Life along a dusty trail: Thuds, shrieks and the occasional peehooo

The red-breasted coppersmith barbet is a persistent bird. Not as persistent as the lapwing perhaps, but persistent nevertheless. This morning it sits on the lowermost branch of the Siris (Albizia lebbeck) tree and begins its hammering metronomic call, which goes on for the better part of a minute, till it manages to bring back its mate that was busy scouting possible nesting options in the nearby branches.

The shikra, perched on one of the higher branches of the tamarind tree watches this relentless spurt of energy with the studied indifference that characterises similar birds of prey. A rat’s sudden squeak arrests its attention. Shifting its weight on its rufous belly, the muscular bird moves with the sun. An iridescent sunbird perched on the nearest cluster of flowers, its curved beak poised over a petal, is slightly taken aback by this sudden swoop of motion.

The green and yellow parakeets are not to be bothered. Every morning a large company descends on the nearest neem tree and creates a pandemonium that no other member of the avian family could possibly match. The important business of foraging and feeding takes a savage turn as squabbling birds rent the morning calm with their conflict-ridden shrieks. And then all of a sudden, as if seized by panic—much like a housewife who’s realised that she’s left her wallet back at the greengrocer’s—the group of birds take flight, creating an animated, viridescent arrow in the early morning sky.

The Spring Sonata

The wind picks up the leaves, creating swirls and eddies in the late afternoon sun. Butterflies flit through the garlic shoots, reflecting for a moment to stay. The crow, insistent on the tamarind branch, surveys the world with beady, supercilious eyes. Down below, cavorting squirrels lose themselves in an amorous game of loving and letting.

It's almost over—the slow, blurry days of winter. You can feel it: the season preparing reluctantly for its farewell, occasionally bringing in cold winds from the north, more as afterthought than rebound. Warm, dry days trumpet their arrival—the wind prodigiously shaking gnarled branches, littering red soil with tattered russet leaves.

And then there is the sky—the vast dome that stretches far and wide dipping gently into the horizon. As the afternoon sun completes its daily run and slowly fades out, smearing the western edge of the mountains with pastel hues, the sky above begins to put out its show. Hours pass, darkness envelopes the land. But above, constellations appear, one by one—their shimmering brilliance quietly drawing us away from ourselves, nudging us to reflect on life's provenance and inevitability.

The village is in the midst of harvesting the season's first crop. Days begin with men, women and children bundling themselves into any available transport that will drop them off to the fields. The soundscape crackles with improvised film songs and exuberance of children that promise to break the monotony. All through the day tractors ply back and forth carrying the day's labour to weighing stands, where produce and price will change hands. For many, it appears, this has been a bountiful year. 

Life along a dusty trail: Of russet tones and cattle-bell gossip

Another place, another existence. Here one finds the horizon layered with brilliant ochre tones, as  the line of vision slowly settles on the undulated mountain ranges. Rows of low mudwalled houses bounded by beige stones from the nearby river, cattle occupying the primary thoroughfare with nary a care in the world, air heavy with the scent of soil and its produce—all create snapshots in sepia of this ancient landmass.

It is a life primarily of sharing—sharing one’s space, one’s stories. The village gathers along the dusty path that brings in news and gossip, and the daily requirements of everyday life. Buses from the nearest city come in a few times during the day, bearing more noise and even more dust. To the fatigued city-bred ear, early morning tinkle of cattle bells is the only welcome note of harmony in this seemingly dissonant rural outpost.

When does a place start to feel like home? Will the itinerant soul ever pause here? Feel settled? Only time will tell.

The midway home

I

The leaves echo the sound of the falling rain, turning a monotonous afternoon into a soothing lullaby. Evenings descend unnoticed, and slowly dissolve into the darkening woods. Birds returning to their nests try to raise the occasional cheer but can merely manage something close to a cacophony. Nights bring lonely notes from the perching owl or a sudden reminder from the scurrying rat, when all has gone to sleep.

II

Sitting on a comfortable sofa on her last night in the house, she lets life slip through the unravelled weave of time. This house-with-a-garden luxury in the southernmost fringe of the city came to her quite unexpectedly, six months back, as she was preparing herself for another trying journey back home from office. Destiny, disguised as pseudo-benevolence, flung a chance; her impulse made the plunge.

The neat little dwelling with its beige exterior and red borders appealed to her the very moment she set foot in it. But, surprisingly, on the very first night after moving in, as she was looking at the neat mothballed shelves filled with essentials to start her new life, she experienced a deep feeling of abandonment gnawing inside her. Did she do the right thing, choosing this life at a sparsely-populated neighbourhood in a remote corner of the city in place of her warm and familiar dwelling in the suburbs? Would the new neighbourhood be kind enough to help her settle down?

However, by the time she woke up next morning, the cloud of niggling doubt had dissipated. The sight of groggy children boarding their school bus and carefree adolescents chattering their way to the tuition class were enough to bring in the easy sense of familiarity and soothe her frayed nerves.

III

Since then, each day she has woken up to mint-fresh mornings, filled with snatches of conversation between morning walkers or the thudding sound of footsteps of the lone jogger ambling past. Newspapers reach pretty late in this part of the city but the morning tea has never failed to arrive with the day's news, brought in by vegetable sellers and fishmongers who knocked daily with their wares.

Being on the fringe of a rural hinterland, the place enjoys benefits of a village life. She muses with regret that moving out from the house will deprive her from enjoying the experience of buying farm-fresh vegetables and poultry at incredibly low prices. She will surely miss the hamper of supplies that her next door neighbour has occasionally brought in to sell to generate some extra income. Over the months she has learnt to cherish these visits with almost child-like glee as they have also filled her in with local news.

IV

Through days and months, she has filled her spare time seeking vicarious pleasure watching people live their lives. The family that has amused her the most lives right next door. The man manages a jatra group, a roving play troupe, which mostly performs high-strung social plays with hilarious titles. Leading a peripatetic life and handling emotions of colourful characters in uncertain situations have given him a pacifist’s temperament. His wife, a polar opposite of the man, is a motor-mouth in her own right. As she barely gets to see him, she spends most of her time complaining about her relations, and life in general, in a high-pitched drone, while tending the flower pots and provides thorough entertainment to those who care to lend an ear.

Their son, a twenty-something know-it-all, sees no reason in attending college when he has found perfect pleasure in playing the street Romeo, roaming around on his two-wheeler. Secretly, he harbours the hope of inheriting his father's troupe one day and making plenty of money, banking on the acumen of trusted members, rather than on his own hard work.

Days, when the three of them get together, the house springs into sudden festivity — the wife makes special dishes and bemoans the tribulations that life has thrust on her, while the husband dodges the jabs with good humour, suggesting her to marry off her son and put an end to all her troubles. The boy on his part throbs with excitement to know that very soon he'll be able to abandon the uninteresting life of adolescents and play an active part in the world of grown-ups, and that too with a woman to call his own.

Just opposite her house stands an imposing two-storeyed building that remains locked most of the time, its stuccoed walls and tall columns reminiscent of the life of its owner, once spent in foreign shores. The husband-wife duo, built the house as a weekend retreat amidst sylvan surroundings, far from the din of the city. However, as both remain busy with their respective lives in two different parts of the globe, the house rarely gets to see its much-loved visitors. The sole occupant now is the caretaker-cum-gardener who makes sure that the dwelling never loses its splendour. Secretly, he longs for Lady Luck to shower her blessings, so that he can inherit the house, once the innings of the childless couple is over.

V

The things strewn all around the room bring back the moment. Six months after moving in, destiny has chosen to wield its caprice, yet another time. She’d have to leave the house and the job as well that brought her here. Preoccupied with packing her life back again into boxes and bags, she asks herself, how she feels. The answer comes with such razor-sharp clarity that, for a moment, it surprises her. For the first time she realises that in her effort to be a great voyeur, she has actually missed out on the opportunity of striking up any meaningful relationship with the place. Surely, the life here might have allowed her to weave her own stories, but these are stories where she will never feature. Being pathologically shy, she has always eschewed real contact with people, the kind of association that leaves lasting memories and makes parting painful. But the gloomy moment does not last long. Soon the restive wanderer in her feels the mad rush of excitement, as once again the prospect of exploring new pads, new windows and new lives beckons her. Reason enough to feel cheerful and get going!

Snapshots in sepia: Parts VI and VII

VI

Along, our next stop, greeted us with the familiar bustle of a busy town; and after the wilderness and desolation of Tuting, seemed like a much-needed relief. Our intial plan was to take the next available transport out of Along and head to another jaw-dropping destination --- Mehchuka. However, by then the election campaign was gearing up with full gusto, so much so that the hotel where we had checked into in Along was full beyond its gills, block-booked by election camapaigneers for the next month or so. With a possibility of being stranded in a remote place looming large, we dropped the idea of going to Mehchuka and decided to move towards Guwahati from where we were to take the flight back to Kolkata.

Being the district headquarters of the West Siang district, Along witnesses a lot of activity throughout the day, mostly centred around the town square, which is where all the government offices are located. A quick walk led us to an enclosed space, where people were celebrating Durga puja. As a banner revealed, the puja was started way back in 1953 by Bengalis who mostly had come here as government officials. Over the years, this has become an occasion for all the people of the neighbourhood to assemble and make merry, brushing aside feelings of animosity or grudge that otherwise cloud the relationship between the tribals and the settlers. Interestingly, here in Arunachal, the idol has slight Mongoloid features and resembles the famed beauties of Upper Assam.

VII

The broad sweep of the mighty Brahmaputra valley came into view and, immediately after, came the checkpost. This was the last time we had to

get our ILPs stamped, that would proclaim our departure from Arunachal. From here we were to cross over to Silapathar, the border town in Assam and take the night bus to Guwahati. As the mid-afternoon heat licked the jeep's windows, I realised with a sudden bout of longing that the trip had come to an end. Sure, it had its share of uncertainties, the trials and tribualtions. But long after the grudges go to rest and quotidian concerns colour life, memory will occasionally fiddle with the snapshots in sepia, evoking the awe-inspiring beauty of a land filled with mist and mystery and a diminishing tribe of ever-warm and hospitable people.

Give me another trip to Arunachal any day!

Fact of the matter

The itinerary

Kolkata (by flight) ----> Dibrugarh (by boat across the Brahmaputra and then a 3-hr bus ride) -----> Pasighat (shared Sumo) ----> Yinkiong (shared Sumo) -----> Tuting (shared Sumo) ----> Yinkiong (shared Sumo) ----> Along (shared Sumo) --------> Silapathar (night bus of Green Valley bus service, fabulous) ------> Guwahati (flight) ----> Kolkata

Accomodation (all mid-range, 2010 rates)

Dibrugarh --- Hotel Devika (Rs 850)

Pasighat ----- Hotel Aane (Rs 900)

Yinkiong ---- Hotel Libang (the only-available decent accommodation, Rs 350)

Tuting ---- Inspection Bungalow PWD

Along --- Hotel Aagam (Rs 400)

Snapshots in sepia: Part V

"Beware of dumdings, they are tiny but can really give you a very nasty itch," cautioned our jeep driver when we got down for lunch at a small wayside shack the next day. Lunch would mean rice, dal and desi chicken curry (broiler chicken is looked down upon here!), all pepped up by the famous chilly, bhoot jolokia. For a change, the rains had let up and the bright blue sky dazzled behind white wispy clouds. We were on our way to Tuting, the last destination on this leg of the journey. From there we had decided to go down to Along and follow the road to Mehchuka. Tuting is also the last roadhead on that route and if you are keen to visit Singa, a village some 80 km away from Tuting and home to the famed musk deer, you have to walk your way to it.

I've grown up with stories about the jungles along the eastern border of India. As our Sumo negotiated the mountain terrain, I now got to see them in their monsoon splendour. These jungles are home to exotic flora and fauna, a few of which are endemic to this part of the world. Apart from the view of an exquisite landscape, the road trip itself offers practical lessons on the lives of the local people, their habits, the things they use, for example, the wonderful bamboo baskets and the unique bamboo umbrella. On the whole, the journey can be educating as well as entertaining and will easily make you forget the little glitches and discomforts that are integral to a trip to most parts of Arunachal.

Tuting is one of the remotest towns in India (try Googling it and see what that yields!). The town has no electricty (the only turbine conked off and was yet to be repaired back then).

Most non-tribals are government officials who see their carrer in Tuting as punishment posting and find the merest excuse of seeking transfer. Even the Arunachalis that one meets at the BDO office are quite disillusioned and want to get back to their home terrain at the slightest pretext. "It's great to come for a short trip here but try staying for more than

a week and you're likely to lose your mind," was the sentiment echoed by most of the non-tribal residents whom we met here. The only accommodation available for tourists is the PWD inspection bungalow, for which a written permission from the PWD department / BDO office at Tuting is a must.

This being the election season in Arunachal, getting transport was extremely difficult, as most Sumos that are the lifeline of Arunachal's

transport system, were being pulled out and used for election campaign. We got panicky as we came to know that the next available Sumo would not leave before a week. Not knowing how to get out of the place, we began trying all possible modes of transport -- from supply trucks to helicopters. During one such frantic hunt we met a kind soul, who moved by our plight not only gave us a lift down to Yinkiong, but also offered his home for the night stay. Speak of Indian hospitality!

Snapshots in sepia: Parts III and IV

III

Pasighat is Arunachal's oldest town, established by the British in 1911, and is the headquarter of the East Siang district. It serves as a gateway to the rest of the state and it is from here that we were to board the shared jeep that would take us to our next destination -- Yinkiong, a town some 200 km from Pasighat.

A local transport strike forced us to stay in Pasighat for an extra day that I duly spent hiking through lush hill tracts and watching women in their colourful wraparounds and parasols go about their day's business.

On a day washed out by spells of moderate-to-heavy rains and made inactive by the bandh, these minor distractions provided the much-needed relief.

IV

My jaw dropped when I saw the driver of our jeep, a boy barely out of his teens. From my erstwhile trips to northern Himalayas, I was used to seeing hatta katta Punjabis/Jats behind the wheel, negotiating hairpin bends on difficult mountain terrains, and, hence was least expecting an adolescent to drive the jeep. Very soon, however, as we set out on our journey, all my doubts were put to rest; I realised we were in safe hands.

We were a motley bunch travelling to Yinkiong, all eight others in the group of ten were either officers in some government department or traders travelling on work. We, the only two "outsiders", were hence of immense interest to them. They just couldn't believe that anyone could come to Yinkyong just for a pleasure trip. All kinds of tales were traded as our co-passengers wished us luck and safety for our trip that, as we eventually came to know, happened to coincide with the election season in Arunachal.

By then my morale had touched rock bottom. The driving force that kept me going was the spectacular landscape and also the thought that we were now at the point of no return, and the only wise act would be to just move forward and cross bridges as they came. And bridges we surely did cross!

The monsoon season is not a good time to visit this part of the country, even if you love the rains.

There are chances of being held up due to mudslides or the hanging bridges being washed away by the rains. Sometimes it might be too risky just to travel in such weather. The brighter side is that you get to see the mighty Siang, that skirts the Pasighat-Yinkiong road, in all its elements and are able to freeze plenty of Kodak moments. "Beautiful" would be an understatement while describing this route, "mesmerising" would near-about qualify it.

Power supply in Arunachal is sporadic at best and non-existent at worst, which is an irony since Arunachal has the potential of being one of the largest hydel-power-producing states in India. Most places, if they are not too remote like Tuting, receive power for only a few hours in the evening. When we reached Yinkiong, the sleepy hill town was settling down to another evening of darkness and rain. Desolation was creeping in and for a moment I found myself asking, "What am I doing here?" Just then, the bright blue signboard of SBI Yinkyong came into view. Somehow in the remoteness of the situation that ubiquitous sign seem strangely re-assuring, making me feel that I was in "known territory".

Snapshots in sepia: Part II

There are a couple of entry points to the state. We chose the one through Dibrugarh in Assam that would entail a 2hr boatride through the mighty Brahmaputra and take us to Pasighat in Arunachal. Negotiating a treacherous mud bank to reach the boat prepared me for a trip that would see many such challenges and me doing the constant balancing act. As bouts of rain lashed the steel grey landscape and a sea-like river rocked our deceptively simple motor boat, I sent a silent prayer to that invisible hand, who creates and nurtures such formidable beauty.

Travel, at times, instils a sense of deja vu. Two completely disparate places, far removed from each other, can seem so eerily familiar that you are left wondering whether you've got your geographical coordinates right. We had landed on the other shore quite unharmed but uncomfortably drenched, and here we were on a bus speeding towards Pasighat along NH-37, the highway that crisscrosses emerald green ricefields, rises above swollen rivers and provides some of the most spectacular views that closely resemble the lush landsacpes of South Goa. Hence the deja vu act!

However, the semblance ended there. I was soon brought back to circa 2010 by a gaggle of voices -- two women animatedly discussing a family wedding in Assamese, a little girl talking to her mother in a sing-song dialect and the bus conductor going around asking for tickets in Hindi. The bus soon came to a halt and a man clad in khaki got on to check our ILPs. We had entered the East Siang district in Arunachal Pradesh and the red-and-green ramparts of the border checkpost was proudly proclaiming the same.

Snapshots in sepia: A fortnight's trail through rains, rivers and occasional melancholia

I

I did not know what to expect of Dibrugarh, a town on the banks of the Brahmaputra that is famed for its tea industry, and our first stop of what was going to be literally a journey into the unknown.We had decided to backpack our way through parts of Arunachal Pradesh, through places that usually do not fall in the regular "tourist circuit". In fact, the Eicher India Map is not much of a help when it comes to providing information about these places; it merely mentions the names of places, leaving one to wonder whether going there would actually mean falling off the map!

A land shrouded in mist and mystery, Arunachal Pradesh till quite recently was out of bounds for the "regular tourist". One had to travel in groups, as individual travellers were not issued Inner Line Permits (ILPs), a prerequisite if one has to travel through the terrain. Though situations have changed greatly, yet till date, whatever little information one gathers about this area is mostly from blogs of foreigners. The regular "tourist" still restricts herself to the Tawang-Bomdila-Bhalukphung circuit. Nature lovers at best try to squeeze in the fascinating Namdapha Sanctuary. We, on a whim, decided to give the usual touristy trails a miss and choose an off-the-beaten track instead.

However, it soon appeared that preparing an itenerary for such a trip would be quite a daunting task. Even though we could manage to chalk out a tentative route, we still failed to find accommodation for most of the places. As it turned out, the places that we were planning to visit didn't have private accommodation on rent, or so said "Google". The only available places to stay were inspection bunglows meant for sarkari karmacharis (public servants) of various departments and one needed proior permission to stay there. Sarkari connection was hard to come by for us and not having much time left, we decided to bank on the much-talked-about hospitality of the people of the region and the blessings of the Uparwallah in general. Not a very comfortable thought to start a trip with!

Myriad musings on a moody Monday

The day dawned like any other Monday, only I was a little peckish, nursing an irritable mood. It was the day of the maha rally that the red brigade had organised, a show stopper of a rally that the ruling party was too eager to flaunt after the crushing defeat in the Lok Sabha elections. This meant that it would again be a day of disruptions—traffic snarls and such other woes that plague the daily commuter to Kolkata. Chaos and Kolkata were slowly becoming synonymous, I sadly mulled, where it was almost impossible to function seamlessly. Most metros in the country hadn't even heard of the hurdles that one has to overcome in the city everyday, let alone experienced them.

It didn’t help when I turned to the day’s newspaper. It didn’t help either when I took up the novel that I had been reading last night, a depressing account about convoluted Japanese psyche. I was about to give in to a day of restlessness, when as an afterthought I logged on to the net. I started surfing absent-mindedly, and before long I realised that I had arrived on the homepage of South China Morning Post, the English daily that is published from Hong Kong.

I do not why but I have always liked the name of this daily and have associated happy images with it. Quite curiously, the name to me is reminiscent of an early morning sun filtering through window slats, creating small pools of light on a century-old mahogany table, where a steaming hot cup of coffee gives off its freshly-brewed aroma. It’s amazing just how a few words or a phrase can conjure up images, in such photographic precision. And believe it or not, just that very instant, my mood started to lift up, as I visualised myself in that room sitting at the table sipping coffee with an early morning edition of the newspaper in hand.

While I was lost in my own musings, the light outside had started to change. Soon it grew dark and thunderclaps resounded through the morning air. Within minutes the muggy morning changed its contours, broad brushstrokes of liquid hues airbrushed the sky and fat raindrops came lashing down. Suddenly, all was well again with the world! Is it not for this ability to spring such surprises that I love my Kolkata? And sure, for once, I was not complaining.

Mongoose in my garden

Life in the suburbs has quite a few luxuries: a room with a view of a lush garden is one among them. Days when I am not spending my time scurrying about, I usually park myself beside the window and eavesdrop on the lives of other inhabitants who also claim the house and the garden their own.

It’s seven in the morning on a lazy Sunday. The sky is laden with thick monsoon clouds. But as the morning sun spreads its first tentative rays, it’s time for the noisy parakeets to assume an important air and perch themselves on the branches of the guava tree. They are definitely the ones to devour the choicest fruits first before anyone else can lay claim. Breakfast done, they take off in the same vein, condescendingly giving way to the remaining claimants.

Meanwhile, the dove has decided to linger a while on the window ledge. But a pair of robins is determined to break its morning reverie. Reluctantly, it shifts to the edge but feeling outnumbered, finally makes way for another pair. The mynah and its pair have decided to check out the rooftop flower pots first before venturing into the slushy foliage beneath. The monsoon rain promises a hearty breakfast, much more than they can stomach.

The day is wearing on, the kingfisher doesn’t consider it worthwhile to waste any more time. Perched decidedly with an intent air, it makes its first swoop of the day and comes out with a wriggling, glistening piece from the pond below. The woodpecker, meanwhile, sports a contented look as the rainy season has made its job easier, almost like bagging a free lunch.

Once the furry friends have feasted to their fill, it’s time for the mongoose family to start looking for breakfast. Mother mongoose, with two babies in tow, scampers through the garden and takes charge of its delights for the next hour or so. It’s now time for me to back off from the window—for Ma Mongoose has caught a mid-sized snake and would loathe to be eavesdropped—and leave them to their lip-smacking meal, while I go and get my second round of morning tea and perhaps a slice of that hot walnut cake which has just been brought out from the oven.

Blurb bytes

A nasty fall has severely restricted my movements and has kept me homebound for the past one week. The bright side of it is that I have been catching up on my reading, three hefty titles of which I have managed to devour only two. Two of the books have been discovered by accident (all good reads usually are) the third is a worthy buy after a recommendation. Below is a sneak peek at the covers and what lie between them.

The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng (Myrmidon 2007, £12.99)
Long listed for the 2007 Man Booker Prize, this amazing debut novel by a Malaysian novelist is set in the backdrop of World War II, in the lush tropical island of Penang. A story of trust and betrayal, state connivance and individual integrity, The Gift of Rain heralds a promising voice emerging from post-colonial Southeast Asia.

Map of the Invisible World by Tash Aw (HarperCollins Publishers India 2009, Rs 450)
Tash Aw, another gifted writer from Malaysia, gained literary prominence when his debut novel The Harmony Silk Factory received a Commonwealth writer’s Prize for Best First Novel and was longlisted for the (2006?) Man Booker Prize. Set in post-colonial Indonesia, Map of the Invisible World, his second novel, documents the initial days of Sukarno’s regime through the lives of Adam, an orphan in search of his identity; Johan, Adam’s elder brother, who has been separated from him and now leads a life of decadent privilege in Malaysia in the care of his foster parents ; Karl, a Dutch who raised Adam and is captured by soldiers, a victim of Sukarno’s cleansing drive to rid the island nation of its colonial remnants; and Margaret the American anthropologist and a friend of Karl’s who’s caught up in the crosscurrents of events while trying to help Adam find Karl. A painful account of a nation in transition.

Recipe for Cherubs by Babs Horton (Pocket Books 2008, £5.24)
Many a time I have judged a book by its cover (literally) and haven’t rued my decision later. This book was one such, whose lovely cover, the amusing name of the author and finally the blurb lured me into picking it up. And wasn’t I only too glad. A sleepy Welsh village with castles and lighthouses, a 200-year-old part-recipe-part-Renaissance-art book from Italy and a 13-year-old can be recipe for such a good read that even a seemingly slow reader like me could finish it (416 pp.) in two days flat! Took me back to the days of under-cover late-night reading sessions, oh so long ago. It was truly yesterday once more!

High at 28

For some time now, the West is tying to put its finger on one of the most illusive emotions of the human psyche—happiness. “Happiness” is hogging media space like never before, and just loving it. Hence, we get to read stories that tell us British women feel happiest at 28.

According to BBC reports, scientists claim that they have evolved a formula to measure happiness and can tell us exactly what will make us happy. The report also goes on to say that though Britain is much wealthier than what it used to be fifty years back, its inhabitants are much less happier. That wealth is not directly proportional to the happiness which one experiences, is a much established fact.

Several studies are now being conducted to fathom what exactly leads to a happy state of mind. Interestingly, most of these reveal that countries like Bhutan or Costa Rica–whose GDP is way below than the coveted figure–are the happiest ones. I wouldn’t risk being judgemental about this whole exercise of “happiness hunting”. Rather, it would be nice to hear from all of you your take on this.

The floor is yours.

Yesterday once more

It’s yesterday once more .... and quite literally so! Have joined the grind again and though the blues haven’t started hitting as yet, nevertheless things are pretty daunting at the moment. A sampler.
Scene I: Shaking myself out of waning REM sleep at 5 (yes morning! What did you think?).
Scene II: Trying to find a desperate toehold in an overcrowded morning train. Being jolted out of the remains of morning slumber by a live fisticuff scene (women’s empowerment at its best... fight and let the fight go on!).
Scene III: Patting myself for not losing my temper with foul-mouthed, grouchy auto-drivers.
Scene IV: Reminding myself to babysit recalcitrant 15-year-olds, while trying to teach them the intricacies of tense and subjunctives.
Well this is life and the list goes on... Wish me luck!

Bidding adieu to office blues!

I am destiny’s child (or so I would like myself to believe) and impulse is my driving force. Calculated contemplation was never my strong point and thank god for that. Ideally I’d like to be the master of my own time, but in today’s age of plummeting economy and skyrocketing inflation, this seems like the most atrocious wish of a severely pampered child.

Hence, after some deliberation, I’ve developed a convenient middle path for myself. I keep taking a break from economic enterprise (woe falleth on the Economists of the world who consider housework as non-economic activity) once in a while to indulge myself in the freewheeling state of being footloose and fancyfree.

Keeping this tradition alive I’ve decided to call it a day in Bangalore. I know doing so at this point in life is committing professional hara-kiri. But then, I was never given to seeing my life as a balance sheet (cynics can term it as being impractical).

Right now I am quite excited to go back and slip into the new role of a dutiful housewife, cooking lau chingri and kochchu shaak with gusto. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to doing things that I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Who knows, given my predilection for throwing up surprises, there’s a high chance of you seeing me somewhere that you’d never ever expected to! Keep guessing ;) …

(PS. Tonight it’s wine and cheese and everyone’s invited. :) )

Lit-beat's latest pin-up boy

For those of us, who follow the works of Indian writers writing in English, this year has been phenomenally providential. There have been three major releases so far Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri, The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie and the recent Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. Each writer is a literary heavyweight in her own right but none has received so much media attention as Amitav Ghosh.

Gone are the days when Amitav Ghosh used to be published by the venerable Ravi Dayal. Most of his books then used to be released quietly, without much ado, at the most allowed an academic response in one of the few serious newspapers (as the content would hardly arrest the attention of non-serious readers of fiction).

Not so any more. With a well-known publisher talking over the literary rights, Amitav Ghosh has now been ordained with the mantle of Indian fiction’s most printable face. Since the past few weeks so much of print and air-space have been accorded to Sea of Poppies that people who follow Ghosh’s literary trail quite closely know all that’s there to know about the book and can hold forth in a party conversation without even turning a single leaf.

This leads me to wonder, how beneficial media excess is after all, if it leads us away from the real thing. All said and done, the writer needs to reach out to his readers through his works. Media can facilitate that process to a certain extent but should restrain itself from going into an overkill. Honestly speaking, I do not want to read any more interviews of Amitav, nor do I want to read any dust-jacket-based hastily-cobbled-up review of the book. Simply put, I want the BOOK now to talk to me. Others please step aside, will they?

It's Osian Cinefan Film Fest once again!

After the verbal diarrhoea that assailed me in May, June was spent in relative calm, mostly trying to rid myself of all unwanted emotional baggage accumulated over the past few months, an emotional summer-cleaning if you please.

With July the sporadic showers are back again and so are summer treats like mangoes and jamuns. It’s also that time of the year when Delhi experiences an eleven-day film extravaganza in the form of Osian Cinefan Film Festival.This year the festival is from 10 - 20 July. For those who need some cuing-in, Osian Cinefan is a film festival dedicated to Arab and Asian cinema. Started by Aruna Vasudevan and her movie-loving friends, nine years ago, the film festival is now supported by Osian, the auction-house owned by Nevile Tulli.

Osian Film Fest for me in a single snapshot means sauntering through glittering venues richly decorated with cine artefacts, grabbing an almost-stale patty/sandwich while rushing from one Sirifort auditorium to another, shedding copious amount of tears in a dark auditorium, marvelling at the young directors and their repertoire, secretly wishing to be part of a film production, catching a Makhmalbaf flick in between edit meets and proof reading (thank God office was just a walk away!), and desperately trying to find an auto after a late-night screening and walking back 5 km at 1 am through Delhi’s deserted streets.

As I write this I fight back the intense urge to rush and book a ticket to Delhi (S is to be blamed for steering me clear of it.) Helplessly I click through this year’s schedule and try and live those days, clinging to memories’ unfaltering support. Wish me luck!

Chocolate gateaux, Truffaut and the first May showers

Fast facts first.

• Francoise Truffaut, born in 1932 (6 February), was one of the leading French directors in a genre called new wave cinema.
• He started out as a film critic and later began making his own films.
• Convinced by the idea that a film is primarily an impression of a director’s style (auteur theory), Truffuat left a distinct mark in world cinema.
• Orson Welles inspired him to make his first film “The 400 Blows”, heavily borrowed on his own life experiences, that was released to much critical acclaim.
• Besides “The 400 Blows” some of his other films include “Jules and Jim”, “Shoot the Piano Player”, “Bed and Board”, “Two English Girls”, “Day for Night” (Best Foreign Film Oscar, 1973), and “Small Change” (Golden Globe nomination for Best Foreign Film).
• Truffaut died in 1984 (21 October).

My first tete-a-tete with Truffaut (alack, only through his films) happened as a happy coincidence. Those were the days when I used to be the master of my time. On such a hot May afternoon, while gallivanting Delhi’s streets, I found myself on a quiet tree-lined avenue, near India International Centre, looking askance at a sepia-tinted poster of a handsome man in a beret, posing in front of a camera.

But such was the arresting pose of the person that my oblique attention gave way to a deep probe. As it turned out, Alliance Francaise was screening a retrospective of this auteur and, like most Delhi events, entry was free. Now, the magic of the silver screen has never failed to seduce me. Hence, I happily made my way to the auditorium, and immediately got immersed in the son et lumiere of Traffaut’s cine world.

That May afternoon remains etched in my memory for a variety of reasons. Primarily because I discovered Truffaut’s cine magic and secondly because that evening I had a taste of my first chocolate gateaux, soaked in the annihilating lust of Mathilde’s relationship with Bernard (“Woman Next Door”). And as I was making my way out of Alliance, silently sending a prayer for an afternoon well spent, I was completely caught unawares by the first (read: sudden) showers of the season. Cinema, cakes and walking through laburnum-strewn streets on a rain-drenched evening … what more could I have asked for!

About time

There was once a little girl who placed her trust on this big bad world, unconditionally, without a trace of doubt. For, never in her wildest dreams did she foresee that one day she’d have to pay a price, a price so dear that she'd be left scarred for life.

Cut to a room full of men and women, twenty to sixty years of age. A workshop is in progress. Everyone is asked to recall an incident, a moment in their childhood when they felt physically violated. Nine out of ten people in a sample size of two-hundred report in the affirmative. And yes you’ve read it right, it can happen to males as well.

Paedophilia is no longer a kinky headline in a daily, happening in far flung places. It’s very much a part of our social reality. In fact it always has been, only that it was never reported. Reports say, most cases of paedophilia never go addressed primarily because they never make their way out of family closets. Because of this, what could have been a minor infection, possibly set right by a single dose of antibiotic, has now become a full-blown case of incurable gangrene, so much so that screen narratives (Mira Nair’s “Monsoon Wedding”, Madhur Bhandarkar’s “Page 3”) and print accounts (Pinky Virani’s “Bitter Chocolate”) now deem fit to address, albeit in small measures, this social scourge.

Very few countries have addressed the problem of paedophilia publicly. One country that has taken bold and positive steps about it is the tiny warn-torn Sri Lanka (yes incredible, isn’t it?). Its Family Welfare Department has been regularly issuing posters for parents, teachers and older children to make them aware of this malaise. Children are encouraged to talk about it, confide in their parents and teachers if they are abused. Adults are counselled on how to exactly deal with a child who’s been traumatized by any such incident. Taking the cue from its neighbour, the Indian government is slowly breaking free from its shell. The recent visuals/adverts on Doordarshan usher a welcome and much-awaited change.

It is something that has happened to me. It is something that has happened to a lot of people I know. Your child (God forbid) can be the next victim. Get vigilant. Act now!

No laughing matter this

Well it’s official now. Somewhere between driving ourselves to achieving that elusive bottomline and managing to stay just above the deluge that comes in the name of work, we have lost our sense of humour. But believe me we, as Indians, had loads of it! At least that’s what our folklore tells me.

But that was a long, long time ago. Long before the bane of globalization hadn't crept in and made competition a dirty word. Laughing at yourself and the world at large was not considered inappropriate (read: uncouth) then. As a matter of fact, court jesters were held responsible to keep the king’s head in place and inject good cheer and commonplace wisdom into the lives of people as well. Had it not been for court wits like Birbal and Gopal Bhand, Akbar and Raja Krishnachandra would have become grumpy old men, not kings of repute they are known to be now. Life is indeed not funny at the top, and court jesters knew that only too well.

Fast forward to the twentieth century and the picture is far from being a happy one. Trust Bollywood to tickle your funny bone and all you get is ribald, slapdash humour in return. Look to your colleagues, with whom you spend most of your waking hours, for mirth and you draw a blank there as well.

Laughter is not a well-coordinated exercise every morning, it is much more than that. A spontaneous outburst of joie de vivre when the boardroom is heaving under a cloud of stress, a glint of naughtiness in the eyes, a penchant to laugh at oneself when everyone thinks you’ve done a great job are what we sorely miss in our dying-to-reach-nowhere society. At least I do!