Kerala

For anyone who loves Kerala - the rain, the people, the green fields, the elephants, the poorams, those little moments from other lives glimpsed for a few seconds. Oh, Kerala rain - how I miss you.

(Not all the pics are worth it, but most are.)



My Public Shoebox

Book Tag

Saw this book tag over at DC's.

A book that made you laugh: Eats, Shoots and Leaves - Lynne Strauss. I remember people in Calcutta airport looking at me rather strangely as I laughed out aloud at periodic intervals.

A book that made you cry: The ending of Gone With The Wind.

A book that scared you: Not a book, but a story - Stephen King's 1408. And I'm too scared to watch the movie.

A book that disgusted you: Lolita, Lolita, Lolita. I haven't finished it, and don't plan to.

A book you loved in elementary school: There was this Malayalam book called Katha Parayunna Nighandu - a huuuuuge book full of illustrated stories from Hindu mythology. It was a highly age-inappropriate book for me to read - the things these supposed Gods got up to, I tell you.

A book you loved in middle school or junior high school: To Kill a Mockingbird. Not least because the copy I read was the gift my mother gave my father for their first wedding anniversary. Also, The Diary of Anne Frank.

A book you loved in high school: Stephen King's On Writing.

A book you loved in college: American Gods.

A book that challenged your identity: On Writing. King made me actually wonder what I was doing when I should be reading and writing like there was no tomorrow. Alas, that phase, too, passed.

A series that you love: The Five Find-outers - I was head over heels in love with Fatty during my pre-teens. I can still read any of the fifteen Find-outers books. Anyone else who has read the Mystery series? With Snubby and Loony and Barney and Miranda?

Your favorite horror book: Stephen King is the only horror writer I've read, so one of his, I suppose.

Your favorite science fiction book: Not really into sci-fi.

Your favorite fantasy: American Gods. Neil Gaiman totally redefined the way I thought of fantasy.

Your favorite mystery: I used to be really into mystery books - Agatha Christie, Ruth Rendell, Colin Dexter. Particularly loved the latter's wit.

Your favorite biography: I have a mental block against biographies, so - none.

Your favorite "coming of age" book: Vernon God Little. Also The Diary of Anne Frank, again.

Your favorite classic: Hehe - Pride and Prejudice! :)

Your favorite romance book: See above. And since DC mentions M&B's, there was this really old one of my mother's that I used to fish out and read whenever I went to my grandmother's house. It was called Logan's Lake/Island. Yummm. (By the way, M& B's make such nice reads. Except that you get depressed after you read them.)

Whoever sees this tag and likes it may do it.

Rant Against Airtel

Unlike a lot of bloggers, it's not every day that I rant on this blog about the products and services I consume. But this time, I really must. For the past couple of months, every time someone calls me and I pick up the phone, there is silence on the other line for a couple of moments before the caller tentatively asks for me.

The reason? Airtel had decided to honour me with 'caller tune' priviliges for free for some time. For those who have been living under a very prehistoric rock for a very long time, caller tunes are the songs that callers hear instead of the usual 'tring tring' when they call up someone. And what is my caller tune? Honestly reader, I have no idea. Since coming to this place, I haven't really been keeping myself up-to-date with the latest in the most horrible and un-original of Hindi music. So I have no idea what the song is, just that if I ever meet the person who decided to give me this song as the default song, we wouldn't exactly see eye-to-eye on musical preferences. And I believe that sentence just won me the Under-statement of the Year Award. My friends who call me are so hugely taken aback by the song they hear as my caller tune that they actually believe they have the wrong number.

I could have made use of the free caller tune priviliges and put on an actual good song, of course. But that would have meant calling up Airtel at six rupees per minute, and I was damned if I was going to do that. I should have called up Customer Care and made them cancel it, but I was too lazy to. And look what they've done now! Just when I had Rs. 36. 09 left as balance on my phone, they've cut thirty rupees for caller tune priviliges!! The thieving so-and-so's. Sunil Mittal may be urbane and all, but if he needs to steal money from his customers' pockets like this, he's not very high up in my list of entrepreneurs to emulate. Now if only I had the energy to find the Customer Care number and yell at those thiefs.

Trekking

Have you ever driven on a road lined with hills on both sides and thought, "Hmm, I want to climb that hill." There have been many times that I've thought this. The first time was years ago, in Rajasthan - near Amber, I think it was. I saw the rocky hills on my right and remembered studying about them in a far-off classroom in Trivandrum and thought - wow, I bet I could actually climb those. And then didn't do it, of course. It happened again recently on my Kerala trip, this urge to test myself - once while travelling to the Idukki dam, and then several times on the bus ride from Trivandrum to Bangalore.

So when the adventure-related committee on campus announced a trek to a nearby hill recently, I signed up eagerly, thinking - ha, finally, I'll get to see if I can climb after all. And now, three days after the trek, I'm still not free of the aches and pains.

It began well enough. For once, I was dressed properly- trackpants, a long t-shirt and a jacket over it; my hair was tied back and my backpack had everything I needed. A long bumpy bus-ride deposited us at a dusty yellow junction, from which a yellow road snaked up to a promising-looking hill.

We set off in two's and three's, chatting leisurely as if we were on an afternoon stroll. And then the road got to a bridge over a depression. The hill was now on our left and this was where we had to go off the road. We could have climbed down into the depression and used it to cross to the hill, but no - adventurous (read - lazy) people that we were, we chose to cross on the narrow wall fencing the depression. Had any of us fallen, it would have been a ten foot drop on one side, and a dunking in a stream on the other - not much, I suppose.

I set off bravely, because the wall seemed broad enough to walk comfortably on. Unfortunately, it was only when it was too late to turn back that I realized that it got narrower in the middle. The drop didn't seem so little any more. Fortunately, Bugz in front of me was rock-steady, so I just focused on his feet and walked. Crossed to the other side somehow.

On we walked. Bugz and I had somehow gone far ahead of the loose gang we had set out with. I was enjoying myself at this point - picking my way over the stones, stretching my legs properly, looking about at the grass and the trees and the boulders. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, and I had not a care in the world.

Unfortunately, we soon started to realize that we were climbing up a hill after all. The path became steeper, so that the stones I had so enjoyed before became more like steps cut into the hillside, and each step upwards was a test on the thighs. Our breaks started becoming more and more frequent. We would keep asking the adventure-committee guy climbing beside us (who had come here once before to scout out the place) - how much further, how much further? And he would say, most irritatingly, "Oh, a long way. We're only about one-third up." Aargh.

There were a lot of things that we should have enjoyed on the way - strangely-shaped trees, a swing made of tree branches, the cool breeze, the very silence of the place, but no - we were too busy not letting one small hill defeat us. Or rather - I was. Left to himself, Bugz would have climbed up leisurely, taking frequent breaks and turning back to enjoy the view once in a while. But I was too obsessed.

Anyway, somehow or the other, we finally got to the summit, and what do we see there - a bike, an auto and a Tata Sumo! A bike, for God's sake. It would have been so much more worth it had we climbed up a hill unreachable by vehicle!

There were three temples there on the summit, populated by weed-smoking sadhus and tonnes of monkeys. Climbing up the steep stone steps to the highest temple took out the last of my strength, but it was so worth it, because I finally got to see a view worthy of its name. And the silence - oh, the silence; I've read of 'silence crowding in on your ears', but I experienced it for the first time there, sitting by the side of the stone steps, staring out at the mist-covered horizon. That's what temples should be like - simple, made of stone, peaceful; not marble monstrosities filled with self-righteous people.

On the way back down, Bugz and I rested in a large clearing surrounded by trees with lots of monkeys in (on?) them. There were large flat stones there, made warm by the January sun. I tried to fall asleep on one of them, but no - Bugz would not let me. At first, he said he wouldn't sleep because he wanted to keep an eye on "our simian friends", but then he kept waking me up with, "Oh my God! We're being surrounded. Look - there are two on that tree, and one on the tree behind us! They're going to attack us!" It was then that we noticed that some of our highly intelligent fellow-hikers had left their food packets open near the stone we were on. We decided to vacate the place asap - after closing the food packets, of course. But seriously - how dumb can people get?

The climb down passed by in a jiffy - it was so easy compared to the way up. We did it in less than two hours, with only a couple of short breaks. And it didn't feel like very long either, because we were so engrossed in conversation. We spoke of our respective relationships. He's going through a break-up, after a relationship of seven years, and since he is what he is, I don't think he would have spoken of it much with anyone. But I guess there was something about the setting - so far away from everyone and everything - that he opened up. And I felt so sad for the poor guy, even though he would have hated that. I mean - seven years! (And having heard of it in that much detail from him, I felt rather strange hearing my roomie telling her boyfriend about his predicament much too casually last night.)

So we climbed back down, we watched the sun setting behind a hill, we crossed the narrow wall, we sat on the bridge and waited for the rest of the people, we survived the bumpy bus ride back home; I slept ten hours that night. And the trip was so worth it because I didn't give up even when my whole body was crying out for me to, and because now I can finally look at a roadside hill and not want to climb it.

Now if only my body would stop aching.

Glimpses

I am a tourist in the city I grew up in.

Trivandrum is changing. There are new signs of prosperity everywhere, of course, but there is more as well. The whole culture is changing. Men's boutiques and male-only hair salons are springing up everywhere. Mallu men who used to think coconut oil was the best styling gel are now becoming metrosexuals. They strut about in tight jeans and colourful shirts, with coloured hair cut the right length - thinking they're on par with their counterparts in the big cities. And they are - some of them.

The old manor-houses of the city are being swallowed up by real-estate sharks, who spit back out perfectly symmetrical concrete cuboids. Previously, the rich used to live in old venerable houses set back from the road in vast grounds, with whitewashed walls growing green with moss and clay tiles turning black with time. Now, they've exchanged the beauty and the space and the greenery for sets of little squares with perfect plumbing, inside cuboids guarded by a 'security' in a uniform.

But who am I criticizing? The very apartment my parents are renting was built on the pyre of one such manor house. They were a set of three houses, my grandmother tells me, belonging to a man famous for his land and his wealth. He gave one house to each of his three daughters, and one of them (or more likely, her sons) sold out. I can see one of the surviving houses from here - it strives for privacy, trying to hide behind coconut leaves and mango trees, but to no avail.

I go to Palayam market, and barely recognize it. But I can't quite remember what it used to look like either, because the new place is so different - so open and so light. Then my mother reminds me of Good Morning Stores, and memory is triggered. I look around, and compare the image my mind has just come up with to the new reality, and draw a blank.

It used to be a narrow street, clogged with tiny shops (mostly 'Fancy Stores', the memory says - oh, the excitement that phrase still evokes). The vegetable market to the left was an unhygienic place, with a dirt floor and ex-vegetables strewn about everywhere. In the rainy season, one would go in and come back out with splattered clothes and shoes clogged with mud. And now - the vegetable remains are still there, but everything looks so hygienic. It's a vegetable market of the twenty-first century, with none of the dirt and squalor one used to be so familiar with. I'm not sure which one I prefer, though.

The main road has been cleared of the fancy stores, and is now a one-way. But while crossing, I still look both ways, out of habit. But there is so much light - it's hard to get used to. The pink mosque is still there, as is the stadium, with the addition of a decidedly ugly 'torch tower', whatever that may be. The Legislature building looks prettier, somehow.. I look at it in the light of the setting sun and suddenly I'm filled with - a sort of grief, is that it? I mourn for the lost me; the innocent me who didn't know anything of what was to come, who dreamt for one whole year of going to Delhi, not knowing what would happen to her, how the big city would change her and make her a cynic.

Vegetable shopping used to happen on Saturday evenings. The mosque would bugle out its prayer call at dusk, and the city would slowly darken, and then the street lights would come on and the silver Jesus, casting benevolence over the city from the top of the red church opposite the mosque, would be lit up. I would sit in the car, vegetable shopping done with and ice cream at Baskin & Robbins to look forward to, and look at Him, and at the Martyrs' Memorial, and dream. My city, my city, my city.

Missing Delhi - Again

I feel like going to Delhi. It will be so nice there just now - the beginning of winter, the faint chill in the morning, Diwali just around the corner. Yup, I'm going to miss Delhi much more in the winters than in the summers.

It's hard to realize that Delhi is still going on without me. Every day, people must be going about their humdrum Delhi lives like I used to - stand at the bus stops I used to stand at, wait for the buses I used to wait for, take the metro to college like I used to, curse the heat as I used to, make plans to meet friends at Dilli Haat or Priya or Anzal's, or go to Kamala Nagar or.. Gosh, there's that feeling in my stomach again, the one I love and hate at the same time, the bitter-sweetness of nostalgia.

I don't miss college: I promised myself that I wouldn't, and I don't. But I miss the Delhi atmosphere. Delhi was the first city I fell in love with, the first city I half-discovered for myself, the first city whose pulse I thought I knew, though I suppose I was aware even then that I was wrong: there are so many Delhi's that it's impossible to know even half of them.

The best thing about Delhi is that she will take in anyone. Anyone can find some spot for themselves, in some part of the city, in some community or the other. Delhi will not accept you easily; you will be made to go through her initiation rituals. Whether you find them rigorous or not depends upon you; God knows I went through a trial by fire. Strangely enough, each Delhi you discover requires you to go through a different ritual, but each of these Delhi's brings you closer to the core of the city, so it's like peeling away the onion skins one by one, only there's no end to this particular onion.

I just went through all my Delhi posts. Darn, now I really am nostalgic. I want to go back NOW. I want to do street-shopping. I want to eat at Wenger's. I want to travel on the Metro. I want to go Sunday shopping with my parents to C. P. I want to make plans to go for lunch to Noodle's or Momo Point in Kamala Nagar. I want to travel by DTC buses. I want to haggle with auto-wallahs. I want to peer into the fog for the morning U-special (Ah, U-specials!). I want to go to Deer Park for a walk. I want to feel the wind in my face while travelling by bus on the Delhi roads. I want to see the red stone of South Block; the President's House, India Gate. I want to do the college-home commute once more; no, many times more - once by U-special, once by the Metro, once only by bus. I want to spend an afternoon at Dilli Haat, watch the dusk come on, see the string of balloons going up into the sky, see the colours, hear the plaintive wail that guy with the musical instrument makes. I want to see kites being flown from roof tops. I want to lie on my bed and watch through the window as aeroplanes come in to land at the airport. I want to drink banta for five bucks at Sarojini. I want to see fruits and vegetables lit up by yellow light at street markets. I want to travel in a bus by night, watching the people outside. I want to return home from shopping, loaded with bags and bags of clothes. I want to relive the laughter, the jokes, the friendship.

Strange to realize that all these things are in my head, that all of them can never be again, that even if I go back, I will be a different person, so all of these things will be different. My house was emptied, someone else is probably staying there now. The sunlight will be the same, the wind, the noise from outside, but all those rooms are furnished that way only in my memory now. How strange.

Sunrise at Dimna Lake

Nine bikes - one ride in the darkness, through narrow winding roads, braving potholes and speed breakers, to watch sunrise at Dimna Lake.

I'd been to Dimna Lake twice before. The first time, I slipped and fell in, and my mp3 player died on me. The second time, I spent an entire day inside it, and rediscovered the joy of being at ease in water, letting it take over my body. This time was different again.

There were nine bikes and sixteen riders. I was riding behind Ninja, which was good, because I'd ridden with him before, and I didn't worry as much as I would have with someone unknown. Though my biggest anxiety, I have to admit, was that I would fall asleep on the bike; we'd gone out for dinner the night before, and I'd slept at three, to wake up at four.

We started off at four-thirty, with the aim of making it to Dimna by sunrise. The whole ride took less than half an hour, even with stoppages, so the more experienced among us were dissatisfied. But for a novice rider like me, it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.

Out of the b-school, and off through the mostly empty roads of The 'City' to Mango Bridge. And then riding through the darkness of the winding roads, surrounded by trees on both sides, and the looming deeper black of hills half-seen, with only the blurred red lights of the bikes ahead to keep you company. There was wind, and cold, but I didn't feel it much, because of the sheer exhilaration of travelling at high speed in a bike through the darkness.

Dimna at dawn is an amazing sight. The lake and the surrounding hills are grey, and fog hangs heavy on top of the water. It curls around the trees on the surrounding hills, and makes them look like graveyards with tall grave-stones. When we reached, the light was just starting to flow in, and the grey lightened by the minute. There was a black irregular shadow on the water, under the fog, but I couldn't figure out what it was, and then someone enlightened me - it was the reflection of the hills above, black against the lightening sky.

We walked on to the dam, and I reminisced about my disastrous fall into the lake. The world was lightening slowly, but we wondered if we would see a proper sunrise, because of the fog. The sky was a multi-coloured haze, the red at the horizon fading into grey. It was beautiful. The fog was lifting slowly. Wisps of it were travelling about the water. Watching the phenomenon was a skin-crawling experience, because it looked like a purposeful battalion of newly-dead souls, passing over to the other side.

People kept taking pictures of everything, trying to capture the moment, the beauty of the place, but it was quite impossible, of course. And as an aside, I think they were so busy trying to capture the moment that they lost out on the actual enjoyment of it.


There were people practising yoga on benches by the path. We asked one of them to take a group pic. And just as the photo-taking session ended, Shivi looked up and said, "Ah, there's the sun. Finally!" And indeed, there it was, a pale orange thing wreathed in fog. But it slowly came up, and the orange deepened, until it looked like a blood red coin hanging in the sky. It was reflected in the water, too, twice over, so that there were three suns.

A few minutes of watching the sun and clicking pictures, and it was time to go back. The ride back home was faster, and scarier - more traffic, more people, more pot-holes. It didn't bring the same level of exhilaration as the night ride, but I'd enjoyed myself so thorougly that it didn't matter; I was content.

Here's a pic of the people who went, minus me and a classmate, because we were the ones clicking.