Uttarakhand and I

After the storm

2013-06-19T16:39:00.003+05:30

It was an epic storm and we didn't know it.
True, it was raining as if it would never stop. It began raining on the weekend, and all of Monday. We couldn't go out, but we didn't much want to either. So Mian and I cancelled our appointments and pulled out the scrabble board. Shona got cabin fever, so Mian rolled about on the floor with her. The lack of electricity meant cooking was a challenge, but we had plenty of bread and we don't get tired of 'bread+' meals. And so we were mystified when the worried phone calls started coming in.
The evening before Mian left was dismal. There was no electricity, our computers were long dead, and he was leaving. Shona caught our mood, and three glum people sat slumped on the sofa.
The next morning, we woke up to this.

The rain had stopped. After 3 days of pouring down without a break, the rain had stopped. The sky could be seen in parts. The sun backlit the clouds and caused the mist to rise from the forests. We were glad, Mian and I , that he was leaving in the middle of such great beauty, that this view is what he would carry back with him.

The bijli will come soon, he said. On his way down to the train station, he messaged me updates about the road and checked on whether power was back. And then the messages stopped. Not that he wasn't worried any more, but 3 days after the power went out, my phone died on me. It would take another 24 hours and two false starts before it came back on.
It is only now that I know the extent of the damage in the state. And once again, I am humbled by how lucky I am..In the middle of this crisis, our problems were inability to work, lack of a cooked meal, wet clothes.How silly it all seems.

The paidal marg to Mukteshwar

2013-05-29T07:03:00.001+05:30

It is where I go for the ATM, for the post office, for chicken and veg.
And it is an extremely pretty road. From where we live now, there and back is an easy six km walk. From Chatola, we need to add a steep climb of another km or so.

This is where the path starts - a right turn from the handpump.

And this is what it looks like, more or less. Part of it is paved like the photo below, part if it is a series of steps formed by tree roots.

The views are lovely- this is the sun shining through maple

And this is a massive rhododendron tree

Coming out of the forest is a bit of a shock , but still pretty

On to the tarred road, a left turn, and another 3/4th of a km to the church..and I can stop here, or go on to buy veggies.

I am lucky to have such a pretty walk- I need to do it more often

Preserving Padam, or the wild Himalayan Cherry

2013-05-03T15:59:00.000+05:30

I am miserly enough that I cannot let fruit spoil on the trees. And the sour cherries (Padam, as they are known locally) were definitely spoiling. They are bitter-sour enough that even the birds are not too fond of them, let alone the humans. And so Shona and I have taken it upon ourselves to harvest and use as many of the cherries as possible.

I don't have very good luck with preserving things though; my pickles invariably mould. Freezing is an option, and I know Mian is clamouring for frozen sour cherries. But we had tried that last time with mulberries. The day we found two mulberry trees in Chatola, Shona and I gorged ourselves. The next day though, my wifely instincts took over. While I still let Shona-Bhaloo eat all the mulberries that fell on the ground, I carefully picked over, cleaned, and froze the 'good' ones. After a week of patience and self-restraint, I collected two cups full. And then the electricity went out for 3 straight days. The mulberries turned to slime and my enthusiasm for freezing died.

This time, I am relying on old, appropriate-technology methods. I came across 'Bachelor's Jam' which seems to be a very laid-back process which relies on the principle that everything is better with sugar and alcohol added. Clearly, it was tailored for me. It's been 3 days of collecting and pitting. There's no rum or brandy in the house, so I am using whisky. But fruit, sugar, alcohol- just how wrong can it be? And now I have a jam-jar full.

The paper clip in front of the jar? That's my cherry-pitting tool.

Home after far too long

2013-04-28T11:36:00.001+05:30

Ox-eye daisies

I haven't been home since the end of winter. Actually, since mid-feb to the day before yesterday, I have only been home for a week.

And it has been hard.

True, I was with mum and sis for a bit, with Mian for a bit, with colleagues and friends for another bit. But I realised this time just how much I love and miss our physical home.

Sour cherries

It was a joy to be back. I called a cab for the last leg of my journey back, and in that one hour received enough gossip to put me up-to-date with the village. I drank in the landscape. I made bread. I swept, dusted, mopped, laundered. I went and collected a pup who was ecstatic to see me. I met one of her daughters, who incredibly remembered me.

All the folks I met on the way were glad to see me and were not too shy to see it. I messaged a friend that I was back, and within 30 seconds received a call telling me to come over. More relaxed conversation, more coffee, more joy.

dry, but fragrant roses

But while walking around, I realised I had missed most of the markers of spring that I look forward to. The fruit blossoms were over and the fruit had already set. The daffodils and the 'aprilia' were long withered. The dandelion greens were now too tough to eat. The roses had withered. All this in the one-and-half months that I was away.

Irises (irii?)

And this made me think of Mian. Of how much he misses when he leaves to come back after months. Of the gaps that are always present in his life. Of how difficult it must be to always feel that things are unfinished. Not earth-shattering, this revelation. And there's nothing I can do about it.

But hopefully, I will learn to be a little more gentle, a little more tender the next time he leaves. I do hope so.

The non-immortal superheroes of this country

2013-04-14T09:03:00.000+05:30

Last month, I was in a little village in the heart of UP, the state that is the butt of nearly half of the jokes related to corruption and feudalism (Bihar is the butt of the rest of those jokes). And I met a group of people who inspired in me a profound respect.

One of them in particular fired my imagination. You see, he is a person who explains his profession as 'works in a bank'. You know the type- those faceless men and women who sit at cluttered desks in windowless rooms. The rooms are lit by flickering tubelights. The stuffing is poking out of the chairs, the formica is peeling off the desks. We tend to be rather impersonal with these people. There are banks I have had accounts with for years. I have not spoken, really spoken, to any of the people who update my books, give me my cheques, take my cash. I do not know their names. For all I care, they are automatons that switch on at 9am and off at 5pm.

I have missed out on so much.

This particular man leads a life worthy of a fantasy super-hero. 9 to 5, he 'works in a bank'. 5pm to 9am, he fights against injustice. In the evenings and during holidays, Sanjay is a leader in a battle against a modern-day Goliath. He does not belong by birth to the village he is fighting for, he and the village have now adopted each other. He takes what he knows best- numbers- and and teaches the villagers how they can be weapons. And mighty effective weapons they are. If it were not for him, the protest at Mehdiganj would have not have had the impact that it does today.

The last time I went to UP, I met a rickshaw-puller who built a temple so that he could rid his family of the discrimination they were subject to for generations. This time, I met a superhero. What will happen next, I wonder.

Why the Immortals of Meluha is evil

2013-04-12T09:45:00.003+05:30

Strong words? Perhaps, but the only ones that would suit.

The nightmare that many Indians of my generation wake trembling from is dominated by a single image. This is that of a hundred, a thousand, 'kar sevaks' tearing down the Babri Masjid. A teeming mass of men, clad in saffron and waving trishuls, screaming 'Har har Mahadev' and 'Jai Shri Ram'. The cries which were one merely praise for God, now forever twisted into slogans of hate. The reek of self-righteousness that oozed from them as they sought to 'rescue' a supposed birthplace. The exultation in them, the fear in the rest of the country. An archaeological monument was destroyed. A town once known for its peace remains a conflict zone decades after the event. People died. People are dying still because of the hate that this event created. The Ram Janmabhoomi issue is directly responsible for the Godhra massacre.

Babri Masjid, 2002

And now let us consider the climatic event in The Immortals of Meluha.

An army of men, all devotees of Ram, are fighting to reclaim their 'Ram JanmaBhoomi' (yes, Amish Tripathi uses the same politically-charged term) from the enemy kingdom. The heroes of the novel are guided by Shiva, who designs and mass-manufactures tridents. He also gives them a war-cry- Har Har Mahadev! This phrase occurs repeatedly throughout the chapter. 'Jai Shri Ram!' is insistently repeated throughout the entire novel till it resonates in your head.

Criminal exulting in a massacre/Melhuan: Gujarat 2002

The heroes are saffron-clad. The emblem of this enemy kingdom is a white crescent.
I wish I was making this up. I am not.

The book is nothing more, and nothing less than rabid hate-filled propaganda.
It is layered in a veneer of gender-equality (the prime minister is a woman! Sati is a warrior!), and of the exploration of myths (Shiva as a cool-dude-tibetan!). But those layers are too flimsy to cover the hate.

And so it disturbs me profoundly that the book is a best-seller. Over one million copies sold! screams the cover. So one million people read it, and thought it was good?

I bought it because of the hype and because of a review I read in either Frontline or Tehelka- I don't remember which. Both are magazines I trust, with journalists I respect.The article lamented the quality of writing, as well it should. But what about the most important part? Did the reviewer not see the hate? Is it not dishonest for a journalist not to point it out? And what about the other reviewers? did not one person see anything at all? Or are we at that point in our history where hate is normal?

How in the world did we allow this to happen?

Early mornings and love

2013-02-27T13:19:00.002+05:30

A lonely bus stand in a little town. It is about 4am, when the dawn is just planning to arrive. It was a request stop for the bus that just passed; except for the woman who got off, the stand seems empty. It is cold and dark everywhere except for one solitary point of brightness. This glow comes from a chai stall run by another woman, maybe in her late fifties. There is a rickshaw next to that stall, the passenger rushes to it only to discover that like the stand, it too is empty.

'Do you want the rickshaw?' calls the chai-walli. 'Wait, I will wake him.' She bustles over to a figure sleeping in the shadows, bends over, lays a hand on his shoulder and wakes the driver. He is instantly semi-awake and takes the passenger to her destination.

A simple incident that would have ended there, had I not heard their story.

They were in love once. Then something happened-maybe parental pressure, maybe a fight that looks minor in retrospect but was a dealbreaker then- but she married someone else. He did not. After many years, she found herself a widow, and began the chai stall to make ends meet. They both chose the night shift- he watching over her safety and livelihood, and she over his.

It is not a poor substitute. Think of the utter pleasure there is in sharing a space with the one you love. Those long nights with the two of them together must be full of a companionable peace. And it is pleasurable to work knowing that the one you love is next to you, that he has chosen to be there so that he can watch out for you. And how wonderful it is to know that you can help him too, that you can keep an eye out for passengers.

And of course, there is the actual waking up. It is not for nothing that I prize my mornings with Mian. It is splendid, true, to slowly wake up next to your love..but there is also something to be said for waking him or her up. She too must enjoy it- to bustle up to the sleeping one, to lean over him, inhale the warm and sleepy child-like smell, lay a caring hand on his shoulder and know that rather than an alarm clock, he is waking up to her voice. And for the one being woken up too- what better thing to wake up to than the voice and face of your sweetheart. And then to set off on work knowing that you will return to a cup of chai, to the exchange of a few quiet words.

No, not a poor substitute at all

A landmark in the village

2013-02-06T23:34:00.001+05:30

There isn't one. Of the conventional type atleast. And that led to this story.
I finally went up and opened me a local savings account- step 1 towards establishing one's residence and all.
But the thing is that the banks now insist on delivering their documents to your home. And that had me worried. My address is just short of the Mark Twain style- instead of 'god knows where', mine says 'Chatola'.
'The post man won't know who I am' I fretted to Mian 'And no one will be able to help him, because while people know my face, they don't know my name.'
'Don't worry', he soothed me 'Everyone knows everyone here. The mail will reach just fine. Trust me.'
And of course I trust him. Utterly, and absolutely.
But you see, that is such an important letter..

And so when Shona and I had gone up to Mukteshwar to get the passbook, I stopped to introduce myself to the postman.
'Hello, I am Chicu. I just opened an account, and I was not sure if you know where I live or who I am, so I thought I'd come up and say hello'
He looked up at me and down at Shona and beamed sunnily.
' I know you!' he said. 'You live with Shona-Bhaloo! Mian lives with her too!'

' Ah. Yes' I said. 'That's us. The ones who live with Shona-Bhaloo'

There are landmarks in the village- they just happen to be furry and charming.

More pupdates!

2013-01-27T08:33:00.002+05:30

Clearly, I think that there is nothing you'd like more than photos of Sho and her babies.
Or baby, I should say. All but one have gone to their 'real' homes now. The black one has gone to a teacher's family, with two small boys. The grey one has gone off to the lady who refers to Mian as her Panditji. His name sadly, is Tiger.

The red is still here..and every day that she remains, I fall in love with her more. Keeping her is not an option for far too many reasons. And so I continue to look for a home for her. In the meantime, here are photos

posing for the camera

cuddling on the sofa

Sphinx and trainee sphinx-let


Watching for langurs

the moon last evening

Rainy days and cold pups

2013-01-21T18:57:00.002+05:30

Two days of incessant rainfall. Great beauty, yes. And I took some sadly inadequate photos..

But with this great beauty came great cold. We were all miserable despite multiple layers, but the pups even more so. When we realised that they were shivering uncontrollably and whimpering with the cold, we allowed them to sleep with us.

That they loved this privilege is clear from the snap. It's difficult to see, but I have a husband somewhere under the pups.

Culpability

2013-01-04T09:28:00.001+05:30

It was in Pune. I was riding my scooter back home from work, via the railway station. When I was standing at a traffic light, I saw them. A mother, a teenaged daughter, a young son. And I saw the man as he walked by the girl and pinched her buttocks. The girl started, her mother glared, the man moved away. The traffic light changed, I drove on. End of incident. Or not. This was atleast 7 years ago, and I still remember that scene with guilt.

And more recently, in the Delhi metro. It was late in the evening- I had come in by the train, and was going to my hotel. There were about half a dozen women in the women's coach- and 4 men. The type you probably know- tight tees stretched over paunches, expensive jeans, lots of bling, sunglasses after sundown, lots of cologne. 'This is a ladies' coach, Bhaisaab' I said ' general coach is over there.' They smirked. I persisted, 'there's plenty of space there too..This is a ladies coach 24 hours.' One of them looked at me and rolled his eyes. I shut up, cheeks blazing with embarrassment. The woman sitting opposite me gave me two thumbs-up..hiding her hands behind her purse.

Now a nation is struggling to answer the question,' how could this happen?' Some are baying for blood. Some want to change the culture in India, in the world. I am part of the group that thinks that every single one of us is responsible. Don't think so? Read Peter Griffin's sobering post 'the problem is us'

The incidents I wrote about are a small fraction of the many times I averted my glance. Even when I was the victim. In the bus incident, why did I keep quiet? Why did I shield that man? It would have been easy enough to call the conductor, 'Bhaisaab, please give this gentleman another seat..he seems to be getting a little too close.' Why did I not do that?

It was the commentary in my head..He will stop now. Why do you want to make a noise? People will think you are making a tamasha. The bus reaches early. He might 'do something' after you get down. You don't want publicity. Keep quiet.

Those voices have made me an accomplice. Enough. It is difficult for me to argue, to confront, to talk to people. But yell like a banshee I can. That should be enough, no?

Christmas in the mountains

2012-12-25T08:18:00.001+05:30

Convent school educated, brought up in an area with large Catholic population- Christmas means a lot to me. It means meeting friends and family for curiously coloured fried snacks and plum cake. It means carols sung off-key. It means over the top decorations. It means a lot of joy.
I was missing the Christmas of my childhood when our neighbour asked me if I'd like to go to the Christmas eve service with him. 'Yes!' I said, and at 5:30p was ready in all the white, red and glitter I could wear.
It turned out to be a full car..several others were going to the same service. When we arrived, our little group effectively doubled the number of people in the pews. Used to Roman Catholic pomp and grandeur, this church seemed bare at first..When we started, I realised I was not going to hear any of my favourite hymns- the service was in hindi. And then the nativity began..a magnificently ambitious but woefully unrehearsed musical.
And slowly, I got what I had come looking for. The church might have been small and bare, but it soon filled up with happy families. It was obvious that everyone in there knew each other and had played a part in making this night happen. The nativity was simple, but its managed to tell its story in a simple and honest manner that would have been lost with more props. I couldn't sing along, but the church was filled with voices singing- just a little reassuringly off-key. And on our way back, our gang was invited home by a colleague. 'The whole paltan?' I asked incredulously. 'Yes', she said, 'Its Christmas!'
And we went. She sat us down in her wonderfully decorated hall..full of trees and tinsel and a nativity and cottonwool snow. And then she fed us plate after plate of crunchy fried snacks and plum cake.It was Christmas.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Puppy snacks

2012-12-14T10:08:00.002+05:30

All summer, and well into autumn, I would keep ice cubes in the freezer for the little Bhotiya pup. It got so that everytime she heard the fridge door open, she would come running and go through her entire cycle of 'lessons' (sit-down-good girrrl!). But then I unpacked the sweaters and stopped freezing ice. And today I realised that she still misses her snacks.

It snowed today! It makes the last two sunless days worthwhile. Not that they haven't been cozy. The first day, the Bhaloo and I spend on the couch with a hot water bottle (she still prefers to hang out with her human family- the Ugly Squeaklings* are left to their own devices). The second day I baked this, which by its aroma alone made the house warm and of Christmas.
And today, we woke up to this

And if this isn't a X'mas card, I don't know what is

And finally, a photo of the tiniest Bhaloo in her element

*: The Ugly Squeaklings? coined by my niece- and a more fitting handle for the grand-pups I can't think of

Pupdates!

2012-12-13T14:57:00.001+05:30

The thing is, I am rotten at photographing black-grey-brown fuzzy objects that continuously tumble over each other. And there are only so many snaps I can take of them nursing and sleeping.

But today, one of them posed for me. A little wobbly, its true, but her* eyes are open!

The sun has been in hiding..Once its out, I'll take the pups into the yard and then maybe we'll have snaps.

* Turns out her grandparents made a mistake. The roll is a girl, a boy, another girl. Oops.

Its a girl! a boy! another boy!

2012-11-24T11:41:00.001+05:30

It took six hours of gnashing of teeth, chewing bedclothes, grunting, and hyperventilating before Shona delivered her first pup- and we are just describing her human parents here. Shona Bhaloo endured it like a champion- though she did rip up a carpet and her basket to relieve her feelings.

It was a proud moment when the first pup emerged at 5am today- though I took one look at the flat head and the protruding tongue through its sac and wailed 'it's dead'. Her (the first one was a girl) mother knew better and ripped, licked, nudged till the little one began clamouring lustily for a drink. The second popped out thirty minutes later. And that, we thought was that. We kept checking on the little family and finally napped for a half hour. When we woke, behold! there were three.

So that's the tally now. One black female, two grey males, one tired mother.

And here is the only decent photo of the night. Nervous cameraperson + bad lighting + excited subject = disastrous snaps.

What I do

2012-11-22T11:05:00.000+05:30

A conversation I have every single time I meet someone new in the village

'So, do you work for____ (insert name of NGO)?'
'No, I work from home. Most of my work can be done over the internet.'
'So what is it that you do?'
'I write about water and related issues- like the forest.'
'Ah. you do research.'
'Not exactly, no. I present other peoples work on this website I work for.'
Blank stare
'Its like being a journalist.'
'Ah. So you report on the elections and all.'
'Not exactly..its mainly about water.'
'Why?'
'It helps people understand, to plan better
'why?'

Now don't get me wrong- I am a staunch proponent of stories for stories' sake, for data for data's sake. I also think that online portals and research organizations have a stunningly important role to play in stopping the world from going entirely to ruin (or atleast slowing the process).

But talking to a farmer tends to give one an entirely different perspective on things.

It looks like a planetarium

2012-11-05T19:21:00.001+05:30

We were all laying on our backs in the sand. This was the largest sand dune within a day's drive of Jaisalmer, about 40 km from The Border, by which all India means the border with Pakistan. The sun had just set, and we were looking at the stars appear one by one till the Milky Way stood out strong and clear just above us. That is when my colleague likened the vast dome above us to a planetarium.

For the last 20 km, our driver had been telling us to watch out for Ranau. It is a most cute little desert village, he told us. He reminded us again when we crested the last hill before the village. All of us gasped on cue. My thought? It looks like a Star Wars set.

Confronted with startling beauty, the two of us reacted in the same way. The only way we could make sense of what we saw was by linking it to our childhood. The only way we could refrain from being overwhelmed enough to hide under our blankies was by associating these sights with our childhood experiences. Does anyone else see any irony in that?

Even the camel's laughing at us.

We have everything here

2012-11-03T07:23:00.002+05:30

That statement sounds like a boast- what made me stop and think is the detail of where I heard it. Not in the super-stocked aisles of Delhi, and not in the lush Konkan where you can't see the trees for the fruit.
I heard that statement (and other versions of it) while talking to people who live in this landscape:

And where this is considered to be a field so lush people are brought in from miles to see it:

Walking around in the north-west of Jaisalmer district, I listened as people counted their blessings over and over again. I listened as they thanked the fates for receiving 20 mm of rain this year. I heard them extoll the virtues of the milk their goats provide, of how the sweetness varies with the herbs the goats eat. I was stopped at nearly every bush, every plant while my hosts told me of all that it provides them. I tasted the sweetest berries, drank the most live-giving water. The well overflows, I was informed. We have more than enough.

Contentment is a quality I like to think I have, one that I consciously cultivate in myself. But contentment I now know is more than virtuously refusing to complain. It is honestly exulting in the life that we lead. I do it, but not enough. I need to practice.

I have more than enough.

It is a Good Thing

2012-10-30T14:48:00.001+05:30

That's what Mian told us as he peered into the distraught faces of his wife and pup. And it is, I agree. A wrap around porch, non-mud floors, a rat-free kitchen, open shelving, solar hot water..the list goes mouthwateringly on. Living there was becoming stressful, it is true.

But. There is always a but. And that but is summed up in this photo of Sho.

Our porch was always her favourite spot. There, she could sit in the morning sun and look out over the valley. More often than not, Mian and I would be there too. Belly rubs were there for the asking, and always there was the comfort of being in a loved place.

Now that porch is no longer there. It has been ripped apart, the wood and stone stacked up to build our new house. All that remains is a bit of stone floor that the masons have retained.

And the first thing Shona-Bhaloo did when we visited was to run over and plonk herself down in as close an approximation of that old spot as she could manage. Maybe that way, home would come back.

It should not be a surprise that both Mian and I teared up when we looked at her there. She feels exactly what we feel too. We miss our Chatola home. We want those mornings back. We want to huddle by the fire again. We want to wake up and watch the birds.

soon, soon.

Baking day

2012-10-18T20:28:00.001+05:30

Sourdough breads at our home.

My Mian, he bakes.

A wide-spread besmirching of reputations

2012-10-11T16:29:00.001+05:30

To understand how several reputations in the area were damaged in one fell swoop, you need to visualise several scenes.
Scene 1: A woman returning home after a week away from her husband and hearth. She should be happy and excited. Instead she is edgy, tense. At every bus stop she gets down, requests an extra 5 minutes from the driver and darts off looking for a chemist. The object of her search? Emergency contraceptives. I know what you are thinking; all the other passengers were thinking the same thing.

Scene 2: A man who has been alone and wife-less for the last week is busy on the phone calling everyone he knows of who might be travelling between towns. 'Would you mind stopping at a medical store?' he asks each one. 'I need emergency contraceptives. If you won't mind asking for them. Yes, I will text you the name.'

Scenes 4-9: A young and unmarried taxi-driver is ferrying his passengers from town A to town B. He requests a stop at every chemist and darts inside, only to emerge red-faced and empty-handed. What is he asking for, the passengers ask. 'i-pill' he mutters. The passengers sink into a stony and disapproving silence.

Scene 0 (the explanatory scene)
This actually is a series of phonecalls. But first a little background. Mian and I turned out to be procrastinating parents. 'We'll call the vet next week' was repeated often, and before we knew it, a lot of male dogs started besieging our home. Our little pup was clearly all grown up. We dealt with it for two weeks- a stressful experience for all concerned. Just as we were at the finishing line, Sho slipped her collar and got entangled (most literally) with a chap we had named Red1. (the others were Red2, Interloper, Tiger, Rocky, Scruff, and Black).

I cannot, I decided, deal with a litter now and so made perhaps the 2nd most embarrassing call* I've ever made to her vet. He recommended the emergency contraceptive. And while we can buy instant popcorn in our neck of the woods, we don't have a chemist.

And this is why all of the Chatola area had to go through that.

Shona and Interloper, before her parents figured out what was going on and became very nasty towards her dates.

* The most embarrassing call ever? 6 hours after the call to the vet, when I had to call up a most dignified neighbour and ask him if he could procure contraceptives for me..err..actually, for the dog.

Learning plumbing

2012-10-08T12:33:00.001+05:30

'I tried to change my eating style once', I told Mian in the middle of a mini-breakdown in the kitchen. 'I tried to do everything at once- low carb, raw, frugal- and I couldn't. I cannot handle too many variables at once. I could possibly stick to any one rule, but not all'. The bewildered and slightly worried look on his face reminded me that I was talking to a guy. Metaphors are not delicately coloured illustrations of life, they are mine-fields.

'I can cook without a stove' I translated. 'and I can cook without water. But I can't do both.'

And that is the gist of our lives the past week.

Our beautiful, beautiful house took a battering in the monsoon, and began to fall apart. And the rats had gotten to an unmanageable point. So when A visited, looked at the place, and suggested rebuilding the house, we agreed happily. And yes, I am glad to be free of rats (almost..we still have a visitor), am glad to have a house that's easy to clean..but I do miss the old one.

Our gas cylinder sputtered out on the day of the move..and when we got here, we trusted in the pipeline and cleaned out the water tank.

The next day, we realised that a) for various reasons, we cannot get a new cylinder for the next 12 months and b) the pipeline- like Bertie Wooster's head- is more for ornament than use.

The food issue is okay- lots of roasts and breads and stews. Our solar oven and the electric one mean that the only thing I cant do is saute, and we can live without that. The water however, is another issue. I have no idea how we managed for the last few days, but now as I sit and write, I hear the sweet tinkle of water pouring into the tank.

And I learnt one very important, but saddening thing today. I wasted the first three years of my professional life BS-ing a lot of people. See, I worked for a plumbing consultancy, and my job was developing specifications for every teeny-weeny bit of the system. I had drawings and specs for the distances between pipes, and the way they are to be laid, for angles and curves, for thicknesses and weights. If I were to turn a pipe to the left, then down a wall, and along the floor, the drawings would have included one long bend, one elbow, one thrust block and umpteen spacers.

Not one of those specifications included bending a pipe by wrapping it around a tree. The humbling realization? It works. It might worry Shona, but it works.

Pyaar ke rahi

2012-09-28T16:12:00.001+05:30

I was in an overnight bus yesterday, and was lucky enough to have that most perfect of things- a window seat with no one next to me, which meant I could put my feet up and snuggle against the window.

To make it more perfect, the breeze was just right and the moon full. (actually it was gibbous, but let's not squabble over fractions). As is usual with me- and with most other people in the subcontinent, i fancy- I started humming 'Khoya khoya chand'. One thing led to another, and I was soon humming snippets of all the old Dev Anand songs.

The moonlight and the songs put me in a dreamy mood and I was oscillating between thoughts of my childhood and of my mian. I wanted to share these songs with him, I decided. The only question was whether to show the films or just play the songs. I remember my sister's dismay when I begged her to show me a movie that a song I liked was from. This was a pretty special song, still is. Both Mian and the song had entered my life at the same time, and at that time the song was forever on my lips-whenever it could elbow Mian aside, that is. My sis had finally shown me the movie, and explained the reason for her reluctance. 'First you could see him in your head when you sang this' she said,' now all you will see are Rekha's green plastic earrings.' It was an 80's movie-plastic earrings were perfectly correct. I was happily curled up and remembering this while humming the song.

I realised soon, that I was not just humming- I was humming along. The bus driver was playing the same songs that were running through my head. And this continued through most of the night. Usually, I would resent the playing of music in the night. However, not one of those songs was one I did not react to with great pleasure. By the time he moved on from the cheerfully hummable (hum hain rahi pyaar ke) to the more sentimental (yeh safar bahut hain kathin magar), he was occupying a great deal of my thoughts.

I firmly believed by then that the two of us were kindred souls. And the scene was perfect for a black and white movie - the valiant bus chugging up the mountains, the moonlight, the stunning high-contrast landscape, the music, the woman passenger and the bus driver in silent communion.

Until a passenger who had apparently also been humming along burst into song.

It was not just me- every single passenger in that bus was also conjuring up dancing-in-the-rain fantasies around the bus driver.

on writing, schedules, and guilt

2012-09-25T13:57:00.001+05:30

Today as I checked my mail shortly after I woke, I smiled. And I am smiling still. The reason? A letter from a friend who I thought had gone out of my life. It has been more than two years, he wrote. And went on to say how embarrassed he was, but how it is reassuring to know that I was still on the other end of that letter. And he had no reason to be apprehensive- I received his letter as joyfully and naturally as if that two year gap was never there.
And that letter also made me lose my apprehension and begin to write again on this blog. You too, I think, will receive me as joyfully as if the irregularities were never there.
There has been plenty to write about..and I will. But there also has been a voice (largely due to Problogger and their like) that I need to stick to a daily schedule or nothing at all. And that has had me seriously consider stopping this blog. But I won't..I get too much pleasure from this blog and from the friends I have met through it to stop.
But the other blog- the homestead one- I am taking offline. Maybe some day I will be disciplined enough to keep both as they deserve. In the meantime, I will strive at this, keep writing, keep trying.

Naivedyam

2012-08-22T09:16:00.001+05:30

It is the practice of offering one's food to the beings of the land, water and air before sitting down to eat. A good practice, one that reminds us that we are not the only inhabitants of our world, that we are the new tenants in a bustling community.

And it is also a good way to reconcile oneself to the loss of one's harvest. What with one thing and the other, Mian and I have not tasted too much of the fruits of our toil. The wheat I wrote about.
I was proud of the corn- as I should be, na?

15 plump, luscious ears. One more week, and they'll be perfect for the picking, we decided as we wiped the drool from our faces. The porcupines thought so too. We returned one day to see all the corn gone, stalks and all. A little scouting showed that the plants had not gone far. Just below the garden was a heap of corncobs and gnawed stalks.

The tomatoes we did get a taste of, can't complain even though sundry ground crawlers got more.

My first reaction to the loss of the wheat and the corn was utter rage and distress. I swore to eat pies made of grain-fed, free range, organic parrots and porcupines. My second thought was that this first harvest was naivedyam. A sharing of food with the rightful occupants of the land. They are not the thieves, after all.

There are still some tomatoes, two ears of corn, the beans are just setting fruit. And now the all-important september planting is due. Here's a photo to prove that atleast one of us did enjoy food from our garden.