतिराब में
कासिद की लाश आई है ख़त के जवाब में!
Kya jaane kya likh diya use iztiraab mein
Qaasid ki laash aayi hai khat ke jawaab mein!!
(I know what I wrote to my love in a fit of passion
All I've recieved in response is the dead body of the postman)!!

Window boxes.

Window boxes have fascinated me for longer than I can remember. The funny thing is, Indian houses and house-owners have no knowledge of, or interest in them. As a child I only saw them in pictures. Or in my mother's "Better Homes & Gardens". So imagine my delight when, on a Saturday afternoon, I look up idly and spot two of these. Right here in Shimla.

An unexpected treat.

Sahir The Magician

This morning, for no reason at all, I was reminded of Sahir. Colossus in a world of creative pygmies. Obsessive lover. The man who introduced the art of "adab" (intellect) to the sometimes mindless world of Hindi film lyrics. Thousands of words have been written singing paeans to his talent. To me, he is a man whose words reach out from across time and age. They just go right in somewhere in the heart region. It is foolish to analyse his poetry. His poems are meant to be read, to be felt deep inside in that place where you allow no one to enter....

Here is a gem. Meant to read and cherished, and maybe shed a tear over, since it strikes a chord:



चलो एक बार फिर से
अजनबी बन जाएँ हम दोनों

न में तुमसे कोई उम्मीद रखूँ दिल-नवाजी की
न तुम मेरी तरफ़ देखो ग़लत-अंदाज़ नज़रों से
न मेरे दिल की धड़कन लड़खडाए मेरी बातों में
न ज़ाहिर हो तुम्हारी कशमकश का राज़ नज़रों से

चलो एक बार फिर से....

तुम्हे भी कोई उलझन रोकती है पेश-कदमी से
मुझे भी लोग कहते हैं के ये जलवे पराये हैं
मेरे हमराह भी रुसवाईयान हैं मेरे माजी की
तुम्हारे साथ भी गुजरी हुई रातों के साए हैं

चलो एक बार फिर से.....

तारुफ़ रोग हो जाए , तो उसको भूलना बेहतर
तालुक बोझ बन जाए तो उसको छोड़ना अच्छा
वो अफसाना जिसे अंजाम तक लाना न हो मुमकिन
उसे एक खूबसूरत मोड़ दे कर छोड़ना अच्छा

चलो एक बार फिर से, अजनबी बन जाएँ हम दोनों

Chalo ek baar phir se, ajnabi ban jaayen hum donon.

Naa main tum-se koi ummeed rakkhoon dil-nawazi ki,
Naa tum meri taraf dekho galat-andaaz nazaron se,
Naa mere dil ki dhadkan ladkhadaye meri baaton mein,
Naa zaahir ho tumhari kash-ma-kash ka raaz nazaron se.

Chalo ek baar phir se, ajnabi ban jaayen hum donon.

Tumhe bhi koi uljhan rokati hai, pesh-kadami se,
Mujhe bhi log kehte hain, ki yeh jalwe paraye hain
Mere humraah bhi ruswaaiyan hain mere maazi ki
Tumhare saath bhi guzari hui raaton ke saayen hain.

Chalo ek baar phir se, ajnabi ban jaayen hum donon.

(And here come the best lines...)
Taarruf rog ho jaaye to usko bhoolna behtar
Taaluq bojh ban jaaye to usko todna achcha
Woh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumqin
Use ek khoobsoorat mod dekar chhodna achcha

Chalo ek baar phir se, ajnabi ban jaayen hum donon........

And now for my (about adequate) translation of the above. I'm sure others have attempted it too and have fared better than I. It's impossible to love Sahir and not want to share him with everyone! so here goes:

Come, let us be strangers once again.

I shall no longer aspire for any favours from you
Nor shall you look askance at me
No more shall my words tremble at my heartbeat
Nor the secret of your struggle be betrayed in a glance.

Come, let us be strangers once again.

Something stops you from moving ahead (with me)
I too now wear facades, or so they tell me
The disgraces of my past are my constant companions
And you too are haunted by nights of yore

Come, let us be strangers once again.

When acquaintance sickens, it's best forgotten
When a relationship oppresses, it's best broken
If an adventure on which you've embarked, cannot be completed
One must abandon it on a beautiful turn.

Come, let us be strangers once again.........

In all honesty, gentle reader, the English language has no equivalent for the words "Woh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumqin / Use ek khoobsoorat mod dekar chhodna achcha".... One cannot do justice to the genius of Sahir in any language other than Urdu/Hindustani........

Song of the Soul

In the depth of my soul there is
A wordless song - a song that lives
In the seed of my heart
It refuses to melt with ink on
Parchment; it engulfs my affection
In a transparent cloak and flows,
But not upon my lips.

How can I sigh it? I fear it may
Mingle with earthly ether;
To whom shall I sing it? It dwells
In the house of my soul, in fear of
Harsh ears.

When I look into my inner eyes
I see the shadow of its shadow;
When I touch my fingertips
I feel its vibrations.

The deeds of my hands heed its
Presence as a lake must reflect
The glittering stars; my tears
Reveal it, as bright drops of dew
Reveal the secret of a withering rose.

It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamor,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.

It is the song of love;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?

It is more fragrant than jasmine;
What voice could enslave it?

It is heartbound, as a virgin’s secret;
What string could quiver it?

Who dares unite the roar of the sea
And the singing of the nightingale?
Who dares compare the shrieking tempest
To the sigh of an infant?
Who dares speak aloud the words
Intended for the heart to speak?
What human dares sing in voice
The song of God?

- Khalil Gibran

Reverie....

The sight of this little old man, deep in reverie, puffing away contentedly, reminded me of this poem by Karle Wilson Baker:

Some days my thoughts are just cocoons - all cold and dull and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;

And other days they drift and shine—such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

How does the earth sing?

Andretta is located not far from Palampur. The village nestles sleepily in the manner of a dog at its master's feet in the foothills of Dhauladhar range. This is the home to the Andretta Pottery & Crafts Society. Set up by Sir Sobha Singh and Norah Richards, the Society today conducts workshops and trains artisans as well as artistes. I am told that it occasionally also hosts artistic retreats for well-known and struggling artistes, where they all gather and create beautiful art in each other's company.

As I looked on in curiosity, the fingers of the potters, young boys and girls, made the earth sing....

When a truck reminds you of a psalm!

If you were to look closely at this photograph, you will notice a rather plaintive cry of "Oh God! Save me!" painted on the tyre bumper (Punctuation added). The sight put me in mind of this psalm:

Save me, O Lord;
for the waters are come in unto my soul.
I sink in deep mire,
where there is no standing:
I am come into deep waters,
where the floods overflow me.

I am weary of my crying:
my throat is dried:
mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.

And so on....

How you digress!

I went to Palampur this weekend. This is a pretty, small tehsil town located in Kangra district. Its numerous tea gardens and the large number of men serving in the Indian Army are its claim to fame. It has no "sights" for tourists, so to speak. But it makes a great getaway for this very reason! Here are some pictures of the place:

I hope to write a tiny travelogue as soon as I've recovered from the "car-lag".

Friday thoughts

Barren of events,
Rich in pretensions
My earthly life.

Obscurity
My real name.

Wholly unto myself
I exist.

I wrap no soul
In my embrace.

No mentor worthy
Of my calibre
Have I.

I am all alone
Between failure
And frustration.

I am the red thread
Between
Nothingness
And Eternity.

~ Sri Chinmoy ~

Passion Flower

I stumbled upon this Passion Flower or Passiflora growing wild in Naldehra. It has also been spotted in Koti and Mashobra. It was so symmetrical and so delicately tones that at first I took it to be artificial. Closer inspection, of course, told me otherwise. It was seen growing on vines up to 30 feet in height.
Here are the botanic/scientific details before I go on to some interesting details heard locally about this flower.
Kingdom: Plantae
Division: Magnoliophyta

Class: Magnoliopsida
Sub-class: Rosidae
Order: Malpighiales
Family: Passifloraceae
Genus: Passiflora.

Padre Jonas tells me that the "passion" in Passion Flower refers not to the romantic aspect, but to the passion of Lord Jesus Christ. I noted down Padre's interpretation and found it backed up by Wikipedia, no less! According to the good Padre:

• The 10 petals represent the 10 Apostles, excluding St. Peter & Judas;
• The ovary, in its chalice shape, representsdenote the Holy Grail;
• The filaments (see the blue radial pointy things in picture above) represent the Crown of Thorns;
  
• The pointed tips of the leaves were taken to represent the Holy Lance;
• The 3 stigmata denote 3 nails and 5 anthers, the 5 wounds suffered by Lord Jesus.

A local said it reminded him of a clock and, fair enough, I found that in various countries this plant is also known as "clock flower" or "clock plant".

B. says that the Passion Flower is grown as a medicinal herb and its leaves and the roots are often rather potent and are consequently used by villagers as mind-altering drugs. Once dried, the leaves can also be smoked. This herb is used in homoeopathic medicine for treating bronchial asthma, insomnia and anxiety.

Kettle whispering its faint undersong.

Who doesn't love kettles?

I find this old Canadian folk-song very evocative. It strikes a chord - especially on cold winter evenings!

The doors are shut, the windows fast,
Outside the gust os driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings,
Margery, Margery make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.

Love is NOT all....

SR, inspired by your last post

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Thoughts on "foodie culture"

"Foodie culture": When you hear the words "foodie culture", what comes to your mind? A whole lot of posh restaurants? Celebrity chefs serving cuisine from different parts of the world? A city of connoisseurs of all things edible? Elaborate multi-course meals from far-flung corners of India? Specialty eateries which turn out "authentic" dishes? Columns in newspapers extolling the virtues of one eatery and slamming another for culinary sins? Elaborate records and long discussions on local cuisine in learned journals, local papers, coffee-table books? Or just diabetes, obesity and heart disease?

A city's foodie culture embraces all of the above. But above all is that most vital component: the men and women who live to eat! Serious foodies will tell you of their attempts to attune their pleasure receptors to the joys of vegetables and other such hearty stuff; but then you won't find them passing up the detrimental, the unwholesome, the non-nutrient stuff either! To be a foodie you need to strike a balance between your desire to eat healthy an your enjoyment of truly good food which may be fairly rich in calorific value!
In other words, combine an epicure's appreciation of skillful cooking along with a glutton's bottomless-pit approach to food. Among a certain slice of the food-possessed, to suggest that indulgence might put one’s health in peril is to invite ridicule.
Another vital requisite for being a foodie is deep pockets. When your kitchen reaches a plateau of culinary exploration, you should have the ability to dig deep into your monthly take-home, add novelty, shake up things and bring back the fun by heading off to your favourite eatery.
Last, but not the least, you should be able to pontificate about food as much as ( if not more than!) eating it. You should be able to use suggestive adjectives such as succulent, mouth-watering, tantalizing, tender, juicy, and melt-in-your-mouth. This will tell those around you that you define yourself by what you eat and where you eat it. The risk you run is that, on meeting another foodie, the conversation may turn into a sort of "mine is bigger than yours" affair. Which is all good if, pardon the bad pun, you are dishing it out, but not if you are on the receiving end. Those around you may think you're a pompous ass for discussing the provenance of the peas or the genesis of cottage cheese! I remember a programme where the svelte Padma Lakshmi interviewed a grizzly Hyderabadi chef. She asked him about the secret to his fabled biryani. The old man said something revelatory: "I don't talk about it," he said. "It's just what I make."
I started this post with the intention of discussing the foodie culture of Shimla. In a nutshell, I'll say I am yet to find any in my beloved adoptive home-town. So, I now rest my case with a plate of the ubiquitous daal makhani and mutter pulao!

Symbiosis

1. Biology A close, prolonged association between two or more different organisms of different species that may, but does not necessarily, benefit each member. 2. A relationship of mutual benefit or dependence.

The reason why I thought of writing about lichens and mosses this afternoon is strange. Last week, Shimla saw incessant rain. It rained so hard and for so long that a lot of trees were uprooted, a lot of embankments turned into slush and bore away with themselves many human lives and man-made structures. How strange is man's relationship with nature. On the one hand, man is dependent on it for a host of benefits; on the other, he has today become a parasite - an organism whose existence is injurious to the health of its host.

Moss and lichen are good examples of happy co-existence, of an independent and mutually beneficial relationship. We need to learn something from them.

LICHEN:

Lichens are unusual creatures. A lichen is not a single organism the way most other living things are, but rather it is a combination of two organisms which live together intimately, composed of fungus and alga.

I have seen them grow in all sorts of places: on rocks, fences, trees. Lichens require no food source other than light, air, and minerals. They depend heavily on rainwater for their minerals and are sensitive to rain-borne pollutants. The fungus I am told, produces a sort of acid which assists the process of weathering the rock on the lichen grow, eventually turning the rock into soil.

Before the discovery of aniline dyes, lichens were much used for silk and wool dyes. The blue and purple dyes litmus and archil are still obtained from species of lichens. Others have been used in perfume manufacturing and brewing. The “manna” of the Bible is thought by some to have been a lichen found in Old World deserts and easily carried along by wind.

The true identity of lichens as symbiotic associations of two different organisms was first proposed by Beatrix Potter, who is best remembered for her children's books about Peter Rabbit. In addition to her books, she spent time studying and drawing lichens. Her illustrations are still appreciated for their detailed and accurate portrayal of the delicate beauty of these bizarre organisms.

MOSS:

I've always liked the deep green colour and the rich velvety feel of moss. These are small plants that grow between 0.4 to 4 inches in height. You will observe them growing close together in clumps or mats in shady locations. They love dampness and low light and in Shimla can be found in woody areas and growing on rocks alongside streams. I have observed aquatic varieties along the coast of southern Maharashtra, where moss clings to rocks under sea. One man's weed is another's decoration applies well to moss, especially in Japanese gardening where moss is thought to add a sense of calm, age, and stillness to a garden scene.
People who scoff moss are requested to have a look at this article From the New York Times.

Cosmos and Daisy

Cosmos, along with the daisies, rank as my most favourite. flowers. They look quite alike: both have open lacy petals, mostly arranged in opposing pairs. Neither has any fragrance, but are nevertheless attractive in their simplicity. Both grow well in the open where there's lots of sunlight, "coming ere the springtime, to tell of sunny hours". They both belong to the same family: asterceae.

Cosmos, as seen in the Yarrows garden:

Thanks, Yarra, for the reminder!

Seen below, daisies, as the Bard says, "smell-less, yet most quaint", from S's garden & growing wild in Shimla's outskirts:

Shimla State Museum

This is the only museum in our little town. It consists of just two floors, the ground floor and the first. If you are coming from the Mall, just keep walking for 2 kilometres, until you reach the Hotel Cecil. Straight up the road is the museum. Be prepared for a really steep walk up the tiny hill.
At the outset, you should know this is not Uffizi; oh no, it is not. If you are looking for a glimpse into the history of Himachal, this is not the place. This is also not the place if you want to see rare antiquities. Do not step in expecting audio guides, or indeed, guides of any sort. The labelling of the collection gives the word basic a new dimension.
The collection itself is meagre and haphazard. There are bits and pieces of statues and you cannot be sure if all of these were actually found in Himachal. Some are connected with Himachal only in that they (the antiquities) belong to India, of which Himachal is a part! There is only a passing reference to the multitude of kingdoms and principalities with all their myriad histories and vivid heritage. Himachal's tribal areas are represented by a group of dolls in tribal dress. There is nothing that tells the curious visitor about the wonderful spiritual and geographic aspects of Himachal's northernmost districts.
There is a room, perhaps ten feet square in area, that is home to a set of wonderful paintings by Paramjeet Singh. These have absolutely no connection whatsoever with the rest of the collection! As you walk out of the room where the paintings are displayed, you will be startled by the sight of a cluster of old guns nailed to a wall. These are the museum's sole acknowledgement of Shimla's British history.
The lighting is rudimentary and does nothing to enhance the aspect of the exhibits. In any case, the main theme seems to be to store a bunch of old nick-knacks stored any which way. The cases where they are kept are the sort in vogue in the 1960s. Just minimal structures with wooden shelves.
That said, it's a nice little place, located at the end of a long-ish walk. It is a place to go to if you have nothing else to do on a weekend. If you have the energy, walk further up to Boileauganj, into Krishna Sweets - if only to drown your sorrows in a plate of hot jalebies.

Begonias.

I must admit I've never been a big fan of this flower. This is primarily because they appear soulless and have a near perfect prettiness that gives off a "look at me, but don't touch me" air. They do not possess the friendliness of daisies, or the fearful symmetry of dahlias. They lack the lambent air of fuchsia, nor do they attract you with the droopy grace of wisteria.

This year Shimla saw an extravagant crop of red, orange, pink, white and yellow ones. On closer examination, I found the flowers not unattractive. The outer petals are bigger than the inner ones, and are borne on hairy stems. Their leaves have a bristly edge and are ovate (with pointy ends) or rounded. the leaves tend to alternate on the stem. My vade mecum (Flowers of the Himalaya) identifies four Himalayan species: Begonia josephii, B. picta, B. diocia an B. rubella.


The classification is as follows;
Kingdom: Plantae
Division: Magnoliophyta
Class: Magnoliopsida
Order: Cucurbitales
Family: Begoniaceae
Genus: Begonia

And still more roofs!

Shimla's roofs are such a delight! I cannot seem to get enough of them, and so must inflict them on the gentle reader.

This shop used to house FabIndia until last year. alas, it's a casual-wear shop now.

Gaiety Theatre, which is still under renovation.

This yellow building houses our prime fire station, complete with a cute little fire truck whose provenance is unknown.

The Punjab National Bank building bags the prize for uglification of an otherwise lovely roof an facade.

Enfin, a poem by Robert Herrick, on the theme of roofs, of course.

TO THE GENIUS OF HIS HOUSE:
Command the roof, great Genius, and from thence
Into this house pour down thy influence,
That through each room a golden pipe may run
Of living water by thy benizon;
Fulfill thy larders, and with strength'ning bread
Be ever-more these bins replenished.
Next, like a bishop consecrate my ground,
That lucky fairies here may dance their round;
And after that, lay down some silver pence,
The master's charge and care to recompense,
Charm then the chambers; make the beds for ease,
More than for peevish pining sicknesses;
Fix the foundation fast, and let the roof
Grow old with time, but yet keep weather-proof.

Another Favourite Place in Shimla:

This post office is located in Chhota Shimla. I pass it each time I visit B & S (not Bourbon & Soda, I assure you!). But since the visits are usually on the weekend, I have always found the place shut, and have, therefore, been unable to walk in for a chat about its life and times with the staffers.
Since I am partial to blue, on the prettiness factor, I rate the Chhota Shimla post office higher than the one in Chaura Maidan. And everyone knows how dearly I love the latter place.
I have rhapsodised elsewhere about the romance of letters, and ink-wells and post offices, so I won't go into that again. My fond wish is that some day - some day - the government offices in India wake up and start constructing pretty public buildings such as this one.

Bless you, Dolly Parton.

for the song: "wildflowers don't care where they grow".
It's long been a favourite and, for some reason, always springs to mind when I go walking on the wild side in Shimla - in this case, somewhere in the cedar woods around Koti!

So here are three types of wild flowers, a violet, a yellow and a peach-y-pink, clicked in May 2008, respectfully dedicated to Dolly.

Butterfly bush

Herpetospermum

Sheep sorrel

The hills were alive with wildflowers
And I was as wild, even wilder than they
For at least I could run, they just died in the sun
And I refused to just wither in place

Just a wild mountain rose, needing freedom to grow
So I ran fearing not where I'd go
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow

And the flowers I knew in the fields where I grew
Were content to be lost in the crowd
They were common and close
I had no room for growth
I wanted so much to branch out

I uprooted myself from home ground and left
Took my dreams and I took to the road
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow.

I grew up fast and wild and I never felt right
In a garden so different from me
I just never belonged, I just longed to be gone
So the garden, one day, set me free

Hitched a ride with the wind and since he was my friend
I just let him decide where we'd go
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow.

When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow.