What a ride!

Six hours, 96 kilometers, 102 tunnels, 864 bridges. I love the hills. And I love getting there on this train.

Walking on the Wild Side

For a family of namby-pamby vegetarians the Powers love their carnivores. Since Bandavgarh and Kanha happened, mention of tiger  with mad light in the eye is de riguer in most conversations. Bhadra only made things worse. Ranthambore, I am sure has sealed the deal. Having gone along for the ride, I can see why.

Thanks to the senior Powers and their paranoia, check in for our flight to Jaipur was done about 3 hours in advance. When I arrived 45 minutes before take-off, happy from the rain and seeing boys running on the streets wearing garlands of pink bougainvillea, I only had to pick up boarding pass. Lucky me.

Jaipur airport. The in-flight announcement warned us that the temperature outside was 39 degrees Celsius. Brought to mind all of Blah’s dire predictions for the weekend and how I would only succeed in making myself sicker from the heat. It took us a couple of hours to get the rest of our journey organised so it was past 8:30 when our cavalcade (okay. 2 cars) pulled out onto the highway.

Air-conditioning on full blast kept the heat of the night at bay, music patched silences in conversation and laughter, the only light was that of the headlights cutting through the darkness on the narrow single-lane road. Felt like we were the only spot of light and comfort in a dark, dark world. Very purple prose. But what to do. Felt like that.

One can go into the national park within half an hour of sunrise and one needs to leave it before sunset. A more natural, if less precise clock for life.  Our canter started off at 6:30 AM and when we  turned off into the national park, the first thing that greeted our eyes was this.

It was a Chaturdashi. The fort that constitutes 40 sq km of the national park is home to a popular Ganesha. The Supreme Court had to bow down before that ‘gets-u-permission-for-anything’ excuse - hurts religious sentiment. Any rules and regulations on vehicles, noise pollution and number of folks within national park area are out the window.  [I know. The locals have more right to be there. Me in appropriate dull clothes, on top of canter is the real visitor. The folks in bright pink, brighter red and the brightest yellow have far more right to do as they please]

Once we got past the national parking, the  gates were opened and the most beautiful sights awaited us.

To me, this gate built a 1000 years ago looks as natural here as the banyan tree. Apparently one of the resident tigresses agrees. There are photographs from the time that a tigress led her cubs up to the top of the door and the three of them settled down one at each window to look at the world. At seven in the morning it wasn’t warm enough for our Lady of the Lake to seek this shelter. 

The canter slowed and drove gingerly through the portals while our guide filled us in on these tales and more. Inside there were rolling fields dotted with trees, ruins from rajput palaces and several lakes. A scene better seen in the first person since description by word or photograph can never do it justice. That first morning we drove through looking at the birds, a crocodile or two, ugly monitor lizards and deer.

 Occasionally our guide thought he heard ‘the call’ and the driver would set off madly over the rutted path, the Powers all got mad gleam in the eye and I hung on for dear life, wondering why we couldn’t stay longer in one spot so I could bask in the sun and look some more at the tiger birds that fascinated me. The call was never quite answered. By nine we were heading back having seen lots of tiger bird but no tiger.

Making it through hordes of pilgrims and parked cars in the national parking turned out to be a nightmare. My admiration for the skill of the driver and the politesse  of the natives hit an all time high. One hour under the beating bright sun, people everywhere, constant honking, cars parked higgeldy-piggeldy and not ONE ma-behen gaali even from the almost run-over. And this only 300 kms from Dilli.

Post breakfast (or was it lunch?!) T & I showed our true colors. We backed out of future activities and into the air-conditioning. I slept like a log through the afternoon while the Powers headed off to meet more carnivores. I only heard second hand Lakshmi tales and how the senior Power grilled her human with questions on her future and the level of awareness of the forest officials of her existence and upbringing. Whatever the reality, she is so beautiful, I don’t blame the man for trying to hang on to her.

When I stepped out in the late afternoon to hear these Lakshmi tales, the clouds had begun to move in. The heat melted away like it had never been and the definite desert look of the landscape went with it. When we set off in our Gypsy with Surya (Rajasthan’sfirst lady guide) and Shakeel, we were already cheerful from the weather. The national parking of the morning had gone away and it actually felt like a national park.

Surya turned out to be talkative. She brought to mind gutsy-rural-girl types I had previously come across only in serials on DD (e.g. Humraahi). Reason she hadn’t been working in the morning: had gone to pay her respects at the temple and was one of the honking hordes we met in the morning. Reason she got recruited: the forest department needed a woman on the rolls who could talk to the village women about their foraging on national park land. Since Surya had been one of those herself, the department recruited her in a spirite of ’set a theif to catch a theif’. Other topics: Which forest dept officer is good, who is not and should have been an ‘author’ (word uttered with maximum contempt). All of this was narrated to us with only minimal encouragement from T. I tuned out the chatter and concentrated on the cool rain-scented breeze. The monsoon-here happiness hit. If there had been bougainvillea, I would have been first in line for the garlands.

We were staked out by the Rajbagh Talao looking at the waterbirds and ignoring the tigerbirds when Suraj thought she heard someone calling and we were off bouncing along the rutted track. We met two other jeeps coming up the track in our direction. One of them had seen a tiger heading our way. The ‘call’ had also been sounded. We heard the harsh voice of the peacock and then everything turned silent. The spotted deer were still but for twitching ears and stood staring fixedly into the trees. Even our engines at higher speed seemed muted. Conversation was staccato whispers of “lake”, “us taraf se aa rahi hai”. There was a sudden purpose to everything. 

Through the trees, Machli, tigress-du-jour made her way through the trees and headed into the lake. We were just about 15 feet away watching with bated breath as she padded past. For 10 minutes we sat there, the junior Powers in our gaddi whirring madly away with cams, T still asking all the questions he could think of, only voice now sounding little awestruck. Machli ignored the lot of us, wriggled her bottom in the water, washed her paws and yawned a few times. She rose at the end of her jacuzzi time, surveyed territory, occasionally raising the foot to spray a tree and then disappeared into the thicket.

Giddy from the excitement, it took us an hour to recover. Driving around to all the lakes, reluctant to leave even though darkness was falling and the breeze now had a nip to it, we listened to Shakeel’s and Surya’s tiger stories. The celebrity status of the animal all mixed in with stories of all the celebrities that had come to visit them. Royal hunting lodges that had hosted Gandhis, Bachchans, Clintons. How a magnificent 12 foot male tiger, tame to the gamekeeper who regularly brought him gifts of dead rabbits, had disappeared after President Clinton had visited him. How Machli had fought two alligators (and won). How her two cubs lived on the island and how she would not eat unless they had too. There were other stories but they begin to run together in my mind now. All I recall now is the feeling of you-are-so-lucky-the-superstar-signed-your-shirt. I’ve heard the namesake talk in the exact same fashion about the time she gifted a Ganesh idol to Sachin Tendulkar.

Back to the hotel and bhajiyas, we basked in the envy of the senior Powers who had gone in a different direction and not had as much luck.

It’s My Life?

48 hours ago – I was sitting in a ”KTV” in Manila.  I thought it would be like a bar, except with karaoke. Was looking forward to laughing at all the dopes who sang cheesy songs with great passion. So it was a shock when I entered the KTV and saw it was a series of private rooms where each party got a song-list, a mike and the space to make idiots of themselves. I realised it is possible to laugh at people making cakes of themselves singing cheesy songs, then turn around and sing ”Libyan on a Jetplane” very badly and laugh some more.

30 hours ago – Having successfully managed to get all shoes into the bags and all the bags checked in and got through immigration without killing someone (it was a close thing with the lady who told me I needed to cough up 750 pesos as a usage fee for the Aquino airport), I was finally seated in plane and getting told by real estate developer in Manila that KL is a much better investment if I intend to buy.

26 hours ago – Running to make the connection at KLIA. Ahead of me on the walkway is this statuesque woman with absolutely fabulous legs in a white (and pink floral print) sundress.  In the check in line I hear a voice that sounds incredibly like N (complete with ironic mallu accent) and turn around to front view of babe who still looks very babelicious with full-on cleavage and all, but has also clearly had some help from medicine in the quest for feminine beauty. Walking up to the aircraft, we fell in beside each other and when she made some passing comment about the crowd, I craned neck to look up at her said she sounded incredibly like N. A short conversation ensued ending in Lakshmi and moi exchanging names, but the short conversation we did have was so much more like the one I have with my ‘real’ friends. And I look (and live)so much like the ‘good-south-indian-yuppie’. Why is this brain stuck in this life?

20 hours ago – Got past immigration where everyone within viewing radius (including my processing officer) was trying to look down Lakshmi’s cleavage, got the baggage and made it out to meet blah. For a minute even my mega-monster-headache went away when I saw him.

15 hours ago – Its light and I can hear conversation. I wake up to see mommy is dreadfully upset. Hear tale about  bag with  gods and Bhagavatam that got left behind in coach A2 of Udyan Express. There was no consoling her. So we trekked off by the 7:14 to VT. Arrived at 7:59.  Train departs at 8:05. I head off  to get the platform ticket and mom heads off to rescue her gods.  Dreadfully nervous about the mater giving herself a heart attack, I ran and ran and ran to make it and almost gave myself one! Got to A2 (which had to be right at the other end!!) and discovered the bag was not there. Attendants and TT’s were given phone numbers in case the bag did turn up and a minute after I huffed my way there, the whistle blew and train pulled out. Then got familiar with the cloak room and where to go for lost baggage. Still didn’t find the bag. Atleast I know where to go looking the next time. And I know how fast I can run to make a train!

10 hours ago – Family lunch where everyone is talking all at the same time and admiring the new baby and the new car and consuming huge amounts of food and cutting cakes for birthdays and anniversaries. The mega-monster-headache keeps growing new heads, but sympathy is a balm as all the aunts cluck and I get a massage from mommy. V calls with offers of a weekend in Shimla and now I’m dreaming of the hills again.

 

Happy Teeth

It happened to me again today. Post lunch, I walked into the restroom and was assaulted by the overpowering peppermint smell of toothpaste. Standing at the basins (meant for three) were 4 women busy going brush-brush-brush. They all had this little kit with tooth-brush, tooth-paste, make up and tissues. I sidled past longing for a lota.

Different folks sure have different strokes. To me the hygiene of my rear end ranks higher.

The positive bit – guilt from being around these folks has me brushing teeth twice a day too. Lets hope my enamel doesn’t run away from the unaccustomed abuse.

Ring Side View

I remember a conversation some time ago where someone asked me, “But can’t you make out they are pr*&titutes?”. I said, “No. Not inside the club, I can’t” and he said “I can’t believe you can’t  figure it out. Not even from the way they were dressed?’ and I remembered a line from Maya Angelou that went something like “The fashion of the time is always set by the loose women.” 

Tonight I’m sitting at a coffee shop with what is obviously a ring side view of the action.  This balding middle-aged white guy walked in with a girl about half an hour ago and sat down at the table ahead of me. I didn’t notice when the old lady and her granddaughter who were playing cards at the table left, but looked up when these two walked in. They looked so odd together. Him, wrinkled and balding, standing out only for his white foreignness and she looked so young. I’ve still not learned how to tell age here. The thin, small-boned structure gives everyone a vulnerable teenage look.

He left her at the table to order for the two of them and the girl pulled out a box with a new cell phone and began examining its contents. Five minutes later, he was back and it soon became obvious that these were strangers who were searching for things to say to each other. A glass pane separated us, so I can’t listen to the conversation but I’ve got a great view and realise how much can be read in the mime.   They begin sipping their drinks and the far in between sentences always end in a tentative touch. But they are running out of conversation and the man picks up a magazine and the girl goes back to the phone. She points the camera at him and says ‘Smile’. He looks up, face freezes, his palm comes up and he begins to shake his head. The girl’s face hardens slightly and she says “Why?”. He brings his palm down, she clicks and then turns the phone to him to get approval of her effort. Fiddling with the phone is now a joint effort that presents several opportunities for finger brushing, nose tugging and once, when the gentleman concerned was making a particularly forceful point, holding the girls jaw in his hand and stroking cheek.

All of this lasted about 15 minutes with one or two more photographs. The phone was put away. The magazine was picked up and the girl rose, adjusting her clothing. Her denim skirt was just a little shorter than the dress that I’d seen this CRO wear to a meeting last week. They walked out. Her first and him hanging back, walking slower, looking for all the world like he was by himself, catching up with her at the last minute as she opened the door and looked back.

Manilaaah – 2

The city is an endless urban sprawl and my longing for the hills remains. Still, life does throw up its consolations.

Last night found me racquet in hand, trying my best to get across the court to help it meet uncooperative shuttles. Its the one game that I played as a youngster, so it was nostalgia and adrenaline high all mixed up. Nice. End of the evening, I sat on the bench cooling off and watching the last game of the day. Counting points and thinking random thoughts in much the same fashion as one counts sheep, cows or the tick of the clock before falling asleep. Thought of Cdru and Cru who taught me the game (“no bodyline” and “Call it shuttle NOT cock” , “don’t swing on a high shot until you can see the shuttle through the net of your racquet” ) and P and S whom I tried to teach in turn. Of the equality of games (and T who has expounded on it before) and logically then of Dwarka Sports Complex. 

The foursome on the court  (including the rather aptly named Grace) made me wonder why basket ball is the game of choice in this country. The small build and quick movements are so beautifully suited to a game like badminton.

 

Manilaaah

So, in Tagalog Hindi means No and Gandaa’ means Beautiful. Wondering if there is a deeper meaning to this!

Other Places, Other Climes

Looks so cool but is so warm. I was amazed at how low the clouds hang. Felt like I could reach up and pluck a big gray one right out of the sky.

Up in the Sky

SRS dutifully sends one out everyday to prove he is on holiday. If he were less nice it would be schadenfreude of the worst kind.

Armchair Travels – A Correction

I might have misjudged Mr. Iyer’s view of Japan, having been through only autumn and winter with him. In Spring, he gets better. This passage really appealed, especially since I’m going through a disillusionment phase meself.

 

“As I wandered in the days through the neighbouring streets, I could begin to see how Kyoto had lost by now a little of its imagined purity to me, the simple clarity of myth, had become in fact, so much a part of me that I could see it no more clearly than  the back on which my shirt was hanging. The shops along the lanes seemed a little gaudy now, and no longer so uplifting – a sign, perhaps, that I was spoiled more than they were – and it was the brassy American songs on their sound systems I noticed and not the lovely geometry of their goods. Kyoto was no longer a magic lantern to me, more an album of photographs, thick with associations, particularized and domesticated. A certain hazy preciousness had been lost, on both sides, and in both senses of the word.”