Beautiful Destruction

There is a quarry that is no longer being quarried. The landscape is fascinating. The huge crater has been filled by the monsoon, and the water has brought with it succulent vegetation of bewildering variety.

The destruction that man has wrought on what must once have been a beautiful hill, has created this moonscape of a stark beauty with abundant surprises. Rock faces, reflecting white in the sun, drop steeply into pools of clear water. In these pools are worlds of waving plants, boatmen and tadpoles. Cracks and ledges have been inhabited by Peninsular Rock Agamas which scamper away if you step too close.

I walked through this quarry one early morning this is what I saw - the monsoon had filled this pond, and the plants had burst into flower.

105mm

I splurged on the 105mm Micro-Nikkor VR and bugged my friends until I arranged for it to make it from Mountain View to Bangalore in time for my trip up north. A tough day at work only let me get my hands around it at 10pm on Wednesday.

The packaging was off before the leftovers had left the fridge. And the D80 was shooting through it a few seconds later. The plastic bag in which the lens travelled the world was the first subject, and was I surprised by what I saw.

There's a whole new perspective the world waiting for me through the macro lens!

The Lotus Lake

Shivanasamudra.

Visiting the waterfalls on a holiday is not a good idea unless you get there early enough to beat the crowds. So, I set off at half past five in the pre-dawn and the light drizzle. At a little past six, Anjali was riding pillion and we were on our way.

The ride down Mysore road on a bike in a light rain is exhilarating. It wasn't so much fun for Anjali who was getting a pounding from the rain falling on her face. We were at Lokaruchi nice and early for breakfast, and we then turned off Mysore Road at Maddur towards Malavalli. A few kilometers past Malavalli a signboard directed us left to the Shivanasamudra bluff and Gaganchukki. It is getting close to Ganesh Chaturthi, and there were groups of children on the road asking for donations for their village pandals, adding more obstacles to the ubiquitous potholes.

Gaganchukki and Barachukki are magnificent in the monsoon. The water was white against the rocks. Swallows were flying about in the spray. Brahminy kites soared high over the falls.

A short walk past the 'Entry Prohibited' signboard took us away from the Sunday revellers to a quiet spot upstream. To our delight, we spotted a grey-headed fishing eagle alight on a branch on the other bank of the river. We watched it for a while, until a policeman came and shooed us off.

You can only stare at water falling down a cliff for so long, so we decided to visit Thalakad which was only a short distance away. Unfortunately, that short distance suffers from a certain lack of tarmac. My bike's shock absorbers and our backsides were severely punished on our way to this historical monument. It is surprising that a monument such as this is only approachable through such a pathetic excuse of a road.

The temples at Thalakad have long been studied by students of architecture. Sadly, the finer points of architecture escape me. The intricate carvings on the walls and the pillars do make excellent subject for 'abstracts', or so I was told. The temples are built on a huge sand bank on the Cauvery, and a little past the temple, on the banks of the river, hawkers were selling all sort of wares to the visiting tourists. A pesky little boy insisted on following us around saying that we would need a guide to tell us the history of the place and to save us from getting lost in the sand. When we finally got rid of him, a woman came up to me and told me the whole story of the place in Kannada. At least, I think it was the story of the place. Note to self: Learn Kannada.

Just a little past Thalakad, we turned off the road onto a dirt track that ended at the river. We sat there for some time, enjoying the sounds of the wind in the reeds and the water flowing by.

We'd asked the people at Thalakad if there was a better road back to Bangalore, and they'd replied in the affirmative. However, I suspect their idea of better just means longer, and a sterner test for the shock absorbers. The route is definitely more scenic though and we stopped more than a few times to identify birds we saw flying by. Blue-winged leafbirds and ashy-crowned sparrowlarks were firsts for me.

And then, as we were riding by a lake covered in lotuses, I casually mentioned that it would be great if a pheasant-tailed jacana were to walk by just then. And suddenly, there they were, pheasant-tails waving in the wind. Lots and lots of them! And they are so beautiful. And there were bronze-winged jacanas and watercocks as well. And coots and purple moorhens. I'm sure we'd have seen much more if we'd stayed. Perhaps even the snakes that Anjali had been hoping for.

Is there a word like brunch which describes a full meal at a time between lunch and dinner? Well, we stopped just before Ramanagaram on the way back and had that. There wasn't much else of note on the way back apart from two black-winged kites by the side of the road.

Quite a trip. I did forget to mention that it rained intermittently making the ride quite enjoyable. And yes, that we stopped many many more times to watch baya weavers and common flameback woodpeckers and scaly-bellied munias and rollers. And I am very happy that we didn't have a puncture.

No Black Panther

Dandeli.

It was pouring when we sleepily disembarked from the Ajmer Express at Londa. I could see the taxi drivers' eyes light up when they saw us descend the walkway over the tracks, what with two French women leading the way. With a start like that, the fare bargaining, expectedly, was most unfair. Anyway, after unsuccessfully haggling a bit, we drove off into the monsoon green and to our home for the weekend - two spacious rooms at the Jungle Lodges' Kali River Resort.

The Kali River, the boatman told us, is named after the black appearance of the water. The rains, however, had turned it into the colour of a light coffee. The crocodiles took the opportunity presented by the short break in the rain to drag themselves out of their lethargy by soaking in the cloud filtered sun-rays. Women from the village across the river took the same opportunity to wash clothes down by the river. They've always done this with no fear of the crocodiles because there are fish aplenty in the river.

The driver stopped the jeep suddenly and killed the engine. The silence of the forest is shattered by the shriek of a Crested Serpent Eagle. There he was, perched on a leafless branch looking over our jeep at a ripple in the pond. He shrieked again, gave us one disdainful glare and gracefully soared into the trees. Methinks he was mightily displeased by our interference in his hunt of the rat snake in the pond. The ripple that was the rat snake must have thanked his lucky stars. The other creatures we disturbed that evening were a herd of gaur, a wild boar, a malabar giant squirrel, some spotted deer, a few emerald doves and dozens of peafowl. The forest is clad in its thickest coat at this time of year, so I wasn't surprised at the meagre returns of our safari.

Screeching hornbills woke me up the next morning. Gathering wits and camera, I stumbled out into the grey dawn. Malabar grey hornbills and malabar pied hornbills adorned the higher reaches of the trees, squabbling about what I do not know, but kicking up one helluva ruckus to be sure. The racket-tailed drongos we saw on the morning walk, the noisy ones in any hunting party, seemed courteous and polite after the chaos of the hornbills. They were accompanied on their hunt by common flameback woodpeckers and scarlet minivets. The path we walked through the forest was netted by spider webs, most prominently those of the giant wood spiders. Frogs and grasshoppers leapt out of our clumsy way giving the forest floor a nervous appearance. A rufous woodpecker on a silver oak completed my morning walk.

The rest of the day was then spent trying to fool each other at bluff, and other card games. And then it was time for the bus ride back to Bangalore. Aurelie, Emilie, Manik and Dillu... merci beaucoup!

Forgotten Below

The sunlight still lit up the higher floors of the buildings as I walked toward home. It's a little unusual for me to be on foot these days, the convenience of my motorbike having overcome my desire to keep fit. There isn't a footpath on the flyover, so I walked by the side of it. And suddenly, I was in something out of the past that perhaps is a vision of the future.

This little world below was dark before sundown. The sunlight doesn't reach here any more. The light is from dusty, dim lamps, the neon signboards having gone dark. Voices echoed against the thoroughfare up above giving the feel of being in a cavern. The traffic above sounded muffled. The road has fallen into disrepair down here. Little mopeds bounce over the stones shoving the bicyclists out of the way. A faded banner proclaiming 'मेरा भारत महान' sagged from one of the pillars, symbolic perhaps of how this great country of ours does not do its people justice. My imagination was getting the better of me, perhaps, but the smiles of the people seemed tinged with a pale desperation. The contrast is sharp. The expensive cars roaring overhead, and this dimly lit world below.

Perhaps I'm being unfair. How does one treat a billion people equally? I guess some people will inevitably fall through the cracks of the flyovers of development into the dark, forgotten world below. But if I'm being unfair, then think of the people that are left behind.

Bucks and Lakes

Mydenahalli.

I wonder why it's called the brother-in-law's village. There's a story here that needs a teller. Anyway, it's also the place you ask for when you're looking for Krishna Mruga, and no, I am not talking about some mythological rooster. The handwritten directions were augmented with little complaints from an absent cohort, brightening up the rather convoluted journey to the grassland sanctuary of the endangered black bucks.

We spotted them straight away, not too far away from the track; beautiful creatures standing in the grass, bounding across the track, always just out of range of my 200mm lens. I strained my eyes looking for the Indian Courser and the Bengal Florican, but that wasn't to be.

After Dillu was satisfied that his Safari could take anything that the grassland could throw at it, we settled down to a picnic of bread, jam and bananas under some acacias. And then this guy walks up to us and says, "You need permission from Madhugiri." We says, "Oh really! We didn't know. Who are you?" He says, "I am forest." In my head, I says, "Wow! I wonder how many people have met a walking talking forest!" And then the hand reaches out and we pack up, deciding to visit one of the pretty lakes we'd seen along the way instead of lining his greasy palm.

And so, ignoring a bunch of very tempting lakes, we found one at the foot of a rocky hillock which we promptly shimmied up. The world is very photogenic from up there, and the light from the sun setting behind the clouds flattered the people as well. We spent a couple of hours exploring the rocks and waiting for the dusk. It drizzled a bit, making the palm grove glitter in the light of the setting sun. Under a huge boulder, I found a nice sand patch that would have provided us comfortable shelter (Priya would disagree since it was also home to a snake, probably an olive keelback). Someday, I will go back there and camp!

And then it was the not very long, but very frustrating drive home followed by a most excellent dinner at Mangalore Pearl. A trip worth doing again.

Of Clouds and Leeches

Agumbe.

I'm pretty glad Siddharth made it to the bus seconds before we left. So much would have been lost in translation had he missed the bus. Reminder to self - learn Kannada.

I was a little sceptical when Kasturi Akka told me over the phone, in a mixture of Kannada, Hindi and English, that all I had to do to find the house was to ask for where Kasturi stays. But Dodda Mane was exactly that easy to find. Just around the corner from the bus stand, and everyone knows Kasturi Akka.

Stepping into the house is almost like stepping through a window in time. A hundred and ten years, the house has stood; stone, supported on ornate wooden pillars, built in the traditional style of the people of the ghats. In the middle, the courtyard that once had been the place where the head of the village had dispensed his justice was being pounded by the monsoon. We were directed to a large room upstairs with windows that seemed to glow with the emerald green of the rainforest.

After a breakfast of Neer Dosas and too-spicy chutney, we headed off to Jogigundi: "find electric pole 67 and turn right off the road and follow the path. And watch for the leeches." The road wound through the greenest green accompanied by butterflies fluttering whimsically from flower to flower. The rain stopped and started, drizzling sometimes, pouring sometimes. The birds took every pause in the rain to break into song, teasing us by flitting about in the leaves, just out of sight. Frogs, toads and grasshoppers leapt joyfully by the side of the road. The unfortunate ones had been run over by the overnight traffic. We saw a malabar pit viper, a checkered keelback, two caecilians and hundreds of frogs dead on the road.

A little way down the road, Nisha snorted disgustedly at what looked like fruit packing on the side of the road. As she bent over to pick up the litter, her expression changed to wonder. It was the most amazing mushroom any of us had ever seen; a peach-pink lantern on the forest floor. As we walked along we caught little glimpses into what must exist deep within the rainforest; the beautiful purple plant parasite, the yellow succulent flower, the wood-ear mushrooms, the orchids in the trees.

And then we were at electric pole no. 67. The path to the right was there, leading invitingly into the forest. My research before the trip had taught me that insect repellents do keep leeches away, so we smeared some on our feet and stepped in. The first thing to greet us was a bicolored frog, confident in its camouflage sitting on the forest floor. And then there were leeches everywhere. Stopping only to pull the leeches off our ankles we were very quickly at the waterfall. The water falls through large boulders on the side of a wall of rock into a pool from where it continues down to where I know not. We spent an hour exploring the rocks around the waterfall and a little way downstream. On the way back, Rohan and I saw a Malabar Trogon, one of the birds on our wish-list. There were so many birds in that one place that we decided to come back there if we could; electric pole 42.

We slept through the afternoon and then went to the edge of the Someshwar Ghat to watch the sunset. There wasn't a sunset in the way of a traditional sunset, but the view was breathtaking . The clouds looked like they were pouring down the ghats on our right into the valley below. Little clouds between the trees on the forest floor looked like puffs of smoke. And this green and white carpet spread out before us as far as we could see. A bright red crab sat on the rock with us as we watched the light fade behind the clouds.

Undeterred by the lack of a sun in the sunset, we set out early the next morning to see the sunrise. The Jain temple on top of the hill had been built of stones quarried from the rock it stood on. One of the pools that had formed was full of huge bull frogs croaking their hearts out. The clouds swirled around us and the rain beat down heavily. The sun must have risen behind all that. There's an indescribable peace standing on top of that hill in the pouring rain

Nisha and Siddharth went to Sringeri to see the temples there while Rohan and I decided to go back to the electric poles to see if we could spot some birds. And spot some, we did! Racket-tailed drongos, scarlet minivets, pompadour green pigeons, white-bellied treepies, black bulbuls, black headed bulbuls, dark-fronted babblers, malabar parakeets, malabar gray hornbills, hill mynahs were the highlights. There were so many others which we didn't identify because we couldn't keep up with them. I finally saw the malabar whistling thrush which has been teasing me with it's schoolboy whistle through so many forest hikes. And we saw the malabar trogon again! On the way back, we had to take shelter from the rain in a cowshed. The owner of the place saw us standing under the eaves and invited us in. They were a most jolly family, thoroughly amused at our inability to understand a word they said (learn Kannada). On the way back, we were startled by a barking deer and our third malabar giant squirrel. My good deed of the day was to pick up a pill millipede off the road and put it back in the leaf litter.

Lunch was special - mango curry, bamboo shoot curry and a snack made of acacia leaves wrapped around something I can't remember. Rohan's appetite wasn't tickled.

Onaki Abbe was our final destination. The path was a carpet of leeches. We moved swiftly through the forest till the path disappeared in the undergrowth. It was getting dark when we finally turned around. By then, we had surrendered to the leeches and were letting them have their way with us. Back on the road, a truck driver saw the blood on my feet and stopped to tell me to put salt. 'Uppu Illa' I told him and asked for a ride into the village, and so we rode atop a sand truck to the nearest restaurant where I asked for salt and watched as the bloated leeches dropped off my feet. We walked barefoot back to Dodda Mane, stood outside and washed the blood off our feet. Tissue paper served to stop the bleeding. There were so many leeches in Nisha's shoes that she decided to leave them behind.

We said goodbye to Kasturi Akka and headed to the bus stand, just in time to catch the bus back to Bangalore. I broke out in rashes because of my allergy to leech-bites, making me look rather scary, but that subsided halfway back to Bangalore. And I found a last couple of leeches; one on my ankle and one on my arm.

The infection from the leech-bites has gone away now after a heavy dose of antibiotics and the wounds have almost healed. It was quite an adventure, and methinks it's time to plan a trip back there. I still have to visit Onaki Abbe and Barkhana.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed

Bandipur and Wayanad.

Labour Day fell conveniently on a Thursday this year. Conveniently, so that we could take Friday off from our labours to make the weekend four days. Add to that the enthusiasm of Anureita because of Priyanka and Martin's visit from Amsterdam, and Bangalore was positively kicking us out of town!

After an incredible number of emails discussing where we should go (and some which had nothing to do with the weekend at all), we settled on a day at Bandipur and two at Wayanad. And so we set off, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, precisely at seven in the morning or thereabouts (read eight thirty). The well-laid road to Mysore flew by below the rumblings of nine hungry stomachs. Lokaruchi could not come soon enough.

Down the Ooty road we went, or so we thought, until we realised that we'd missed the turn towards Bandipur and were almost at Wayanad a day before time. The detour through some village roads in the dust and the heat started murmurs about losing precious holiday hours. The bright eyes had dulled over and the bushy tails were anything but. We finally made it to Tusker Trails at three, in time to swallow lunch, minus the recommended masticating, and to head off for a van safari into the national park. Peacocks and spotted deer were plenty. Bison, elephant and sambhar a little rarer. The Changeable Hawk Eagle and the Crested Serpent Eagle were the raptor representatives.

Back at Tusker Trails after the safari, the more aquatically inclined swam with the toads in the pool. The entertainment followed in the form of Jerry's insistence on a game of dumb charades and word building. And what entertainment it was! By the time I stumbled off to bed with my gut aching from the laughing, almost everyone had backed out of the next morning's safari.

Ben was, to my surprise, the only one awake bright and early for the morning safari. The Asian Paradise Flycatcher and the Indian Roller at close quarters coloured the morning, but the sighting that dwarfed everything else was the leopard sitting on a rock. It looked at us through the dry twigs with these incredible eyes, gracefully got to its feet and stepped off the rock and disappeared. Anureita didn't want to believe that in all the trips we've done together, it was the one time she didn't go on safari that the leopard showed its face. But, hey, life's like that!

And so, with paisa already vasool (for me at least) and two and half days still to go, we headed off to Wayanad and Marmalade Springs. The manager met us on the main road and guided us to a house at the foot of a hill and told us that we would be leaving our vehicles there and continuing in jeeps. Okay, I thought, the road mustn't be too good. But, whoa! even off-road rides would have been less treacherous. The path up to the resort was more a dried up stream-bed than a road, complete with tiny waterfalls and plunge pools! Brilliant fun! The rest of the day was spent in camp chairs surveying the coffee shrubs around us. And, oh yes, the basketball was fun with Kurush and Manik throwing their weight around.

Day three - I completed a climb I started three years ago - from Edakkal caves to the top of the hill. A determined Dileep clambered to the top wiping out the ignominy of the not making it to the top of Chembra peak. The view from the top was breath-taking. Coming down is always harder, but Priya made it look easy. Manik's ankles didn't fare too well though.

The beef fry in Wayanad is to die for.

Martin had never seen a tea estate before, so we decided to go to the foot of Chembra. Driving through the estate we stopped to watch the employees play football, and were invited to join the game. We got back to the Marmalade Springs exhausted.

And then, it was time to drive home. The Malabar Giant Squirrel was probably hit by a vehicle that was just a minute or so ahead of us. The Oriental Honey Buzzard watched me as I picked up the poor creature and put it on the side of the road.

Holidays end too quickly, and with them go the bright eyes and bushy tails.

Maybe

The problem isn't so much in writing as it is in writing beautifully. I struggle to put words together to express my thoughts because the words just don't seem to accurately translate what's floating around in my head. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if there was just one language up there. Truth be told, there is only one language that rolls comfortably off my tongue. But, maybe the culture from which I was born has the expressions that describes me better. Unfortunately, that is not the language I read or write.

Anyway, the reason I blog today is to let out this feeling of being lost. The age old question of "What do I want to do with my life?" has raised it's ugly head again. The problem would not have been so acute if I knew the answer to the short term version of that question: "What am I doing these days?" Or, maybe, the problem has arisen because I know the answer. "Nothing" is the answer I usually hand out to people that ask me. The expression on their faces usually tells me that they think I'm doing plenty but I'm just too much of a snob to deign to tell them about it. If only that were true!

Midlife crisis? Quarterlife crisis? Are these real? Maybe I'm thinking myself into one.

Well, you're in trouble when almost every sentence begins with maybe!

Row, Row, Row Your Boat

The train ride to Hardwar from Delhi on the Shatabdi was a pleasant surprise for someone accustomed to the slight dementia of the second class. Hot tea, biscuits, breakfast, bottled drinking water... the works. That's not to say, however, that the second class is no longer my preferred mode of railway travel. We arrived at Hardwar and watched with amusement the astonishment displayed by a couple of Japanese ladies at the sight of a goat lying on the stairs to the over-bridge. From there it was a ride in a jeep up to Camp Silver Sands past a host of temples on a series of craters masquerading a road.

Before we had a chance to look around the camp, we were shepherded to the lunch table and treated to a delicious vegetarian lunch. And those that know me will tell you that this is not lightly said! I only paid slight attention to the apologies about the fact that the camp had been moved up into the forest to get away from the river swollen from a week of unseasonal rains. Perhaps, if the food hadn't been as good, I might have been more prepared for what happened that night.

The camp is about twenty kilometers upstream from Rishikesh, and our initiation for the expedition was to raft down from the camp to Rishikesh. Most of the rapids were washed out because of the level of the river, or so the guides told us, but it was still a fun ride down the river. And that is what we did on our rather full stomachs.

It drizzled enough when we got back to bring the barbecue into the kitchen. But by the time dinner was served, the stars were twinkling cheerfully where the almost full moon wasn't overshadowing them. (Overshadowing? Moon? Really?)

Bring your own poison, they said. Manik, Dileep and I sat and watched the clouds roll in. It had started to rain by the time we hit the sack. The sack was in tents on the sand bank about twenty feet from the water's edge. It seemed safe enough until the sand below my head and my feet fell away. Manik takes a look out the tent and says, "It's a bad dream. Go back to sleep." A shove and a kick later, both of us are standing in the pouring rain at midnight watching in amazement as huge parts of the sand bank that the tents were on started collapsing into the Ganga! The path to help had disappeared under a raging torrent. We scrambled across, and then came back to get Dileep from the other tent which seemed to be on more stable sand. His answer, "Take whatever you want!" Another shove and kick later, he shuffles out with his bedding straight to the corner of safe tent, plonks down and starts snoring. Anyway, after collecting our stuff, and the collapsing tents, we got some sleep.

I awoke to bright sunshine streaming through a gap in the canvas, and the disorientation that comes from waking from the first night spent anywhere. Manik's exclamation came to mind; maybe it had all been a bad dream. Then I stumbled out of the tent and saw the destruction. It was exhilarating. I just wanted to scream and dance!

Due to the heavy rains, the expedition down the Alaknanda was postponed by a day, so the day was spent rafting down past the camp to Rishikesh from another twenty kilometers upstream. The rafting cheers were getting louder as we got more familiar with the people on the trip with us. The comfortable floating down the river in our life-jackets was interrupted by the presence of a semi-decomposed corpse floating down along with us. It had us all scrambling to get into the raft and out of its way. The highlight of the day was the Changeable Hawk Eagle that I spotted when we got off the raft just before Rishikesh.

And then finally, we were on our way. It was supposed to be a four hour drive to Rudraprayag, the start of our trip, but there was a landslide just a little before preventing us from getting all the way to the put-in point. So, we let all the gear down from a bridge across the river, ate lunch and set off.

The first stop was the camping spot for the night, and I can't imagine a more perfect place to pitch tent. It was this stretch of sand hidden from the river by a little hill. We could see that this hill would have been an island just a couple of days ago because the sand was completely untouched. There were just a few tracks of birds on the sand. The other side of this stretch of sand was a sheer cliff from top of which, every now and then, would peer a ghooral, a wild goat. The guides warned us not to pitch tent on that side, and the reason was soon apparent. There were langurs and macaques and barking deer and ghooral, all disturbing loose rocks at the top and dropping them onto the sand.

Antakshari by the campfire with songs in Hindi, English, Danish and Nepali thrown in. We learnt some part of a rafting song that night:
Resham phi ri ri, resham phi ri ri,
Sometimes I'm rafting, sometimes a trekking,
Resham phi ri ri.
Resham phi ri ri, resham phi ri,
You are a monkey, I am a donkey,
Resham phi ri ri.
There's a whole lot more to the song, but it's in Nepali, and I can't remember it any more.

Curse the guys who left the vodka bottle along with the water bottles! I tried to rinse the toothpaste from my mouth with it. That did wake me up in a hurry though. We saw a pair of pine martens make their way across the cliff face going about their business without seeming to notice our presence.

The hills on either side of the river were wearing their sparkling new clothes after the monsoon. Everywhere, there were the beautiful White-capped Water Redstarts. And every now and then there would be a deer grazing on the slopes. Sixty kilometers down the river that day. It would not have been possible had the water levels not been so high. We passed Devprayag, the confluence of the Alaknanda and the Bhagirathi rivers and really, the start of the Ganges.

Another night spent on a sand bank. Puzzles this time. And the morning was brightened by a game called Dizzy Sticks. A description will never do it justice, but if you're ever out in an open space with a group of people and in need of entertainment, this is the game to play.

And finally, after negotiating 'The Wall', 'Deadly Duo' and other such interestingly named rapids, we were back at the Silver Sands. That afternoon, after the rest of the group had left, I sat by the river and looked back at the expedition, the camping, the bonfires, the amazing food, and I nodded my head. Yes, life should be this way!

Opportunity has but one hair on his head

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to my country." Or something to that effect.
What?!!

"You've been thrown out of Australia. Don't worry, I'll make sure you have a job." Or something to that effect.
Good grief!

Write

The urge to write is there, but the words that come are dry. Years of disuse have made them reluctant to do my bidding. Yet the parched words seem ready for that little spark to set them afire. That little bit of inspiration that will change this trickle into an uncontrollable flood surging toward the infinity of the ocean.

Words have been rushing through my head, not letting me rest ever since you told me that I should write. "Write anything", you said. But I cannot harness this chaotic stream into coherence, and all that appears from the pen in my hand is a series of disconnected thoughts. It is exhilarating to have this pent-up force within me, but infinitely frustrating that I cannot.... I do not know what it is that I wish to do with these words.

And the chaos grows.

How does it feel to write something of significance? The picture in my head is that of a man tearing through the heavens on the back of a dragon. He holds on for all he's worth, but he hasn't the faintest idea of where he's going or how he got on the dragon in the first place. All he knows is that he will not survive if he does let go.

I imagine that it is exhausting to write that "significant" piece of work for I believe that the work will become everything that you are. Something from you must go irretrievably into those words so that even when you recover from the effort, you will never be the same.

Estranged

You understood me, and I understood you.
Every word meant more than it said,
And the silence wasn't empty.

You understand my words, and I understand yours.
The dictionary describes every word,
And the silence is true.

Why? Oh why?

Inanities

How are you?
I'm fine, how are you?
How's work?
Isn't it nice outside.....

AARGH!

A Beautiful Day

Awake to the sound of birds singing,
Breakfast to the hymns of children,
To work under the bluest blue,
Tea under the trees,
Lunch with friends,
Every problem solves itself,
The sun sets in a pretty pink,
Ride home to dinner
and a comfortable bed.

Escape

It hurt me to see you lying there helpless.

You will be free, I promise. Just give it a little time, a little time for your stamina to build. And then, you will be free like I can never hope to be.

Seoul

The dust has settled from the trip to Korea and Singapore. I had intended to put down my impressions at the airport on the way back, but lately, words have been eluding me. It's taking a lot for me not to blame it on my inability to write those crazy MBA essays. But that's a story for another time.

The first surprise was the cost of a taxi ride from Incheon Airport into Seoul. 120000 Korean Won! In the style of Bertie Wooster, I goggled at the taxi meter, and then in the words taught me by the driver, I thanked him and walked into the Shilla Hotel.

The depictions of the far east in the movies have always had people bowing at each other in greeting, but somehow, movies have always seemed unreal to me, or perhaps relics from a distant past. It was a surprise, therefore, that everyone does bow. And the curious thing was that my automatic response to the greeting was to bow in reply. It just seemed a natural thing to do, and every time I caught myself bowing my head, I found myself smiling in surprise.

The visit to Gyeongbokgung was fascinating. I learned a little of Korean history and the Joseon Dynasty. The walls were covered with white paper to reflect natural light. The ceilings had five colours, representing the four directions and the centre. Everything was built with Feng Shui in mind and it all makes sense when you see it like that. The guardians of the palace are the creatures of the chinese zodiac, each having a particular direction and a function. The roads in the palace compound had 3 lanes - one for coming, one for going, and one for the King and the Queen!

Outside the hotel, the airport and the office, I found very few people that could understand English. Getting directions or help in any way, was fun! Ordering food was even better - I decided that I would like to experience the real Korean food, so I walked into this hole-in-the-wall place in one of the bye-lanes and used the universal sign for "I'm hungry" (rubbed my stomach and pointed at my mouth). I'm not really sure yet what I ate, probably pork, but it was nice.

Another time, I went to this place where the seating was on a short wooden platform. Since I can't squat for more than 5 minutes without cramping up, I decided to take the food back to the hotel. Unfortunately, I didn't realise that the menu had pictures of plates that served two. I thoroughly overate!

Oh, and tips.... I'm not sure, but I think I insulted a few waiters by leaving tips.

The Koreans are proud of being Korean, of their language and of their culture. That's a very strong impression I got, and something that I'm a little envious of. Sometimes, I wish....

On my last day in Seoul, I walked up Namsan Hill. The winter colours were red and yellow. I picked up one red leaf and one yellow one for keepsakes.

The maid knocked on the door on the day I was leaving, and handed me a feedback form and pointed to the part where I was to put any 'other' comments. She then proceeded to very animatedly tell me something in Korean. When I looked at her in confusion, she rushed out a brought her colleague with her who then explained to me, in Korean with two English words ('name' and 'maid') and plenty of gestures, that I was to mention the maid's name in the feedback form. I thought it was wonderful that the maid knew with absolute certainty that the feedback would be positive.

And, just so I wouldn't have to goggle again, I took the shuttle from the hotel to the airport (only 13000 Won)!

Helmets and Insurance

Save your head, they say.
Insure your life, they say.
Insure your apartment, they say.
Stick your middle finger at fate, they say.

Round The Bend

and over the hill...

Summer. Seven years ago. How we laughed as we hiked around Nainital! The winding road to Kilbury took us round many bends and over a few hills.

That summer was like something out of one of Gerald Durrell's books. Idyllic - is that the word I'm looking for?

Our ages said that we weren't children any more, but for those two weeks, in our hearts, we were. The blue skies, the breeze through the trees, the butterflies dancing in the garden. What wouldn't I give to be that person again!

Well, I've gone round many bends since then, and over many hills....

Elephant Diwali

The elephants came on the eve of Diwali. They weren't greeted with lights as Ram and Sita were greeted by the people of Ayodhya so many aeons ago. Sal and I were sleeping. Tension, our dog alarm, announced their arrival with a volley of loud barks. If he weren't so scared of snakes, maybe I wouldn't have mistaken his excitement for the escape of the cobra from its box (its fangs are still growing back after its encounter with a snake-charmer). Arghh... if only I had looked out of the window instead of into the snake box!

So our guests stopped ten metres short of the room where I was serenading the stars with my snores. They left their calling cards and left - the flattened electric fence, a peepal tree we can't find and elephant dung everywhere. The recently built hide was left intact (perhaps my snoring scared them off!).

We wished they would return. We spent Diwali patrolling the quarry scanning the tree line for the hulking shadows that would signal their return. But they'd moved on.

And so we watched the crackers from our vantage point, cursed the people sending up huge clouds of sulphurous fumes into the already smoggy air, and wished each other a Happy Diwali (neither of us is Hindu). And we wished that the people would give the money that they burned every Diwali to the poor. Yes, there is employment in manufacturing the crackers, but must surviving be so hazardous?

The Grey-headed Mynas (Sturnus Malabaricus Malabaricus) turned up on the owlet tree. The White-throated Fantail Flycatcher (Rhipidura albicollis) has been in our sights for a while. And the skulking Blue-faced Malkoha (Phaenicophaeus viridirostris) has kept me amused with its carnival mask-like face.