Random Expressions

Mat - Well, the actual name is ‘Maant‘ (pronounced as one would ‘Daant’, to scold), with a ‘chandrabindu maatra’ over the ‘aa‘. But Anglicized, it has turned to Mat (pronounced Maat, with the ‘t’ of ‘Tamatar‘).  Mat is some 30 kilometeres off Mathura. To reach, there are two routes - one, is to go on the Hathras Road from Mathura. At Raya, a turn on the left will take you through a tedious ten-twelve kilometer drive inwards to reach this sandy hamlet. Again, its a ‘tehsil’ though the official whom I visited pooh-poohed at the tiny place getting such a status ever! There are some 15 schools around the area, which constitutes its biggest ‘landmark’.

The second route is a direct road to Mathura, and a percent better than going via the Raya-road. The road is mostly empty, and even runs through vast, wide empty green fields. I returned from this one, when the sun was about to set.  The open expanse in the golden and orange hues of the setting sun, with a shimmering Yamuna snaking through the plains was a nice sight!

Raya - This was en route to Mat. And an awful ride, at that. It’s a dusty, dirty village posing as a town. A single railway line runs parallel to the road. When it reaches the village, it goes precariously too close to civilization; or rather it’s the other way round, the civilization lives too close to the line. There were thelas, shopkeepers, kiosks, vegetable make-shift shops etc, all on the track’s edge - so much so from afar it looked as if the railway line passed right through those shops!

Just a few more places that I have now travelled to. Nothing exceptional here, but jotting it down for records sake.

Kagarole - a small ‘kasba‘ some 20 kilometers from Agra. The drive is quite bad, but compared to the horrifying Agra-Aligarh road, it’s still better

Jagner - Near the U.P.-Rajasthan border, it’s yet another ‘kasba‘. The road from Kagarole is bad in patches, but overall pretty neat one. The landscape, as you reach Jagner, changes to incorporate a Rajasthani tinge. A few solitary hills, part of the Aravallis, are visible.

Kirawali - A tehsil on the Bharatpur-Agra road; advisable to travel by this awesome highway. Unfortunately, we went from Kagarole to Kirawali and the drive is extremely bumpy. My car is yet to recover from this ordeal!

These are some quick verbal snapshot, purely from an outsider’s viewpoint:

• The traffic flummoxed me the most. To put it bluntly: there is absolutely no traffic sense prevalent in this city. Cars, autorickshaws, cycle rickshaws, cycles, bullock carts, thelas, scooters, motorcycles - all pile onto the narrow roads in a huge din and enormously noisy mess, vying for the smallest space available to maneouver.
• Traffic signals are meant to be broken. Rarely have I seen anyone stopping at them (except at a place called Hariparvat, near Sanjay Place - a busy intersection). Often, there would be a traffic constable standing, yet people jump red lights with abandon. In fact, stop at a signal at your own risk, because you will be immediately surrounded by irritated honking drivers trying to jump the signal.
• For its size and signals, the number of traffic constables are aplenty. Often, at many crossings one can find three-four of them standing. And yet, there would be a traffic jam at that very place. Obviously, they are futile in controlling the traffic.

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Don’t be shocked if you haven’t heard of these names. Neither had I. That is, till a few days back. And then suddenly I was driving through these faceless, unknown towns of Western Uttar Pradesh - where the wild ravines of Yamuna nearly embrace the dreaded ones of Chambal.

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Mai hoon ik khanabdosh
Saara jag mera watan

For those who wonder the reason of my prolonged absence, the above quote and the post’s title will give away the reason. Yes, I am now in Agra - once again away from home, and in yet another historical town.

Things happened quite suddenly. At least, the shifting part. Even though, I can’t claim I have fully done so because I am still living in the company’s guest house and have only brought one travel bag. I plan to go back to Delhi sometime next week, once I have the possession of the flat, which I have selected.

The flat is an awesome one, providing a beautiful top-angle, wide-panaromic view of the Taj Mahal.

But first things first - how did I end up here? Frankly, even I wasn’t too aware that the interview I had given was for Agra’s position. When the HR lady called up to give package details, and other stuff, she casually mentioned that the place of posting is here. For several seconds, I was in a dumb stupor. And the lady had to repeat thrice to confirm that she had understood my shocked grunts as an affirmation to the offer.

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When I woke up today the curfew was on; and it will last till late evening. Yesterday, an aquaintance had called in to inform about it, but I had not paid any heed to his warning. Rumors are as much in abundance here as there are bandhs and agitations. As stated on my main blog a few days back, curfew does not affect me as such, except that the shops are closed.

Half awake, I had trudged to the neighborhood shop to buy milk, and that is where I got the news. Being in a by-lane, the shop was open; it is basically a ‘dhaba’ but keeps stock of milk, water, cigarettes and a few other daily use stuff. Thankfully, I have some basic cooking ingredients, so will manage the food part for today!

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That pretty much summarises the last four days. It’s not that I had some huge work to do by roaming in the city; but, the curfews have resulted in shortages in essentials like vegetables and milk. Plus, of course the immense loss in business with most establishments, including restaurants, closed is a separate problem.

Personally, the biggest hit has been food and entertainment. With the maid’s arrival erratic, one day of cooking means utensils piling up. Plus, as I said earlier, what to cook is the biggest question? The quality of basic stuff like tomatoes and onions is quite off-putting. Restaurants are closed, so I have to rely on a single near-by hotel for dinners once the curfew is lifted in the evening!

Entertainment was primarily watching films - and that is impossible now! Songs continue, however!

Anyways, I will try to put up some thing better and more positive soon. Right now, the overall melancholic mood has permeated within. Meanwhile, the story progresses slowly; two last episodes are left, so that should be done during this week!

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First the Updates to set the background:

Ever since my holidays started, 24-hour seem too less for me. The ‘deafening silence’ I mentioned here was short-lived. Overall, taking stock of the first quarter 2006, it has gone by in a blur of frenzied activities leaving behind small islands of quietitude.

Well, coming back to my trip - it was, to summarize it in two words: sheer fun! I have developed a new-found crush for Delhi So I roamed its wide roads like a smitten lover marveling at its infrastructural advancements and beauties. One reason is that since I didn’t have to go to office, I naturally avoided rush-hour traffic, which is the city’s biggest bane.

My parents had to go to Ludhiana, Punjab for a cousin’s wedding. So, for most parts I was again alone there. But there was a difference - living alone in spartan bachelor’s accommodation in Kathmandu is a far cry from staying in a full-fledged furnished house!

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When I had taken up this house here, the landlady had forewarned, ‘Don’t be late in the nights.’ I was a bit apprehensive but didn’t want to let go off a good house in an upmarket locality for this small reason. Later, I realised she needn’t have warned. Kathmandu follows a different day-cycle to Delhi.

It believes in ‘Early to bed, early to rise’ dictum. By nine the roads are nearly empty, and by ten the dogs are howling. In addition, I didn’t really make any off-line friends here. So I never did break her rule except on a few occasions when I have colleagues from India visiting.


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One of the most reknowned temples in Nepal, Manakamana is situated atop a hill, accessible from Kurintar (between Ktm and Narayanghat) by a Swiss-technology operated cable car. The view from the car is a wide expanse of beautiful mountains spreading to the horizon. The best part is that from below the ride seems to end atop a mountain, but as soon as you reach that spot, you realise there is a similar more distance to cover further up!

The legend behind the temple: Queen of Gorkha King Ram Shah (1614-1636) possessed divine powers known only to her devotee Lakhan Thapa. One day the King found his Queen as Goddess. Following the revelation he mentioned this to her and suddenly died. He was cremated and his Queen committed sati on his funeral pyre, as per the custom. She consoled her lamenting devotee Lakhan saying she would reappear near his home. Six months later, a farmer ploughing his field hit a stone, cleaved it and blood and milk flowed which ceased when Lakhan worshipped it with his tantric knowledge. The site became foundation of the present shrine. The present pujari is the 17^th generation descendent of Lakhan Thapa.

The Shrine of Manakamana renovated many times over the centuries has four story pagoda style roofs with entrance from the South-west. The pujari performs daily prayers and ritual in the temple behind closed doors by offering eggs, oranges, rice, red powder and strips of cloth to the deities. On completion of the pooja of the shrine by the priest, the turn of the public begins.>

Manakamana temple lies 12 Km south of historic town Gorkha and located on a prominent ridge (1302 mt. above sea level) overlooking the river valleys of Trisuli (south) and Marshyangdi (west). The unique location of the place is dramatized during winter when the ridge appears as an island above the sea of morning mist. People believe Manakamana Devi fulfills the wishes of her devotees, thus called the wish fulfilling deity. The reward on reaching the shrine is both spiritual and physical exhilaration. Spectacular views include deep valleys, terraced fields and the Manaslu-Himalchuli and Annapurna ranges. In the past, the only access to the region was by arduous climb of over five hours but one can now visit the shrine in comfort by Manakamana cable car.( All information taken from http://www.visitnepal.com/heritagetravel/manakamana.htm)

Due to the cable car operational since 1998, the trekking route has fallen by the side, with many lodges and guesthouses losing business. However, the car has made reaching there otherwise easy and quick. The township is like any other Indian temple-town, consisting largely of hotels and restaurants at affordable rates. The view of the peaks from atop is eye-candy; unfortunately my mobile-camera was not able to capture it.

Technorati : Kathmandu, Manakamana Temple, Nepal

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Never really largely used this space as an online diary, but today I just felt like penning a few things about the day; or rather, felt like talking, so instead of being with a friend, or on YM, here I am blabbering some inane nonsensical mundane stuff; writing this online, hence please excuse the typos or spellings.

Before proceeding, another thought just erupted - I used to keep a diary many years back; the habit just petered out on its own with age; even recall ‘ordering’ my sister to do the needful when I joined hostel, so that I could come back and read about all that I missed. Well, let me not get into more memories, lest you run away- though, to think of this, the visitors seem to have dwindled here, if the comment box is anything to go by.

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Ghatasthapna
(From The Himalayan Times)

People have already started making the rounds of the markets to buy clothes, food-stuff and puja materials in preparation for the upcoming festival. Houses have already been cleaned, decorated and painted for Dashain. Dashain commences with Ghatasthapna…On this day, a priest or the head of the house places a kalasha - a sacred jar of holy water - in the prayer room where daily religious ceremonies are performed or in a purified area of the house pleading to Goddess Durga to bless the vessel with her presence.

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Zindagi toh hai amal, sabr ke qaabu mein nahin
Nabz ka dharm lahoo, thande se aansoon mein nahin*

A chilled vein freezes the imbecile heart. The brain crystallizes into a venomous residue. Dead passion’s python strangulates emotions. Lethargy slithers through the tissue’s sieves. Fear crawls, biting into thought pores. Stillness, heavier than lead, crushes the soul.

Yet, life’s purpose is to be eager, and not be contained within patience; the vein’s rule is to flow with warm blood, not congeal with cold tears. There is light in my eyes, and not only water. I am reality, not some story!

How does one reconcile the two thoughts?

The evening comes empty handed. The evening departs empty handed. Nothing has moved. Nothing moves. Nothing will move. After this, the night tiptoes in. The night is quiet. It does not cry. It does not laugh. It is a blank night. Neither do I cry. Neither do I laugh. The blank night will pass away. But I have to wipe out the night’s stain. If I do not do it, it will return tomorrow. And the day after. Time has lost essence. I have seen time slip by. Slowly. Ardously. It is black. And white. I want to fill it with colors. I cannot do it. I want to stuff it. Yet, I am unable to move. I am helpless. The effort is coagulated within my thoughts. I am my own spectator. I want to intervene in my own life. Yet, I feel tied. Time slips by. Life slids by.

*Lyric: Kaifi Azmi; Tunesmith: Anu Mallik; Voice: Sonu Nigam; Film: Tamanna

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Sitting in the plush environs of the restaurant at Radisson, Kathmandu, with the head of our company’s advertisement agency, I casually enquired, Why do Nepalis hate Indians? At first he evaded the question with an incoherent mumble. I laughed. He couldn t fool me, I informed him. It was evident and there was enough documentary proof available for this. On a small persistence, he opened up, and what he told me was something that I was aware of, but that day it hit a bit harder. What he said can be paraphrased as such: Nepalese are not born hating Indians, certainly not the way we do our other neighbor, but there is a significant number of Nepali students who go to India for studies. There, they are subjected to ridicule, called unfriendly names like Bahadur and chowkidar and they return with a strong and seething resentment. (This is a simplistic view, without taking into account the political policies, but still it is a strong ground).


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When the landlady’s bitch (ok, she-dog) started barking again today afternoon, I had thought she was at her vocal best again; she often goes into a hyper-module even if she sees someone climbing an electric pole on the other end of the compound wall (apart from a variety of other inexplicable reasons). Generally, from a back room window, I stand and shout, and she is positively scared of me from there. In a normal course, immediately she would quieten and retreat to her kennel.

Today, it was different. It did not seem a normal bark of a bored canine. There was an urgency, a snappiness, a shortness. Peering out, I noticed her body was stretched like a tense bow, and her eyes were concentrated on the main gate. At first an irritaton swept me; barely a couple of minutes ago, I had walked in from the same gate. From a side window of the same room, I looked out towards the gate; the latch was securely tightened, as I had only done so before entering.

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After another satisfying trip to Banchcha Ghar, my colleague and I decided it was a bit too early to call it a night. The casinos were an option, but having tried out most of them, I was not keen. Fleetingly, I mentioned a restaurant that had been in my eyes for long; however, I had been wary of going there alone. It had some of the most corny music playing always, and I had an inclination from the dimly lit sign-board what to expect. Catching at the slightest nod from the colleague, G, I pulled him towards the Belly Dance Bar and Restaurant, on the main Darbar Marg.

Even before we could enter the slim entrance, shady and dirty, with the walls and staircase with myriad graffiti, G remarked, “Man, this seems sleazy”


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Part One: Thimphu

Preamble

The mobile phone rings. As ever, I try to do two things at the same time- switch off the gas, and switch on the phone. It’s my travel agent from Mumbai..

With an unusual warmth and glow, she drags out, “Hiiiiiii, Deepak! You had called? How are you?”

Perfect, except that the milk has boiled over, and the ‘parna’ (mop)with which I was holding nearly caught fire. I let it be. “Fine, yes, I did call…a small request…”

“Yaaaa…tell me naaaaa” she goes…the same heart-filling, confidence building lovely friendly tone.

“I need a ticket to Paro in Bhutan, and an early return. Plus arrange for a taxi to Thimphu, and a decent hotel stay, with a taxi for the next day to Pheuntsholing!”

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For those visiting Kathmandu, a trip to the restaurant Banchcha Ghar is a must. Housed in a building that is nearly 100 years old off the main Darbar Marg, Banchcha Ghar preserves the traditional Newari food in its authenticity. Newaris were the original inhabitants of the Kathmandu valley.

The must haves there are Sukuti (spicy, dried deer meat) and the wild boar dish(slices, served with an array of masalas/salt/mirchi), the preparation of which was one of the best that I ever had.

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(I wrote this at the airport before departure; I am reproducing this piece, without editing or changing the tense and sequence. I had thought I would get time in Mumbai to post it, but it was quite hectic and jam-packed, hence, could not…)

I am waiting at the airport writing this post; by the time it reaches you, I would be in Mumbai, sucked irrevocably in a slush of meetings.

Hell, I always get the timing wrong- the last time I was stuck at a lengthy immigration counter, and caught the plane nearly the sameway as one catches a DTC bus at rush hours! This time, chastened, I have reached airport earlier; lo, it’s absolutely empty- had my coffee, loitered at the duty free, done my immigration, over with the security check…and still have some one hour to spare. The sequential number on my boarding pass wickedly grins that I was the first to check in.

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It is strange that in your comfort zone one tends to take for granted the sounds that emanate in the night. In Delhi, I live very near a railway track; but till the time a staying guest points out, I never realize the bursts of train rambling along at regular intervals. Honestly, how many of you have actually listened to the noise and sounds before slipping into the cushiony tenderness of sleep?

Despite a month of staying here, my sub-conscious has still not befriended the nocturnal acoustics of Kathmandu. Since I stay in a virtual greenhouse, surrounded with a lot of trees and shrubs, the rustle of the leaves is a consistent background score, joined in by insects shrills.

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