Golden mornings
The birds are chirping
Gulmohars in bloom
And we’re sweating
Summer’s here, summer’s here….
He was standing in the train. 7-years-old, maybe. His dusty hair was set rather neatly. Small nose. Watery eyes. Thick lips. Protruding chest. Skinny hands, which he stretched to catch the support rod in the train. His legs looked rather unusual — the knees were bulging out as though there were tennis balls behind the knee caps. The feet were normal, but they were black and grimy. The grime, in fact, looked fresh. One can only guess, but perhaps in a hurry to get into the train, he might have stepped into the slush of the narrow gutter between railway tracks.
But why was he rolling his lips inwards — you know, the way people do while fighting tears. Why? Why would a 7-year-old boy fight his tears? They are allowed to do that… even in public. Was it fear of attention? Sympathy?
There was no way of knowing, of course. It was then that he first looked at me. He was a brave boy. Scared at the moment, but brave nonetheless.
He was wearing a faded tee, torn at the armpits. The collar showed signs of wear too. The shorts were beige. Both were dirty. The print on the shirt was fading. But looking closely one could spot cartoon characters on the shirt. It was made for children. That’s when I noticed… the shirt fitted him rather well. The shirt was made for a 7-year-old.
There were 3 characters — papa, mummy, and a small boy. The boy had a doll in his hand. “Where is my Blankie?,” he demanded. There were some names written — only one was legible enough. “Ernie”. It seemed natural to assume that Ernie was the name of the little boy.
Did Ernie have parents like the Ernie on the tee-shirt? Had he ever held a doll. Demanded a blankie? It seemed unlikely. Else he would have run around even in that packed train, inconviniencing other passengers. He would have rushed to one window, soon gotten bored of the view, and hopped to the opposite window; lightly touching people’s knees for support as he moved between the seats with that unconsciousness that only a child can possess.
But Ernie made sure he wasn’t coming in anyone’s way. Too early in his life, he had learnt that the First Class compartment had no place for a grimy boy. He could stand there if he kept himself inconspicuous. He was rolling his lips, trying hard not to cry.
Dadar. Ernie got off the train. Where? One cannot guess. One will not follow Ernie’s fate. Ernie and his grimy feet are on their own.
It’s been a year since I started traveling. 18th February 2006, I was in the bylanes of Gulbarga, hunting desparetly for the tomb of Alauddin Hasan Gangu Bahman Shah – the first King of the Bahamani empire.
Do I miss those days. Well, there are moments when it feels like someone has put a hand within me and is squeezing my heart. In that one moment the air of Mumbai seems too stuffy… the crowds seem like a curse.
Someday — I don’t know when — I will take a break again. To travel. To photograph. To write a book. I have a strong feeling that this is my mission in life.
In the mean time, I am planning to revive my photography once again. I will start by taking photowalks. Alone, perhaps, in the beginning. But the utimate aim is to move along in a group taking photographs in and around Mumbai.
More later…
My fitness regime involves getting up at 6.30 am, having a quick wash, and going out for a walk by 7.00 am. I walk from home up to a point, and on my way back, I jog. The next day I sleep, without guilt content with my previous day’s regime. It takes me about 3 months to take another morning walk. I call this my Quarterly Fitness Regime.
Today, I went for a walk. Here’s what I saw…
I saw that the mornings are grey. I first came across the expression – grey morning – in JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. And I always used to wonder, what he meant. Mornings in my mind are always orange. It shocked me a bit hen I noticed it first in Nasik almost a year ago. Well, to this day ‘grey morning’ never fails to surprise me.
I saw an aged woman and a child begging on the road. The child was smiling for some reason. The old woman had a plastic bowl. She raised it as I passed. I think the bowl was brown. But I didn’t look; I went past them briskly with only a tinge of shame – not at anything in particular… or perhaps at my own well-being.
I saw people working out in a gym – men and women sweating it out on the treadmill. I always scoff at them. If you want to walk why not walk under the shades of the tree, or by the beach? If you want to cycle why not do it with an actual bicycle – feeling the cold wind on your face? I would never join a gym. You see, there’s no scheme that would fit my quarterly fitness regime.
I saw a kacha road sloping down into a thicket. The area I live in is built on what was once a hill. There are trees on wither side of the road, which slopes up and down; and there are S-bends now and then; there are mini bungalows too. In the early morning (when the sky is grey) my area looks like a quaint hill-station.
I saw a girl at the bus-stop. She was staring at me. I was immediately conscious of the hole in my shorts. But she probably didn’t know that. She was staring at my hair – I had forgotten to comb them before leaving.
I saw the Shanti Ashram bus-depot. It is a small depot. Bright red buses stand out starkly against the smooth grey concrete flooring. It’s a charming bus depot… one which will inspire you to take the bus.
I saw ladies selling juices that were green in colour – neem, karela, tulsi, or spinach, I don’t know. There was a motley group around the stall. I moved on.
I saw, on my way back, a group of ladies dressed in colourful salwar kameez walking, panting, and talking loudly. Muave, pink, orange and lime green – they added a splash of colour in that grey morning.
I saw, on my way back, rickshaw drivers trying their best to block the biting cold – wearing a shawl, pulling down their monkey caps, and, of course, driving slowly. Though I didn’t see them, I know that there are daredevils who will drive at jet speed without a thought for the shivering passenger.
I saw, on my way back, many not-so-well-to-do people taking a walk. I wondered why. I have met rickshaw drivers who have acidity problems and take Digene just like me. A taxi driver once instructed me about high blood pressure and also recommended a tablet he takes whenever he feels the BP is rising. Were the people who were walking also on a therapy? Isn’t having enough money a problem in itself?
I saw, on my way back, a rickshaw overcrowded with tiny tots on their way to school. Some were shivering, others had covered their head and years with a cloth (smart mummies!). They were wearing the typical school-blue coloured uniform – I have always felt that school-blue is too blue to be blue.
I saw, on my way back, an orange hue piercing the grey sky – the grey army seemed to be on a retreat. The sun was rising, and a new day was beginning… yet again.
Ruhaniyat, a two-day Sufi & Mystical music festival took place in Mumbai last weekend. I had been to the dress-rehearsal on behalf of DNA to speak to a few artists.
A small figure sat huddled in a plastic chair sipping something hot. “The artist is not feeling well”, I was informed. On the stage a group from Rajasthan – Kachra Khan and group – was rehearsing. The mike was turned off; the voice and sarangi notes wafted through giving the winter air a mystical tinge.
Later, I met the group which was just on stage. “All of us are from Barmer and Jaisalmer districts,” informed Manzoor Khan, the dholak player. The group consists two communities – Langas and Mangnyas. In the early days, Langas were patronized by the Mussalmans while Mangnyas were patronized by Rajput leaders.
But the two groups generally play together when they perform outside since differences between the two styles are minimal. Both communities live off their art. “We are called to entertain guests whenever there is a marriage, birthday, or any other festival. This is our profession… our business. We know nothing else,” says Khan.
Kachra Khan & group play Rajasthani Lok Sangeet and Sufiana music. Khan says that in the city they generally stick to popular folk numbers. But at Ruhaniyat, the Sufi & mystical music festival, the group has the license to perform songs written by Sufi saints like Bhulle Shah, Shah Abdul Latif, and Baba Farid. “Old songs have a lot of weight. The words carry a lot of meaning. It is a challenge to sing them.”
Even as we were speaking, the huddled figure got off the chair and came on stage. In one hand was an ektara and in the other a duggi. I couldn’t understand the lyrics, which were in Bengali. But it was not at all important – the melancholy, the joy were conveyed through the modulations in the voice and, of course, dancing – uncomplicated, yet rhythmic dancing.
“The dance lends more power to the voice,” explained Parvathy. She is part of Baul, a yogic tradition. Baul has different meanings. “It means wind. When you practice it for long hours, you get a special breath. But you could also say we become baul – madness.”
“Telling the words of the masters gives me joy. I am singing and hearing at the same time”, she said. Perhaps that was the reason why the headache and fever had disappeared after the rehearsal.
Parvathy was 16 years old when she started learning the art form. Later, the Bachelor of Fine Arts student at Shantiniketan found it impossible to follow University syllabus. She dropped out and immersed herself in Baul completely.
“Baul is a sort of rebellion by viraktas (detached people) against existing system. In Islam they are called Sufis,” informed Parvathy.
Ten groups will perform at Ruhaniyat this year. Their traditions are different. The instruments used by the groups will differ too… and so will the languages. The one thing they share is a desire to become one with God through song and dance.
As the famous Sufi poet Rumi puts it, “My place is placeless, my trace is traceless. No body, no soul, I am from the soul of souls. I have chased out duality, lived the two worlds as one. One I seek, one I know, one I see, one I call. He is the first, he is the last, he is the outer, he is the inner. Beyond “He” and “He is” I know no other.”
I have started reading Getting Things Done (GTD) by David Allen.
Now, I read all my books while traveling – in buses, trains, rickshaws – and there are, well, some books that I like to flaunt more than others; like Darwin’s Origin of Species, of which I managed to read about half a page.
On the other hand, I tried to hide GTD. I can feel eyes of fellow-passengers peeking at the book; their minds thinking “Oh… this guy is in need of self-help. Loser!”. And why do I know this? Because it is exactly the same thing I think when an eager-beaver holds up Shiv Khera’s You Can Win proudly in the local train — “Hide that you idiot!”. Some things - like your profound appreciation of Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi – should best be left in the closet.
So, why did buy this book? For one, I am not prejudiced against the self-help genre. But I am aware that bulk of the books are have nothing original to say. In fact, the only self-help book I read was the excellent Seven Habits of Highly Effective People by Stephen Covey. There are other good ones which I have never got around to reading, because there were other things to read.
But GTD struck a cord because the main point David Allen makes is something I have been pondering about — meaning I have recognised the such a problem exists, but haven’t gotten around to defining it yet.
It is very easy to act busy when you are working in an organisation – you can always blame the routine work for not implementing that great idea you had… something that is fulfilling like a trek, or gyming, or photographing.
But when I was freelancing there was no ‘routine work’ to fall back on. I realised that my implementation of ideas close to my heart was abysmal. And why was it difficult? Because I stopped at the ideating stage, content romanticising about the final product. Result: at the end of the week I would have achieved nothing.
What GTD suggests is that instead of ideas, think in terms of action to implement the idea. This is primarily what attracted me to GTD. Another compelling reason was that this book and its author were featured in Wired which I hold in high esteem.
So, how good is the book? That’ll have to wait as I have just begun reading it. Reads interesting as of now…
Yesterday, I went back to Reliance Fresh store to buy cut veggies (only cut veggies). There was a lady walking in front of me as I stepped in.
“Ma’m you want atta? Ma’m atta?There is a discount.
The lady kept walking.
“Ma’m rice? There is oil free with it… Rice Ma’m?”
The lady kept walking paying no attention.
Later when I was at the billing counter, the lady asked me,
“Are you a member of Reliance Fresh?”
“No,” I answered.
The lady just took a card on her desk and swiped it.
“I don’t want to be a member!”
Aren’t these supposed to ask me first whether I want whatever it is that they are offering? And I thought ‘Customer is king’ is the mahamantra of capitalism. In Reliance Fresh the salesmen are using me and other customers as a means to achieve the all-important ‘target’. This by itself is not a bad thing. But here they were trying to force something down my throat.
The only reason why I perhaps would go back to the store is to buy cut veggies (as mentioned before)… Nothing more.
When I was growing up in Veera Desai Road (Andheri) around 10 years ago, the nearest affordable restaurant – a Udipi restaurant i.e. – was a good 15-minute walk away. In 10 years the whole locality has transformed economically.We have premium restaurants just a 2-minute walk away from my home. This, in fact, is what I liked the most about BJN group’s restaurant, Aromas of China (AOC).
The parking system looks hi-fi. There are valets, of course. But to facilitate more parking the restaurant has invested in elevated parking bays – which basically means that one car is parked on a platform which can be raise, and another car can be parked below this raised platform.
In terms of ambience this is easily the best Chinese restaurant I have visited. The staff is courteous and helpful. While ordering the main course we ordered two vegetables, rice and noodles. After a minute or two the waiter came back saying that the two vegetables we ordered would taste somewhat the same and suggested a few alteranatives. It was a nice gesture by the chef to infom us about this.
The food is moderately expensive with most dishes well over Rs. 150/- The bill for two vegetables, rice, noodles, 1 soup, and a beer came to Rs. 1300, which I feel is not too bad considering the premium ambience of the place.
The food was good — unlike Mainland China, AOC has managed to find the right balance between the Chinese tongue and Indian tongue. The caterpillars which I had made a mention of in the post on Mainland China made an appearance here too. But the spices added masked their flavour.
The restaurant also has private rooms for 6, 8, and more people. For the 6-people roo you pay a flat rate of Rs. 4500 regardless of what you eat (of course, if the bill comes to more than Rs. 4500 you have to pay the balance). This is ideal for a party to be given to friends.
AOC by far is the best authentic Chinese restaurant I have come across. The ambience, service and taste gel together well for a good complete experience.
Here are the ratings
Food: 3.5/5
Ambience: 4/5
Service: 4/5
Authenticity: 3/5
