Shortcut to Salvation

In Varanasi, also known as Kashi, the city of light, it is always about the celebration of life, even in the midst of death…

“Benaras is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together”. That is how Mark Twain expressed his emotion towards the city that, in the midst of all the so-called progress and development, still manages to look old and venerable.

It is just after sunrise and I am on a boat with a few friends, gently cruising down the Ganga. Women, their colourful saris tightly wound around themselves, step unsurely into the water and offer their prayers, facing eastwards. The men are more adventurous; a few of them even manage to swim a few feet into the river, as they mirror the actions and rituals of their wives and mothers. A few of them are holding wailing babies and sleepy children, trying to get them to take a quick dip into the water that, they are sure, will cleanse them of all sins for a lifetime to come. I may still be bleary-eyed but Varanasi, or more correctly, the stretch by the river, has been alive for a couple of hours already. For what is Varanasi, if not for the Ganga, the cleanser of all sins and the soother of all consciences?

Varanasi is believed to be one of the world’s oldest living cities, finding a mention in the country’s much-loved epic, the Mahabharata. It derives its name from the confluence of the Varana and the Assi rivers (both now dry and almost disappeared). In fact, legend has it that it was created by the God Shiva himself, making it one of the most important pilgrimage sites for Hindus. Benaras, as Twain referred to it, is the Anglicized name, while most Indians prefer to call it Kashi, the city of light.

I get off the boat at Kedar ghat, among the largest and most active of the almost hundred ghats (fleet of steps leading to the river) to take in the buzz. As I sit, a teenage girl unfurls her large umbrella and sets up her wares for the day; milk (diluted, no doubt) to be offered to the God inside the tiny temple at the top of the steps. The heavyweights offering quick and light massages are also spreading their blankets on secluded areas by the steps and are ready for business.

A Brahmin priest approaches me, suggesting that I offer him some money so he can pray for my wellbeing. As I smile and refuse, he banters with me, “You can earn a lot of punya (let’s call them spiritual brownie points) for a little money.” He does not spend too much time on me though since there are others willing and waiting for his – and the greater God’s he prays to – blessings. People come to Varanasi to perform the last rites of their loved ones since Hindus believe that being cremated here and having the ashes scattered into the Ganga ensures a peaceful journey into the afterlife. However, there is nothing sad or sacred about these rituals as both the family and the priests go about the normal business of life even in the presence of death. They bargain, they buy, they eat and they sleep just as they would anywhere else.

I then head to Tulsi ghat downriver to the akhada, the local gymnasium that is part of the throbbing canvas of Varanasi. The young men hard at work by the time I walk into the akhada, some with their dumbbells, indigenous clubs and weights and balancing bars and some of them wrestling in the mud, guided by their teacher in his late sixties who looks fitter than any of the youngsters. There are also a few interested onlookers; the young men carry on paying scant attention to the clicking cameras. A few others taking a break between their workouts decide to pose, flexing their muscles and wiping the mud from their tired and sweaty faces.

Back much later at Kedar ghat, I find that by then, the backpacking tourists have arrived, armed with their cameras and curiousity. They are here, just like the locals, in their own personal search for nirvana.

***
Published in the January issue of Morning Calm, the inflight magazine of Korean Air. Read the rest of the story on Varanasi here…

And more photographs from Varanasi here…

Of Kipling and goblins

The petite Indian city of Bundi has played muse to artists – most famously, writer Rudyard Kipling, photographer Virginia Fass and poet Rabindranath Tagore – but it has managed to deflect the prying eyes of the tour groups and backpackers. They have come, seen and conquered the rest of Rajasthan – pink Jaipur, blue Jodhpur and golden Jaisalmer – but overlook sandy, brown Bundi, despite its palaces and great fortress.

Perhaps for that reason the town’s rough charm remains undiminished. Tucked into a valley at the foot of the Aravalli mountain range, Bundi, which dates back to the 12th century, remains a figurative crevice in the folds of time.

In the South China Morning Post, August 21 – read the full Bundi travel story here – Living the dreams…

Sunset over Pichola

If you happen to be in Udaipur and someone recommends the ropeway ride (someone is sure to, locals are so proud of it), take their advice. I almost did not. Bah, ropeway, tourist trap.

Well, that it is. But it also a wonderful experience – not the cable car trip per se but the view from the top. The best time to make the trip is late in the evening just before sunset. All Udaipur stretches out before you, the sun slowly sets over the hills in the distance, someone up there opens the tap of multicolour ink on to the sky, a range of colours from pink to orange via purple and the lights across the city get switched on, the Jag Mandir and City Palace sparkle on the darkening canvas.

Family next to me on the cable car are visiting from Jaipur – the matriarch says, “This is so nice, what does Jaipur have, nothing, not even a cable car.” Indeed. What does Jaipur have.

From the top, I look longingly at the Taj Lake Palace – I call my husband in Bangalore and said, “I know where we are going for our 20th anniversary.” Husband asks (rightly) if that was not too far away to plan – we complete ten years early April. My reply, “yes, but we need to save up for the next ten years to be able to afford a few days there.” Deep sigh. By then, the prices would probably have escalated so much that even ten years of savings may not fetch us three nights there. Deeper sigh.

Till then, if I am ever in that city, I will be content to go up the cable car to watch Udaipur twinkling its beautiful eyes at me from a distance.

MB at LMB

So Jaipur is not just about the street snacks – though I’d be perfectly content to live on them all my life, hyper-acidity or not. There is also Lakshmi Mishthan Bhandhar. So I head there for lunch Sunday afternoon – and bravely, foolishly order the Rajasthani thali.

And it arrives. One look at it and I feel stuffed.

I share the table with this Taiwanese couple. After great inquiry and deliberation on what was in front of me, boy orders thali. Girl does not even look at the printed menu. She asks for mirchi bhajia.

Waiter directs smiles at her (patronizing – you poor firangi) and me (conspiratorial – these dumb firangis) and declares, that is very spicy – not for you. Girl calmly says she has been having it every day in Jaipur and can he please (wipe that smile off his face and) fetch it.

Waiter’s eyes pop out in disbelief. Food arrives. Boy and girl proceed to tuck into their food with great nonchalance. I struggle after the first baati is downed with the thick daal.

Much fun is had. Much food is consumed. A lovely lunch, in all.

Nine ladies. One elephant.

Now I don’t know what you are thinking after reading that title. But here is what I mean.

This board at the Jaigarh fort was about the attractions of the Jaipur City Palace. Large silver jar, Dacca Mulmul, swords and daggers – all check.

But this nine boys and elephant made of nine ladies – how did I miss this one? Doesn’t sound like something easily overlooked.

Greetings from Ganesh Chaturvedi

I find Lal Khan on my first morning in Jaipur – the watchman at my hotel hails Khan’s auto and we bargain. Sightseeing, I say, knowing no other word to describe ‘random roaming’ – he looks blank for a moment – I wave my hands helplessly and say, Hawa Mahal, Palace, Johri Bazaar… his eyes light up in comprehension – accha, sair-seeing, baitho .

He stops at several places unasked, feeling that I ought to use my camera more – he knows the best spots and insists I take photos from there and only from there. As it happens, so does my guide at the Hawa Mahal – he sees me pointing my camera at the facade at one spot and hustles me to another – “total symmetry here”.

Otherwise Lal Khan is careful, knowledgeable (mostly) – on the way to Amber fort, he points to a temple on top of a hill and says it is crowded during the annual Ganesha festival – “what you call Ganpati Bappa Morya in Bombay, we celebrate here as Ganesh Chaturvedi”. He is one nice old man, warning me every time I get off the rick, “be carefuls, madam”.

I love Jaipur – I realize it is one of my favourite cities in India. I take a walk through the markets one evening – the shopkeepers like it when you banter with them – one of them points to my earrings and says he will sell a similar one to me for just Rs.80 – and I say, I am already wearing this – why do I need one more pair? He laughs aloud and says – “chalo, aap free me le lo!” . And then the street food – everywhere, every kind of snack and chaat.

As in any other Indian city, it is interesting to people-watch and figure out where they are from – at Jantar Mantar, the Bengalis are arguing loudly about lunch, the Telugus are bored with the “same thing” and photograph their bratty children climbing on to the structures. Everywhere else, the Delhi couples saunter confidently, the newly-wed woman with her red chooda, svatters and high heels, taking pictures of her man on her phone camera as he poses at regular and frequent intervals. In front of the Hawa Mahal in the evenings, foreigners travel in hand rickshaws in a procession – the Japanese easily identified by their video camera in one hand and v symbol on the other.

Inside the city palace, my guide tells me the story of the 7 feet, 250 kg maharaja who ate 5 kg of jalebi and drank 5 litres of milk for breakfast everyday. His silk pyjama is on display and stretches across almost an entire wall; the group of teenagers point to it and giggle.

I want to giggle too then. Just because I am happy to be there then.

From the streets of Udaipur

On the move. So quick ones from the streets of Udaipur for now.

This one is a voracious reader. Clearly…

Anything is possible…

If I have to consult an astrologer about Intelligence, then…

Special hand and feet Quare…

Silver bra anyone?

and finally, my favourite… talk about marketing skills!

To Ladakh by air

It was mid-May when we visited Ladakh and the road from Manali to Leh was not yet open. It is considered one of the best road trips ever, and I hope to do it some day. But for then, we had to fly in to Leh from Delhi. Bleary-eyed, I sat looking out of the window for the promised glimpses of the mountains below. Dry brown slowly gave way to dark mountains with peaks capped by snow and clouds and then suddenly there was only pure white – and the sight took my breath away.

On the way in, the sunlight was harsh and direct, making photography difficult – and luckily, on the other side when we flew out. And so, we were blessed with the best possible views.

Today’s Yummies

Spotted on the streets of Leh:

I spent hours and hours walking in Leh, up and down the narrow market roads, chatting with the street vendors, stopping for coffee and snacks at the German Bakery, watching people and generally having (my idea of) a perfect holiday. After those alluring road signs all over Ladakh, what I loved most were these signboards in front of restaurants in Leh. Most restaurants were still shut for the off-season months when we were in Ladakh (this May) but the ones that were open called out to tourists with these inviting boards.

I mean, how, just how, can anyone resist those sexy Thai soups and Lazy Italian pastas? But here is the thing, what exactly makes a soup sexy? Why then can’t they add that to their noodles and curries too?

In another context, I had blogged cribbed about the Lonely Planetization of travel (food, specifically) – but signboard-spotting can still be great fun.

Some of them, though, like this one, start with great promise (Banana fat?!) but get all sober and correct by the time they end…

Stranger in my country

Published in Mint Lounge (September 04) as Stranger in a strange land…

***
Nancy is the local school teacher at Lachung village in North Sikkim and has recently returned home after some years outside the state. She has been chatting non-stop with me in the darkness of the late evening about her school and students. Among other things, she says that Hindi is one of the languages taught in her school, as in all other schools in Sikkim now. In the middle of the conversation, she leans over and says confidentially, “It is for the Indian children, you know, Sikkimese children really don’t need Hindi”.

I am slightly taken aback but do not give it much thought. Till a few days later, when back in Gangtok, Norgey, the owner of the guesthouse we are staying in, tells me breezily, “Oh, but there is nothing much to shop for here in Sikkim, we do all our shopping in India”.

In the time I spend in Sikkim, India truly feels far away – and it is not just about what the people say. Like everywhere else in the country, kids are out on the streets but it is not cricket they are playing. It is football that rules here, the way it rules the streets of perhaps only Goa. It is Baichung Bhutia who smiles from posters and hoardings all over the market, kicking a careless ball and seeking votes for the reality dance competition he was once part of; from Soccer King to Dancing King, they proclaim.

Barely two hours out of Gangtok, on our way to Lachen – base village for the trip to the high-altitude Gurudongmar Lake – we encounter groups of giggling, uniformed children waving down our vehicle for a ride. Our driver finally stops to take in Shaily, who gets into the front seat with him and starts chatting rapidly in the local language. She smiles diffidently when I ask her a question in Hindi but refuses to answer. At school 7km away, she hops off with a soft thank you bhaiyya, thank you didi and disappears through the gate. All along the route, we see school children getting into and out of tourist vehicles, hitching rides with perfect strangers. The city cynic in me is horrified but our driver says this is normal in Sikkim: “Children have nothing to fear, madam”.

Apart from this distraction, the roads are quiet. No blaring horns, no overtaking on the hills, no stopping in the middle of the highway. I realize I am overly sensitive by this point but I keep thinking about how different Sikkim indeed is from the India I know. The “difference” is perhaps in my mind as much as it is in theirs.

For, in the general elections last year, Sikkim had a record 83% voter turn-out (compare this with just over 41% in Mumbai). In Gangtok, I keep meeting people who came back to their homes in towns and villages across the state just to vote. Sikkim became the 22nd Indian state in 1975, when the Chogyals (the royal family of Sikkim) gave up their right to the throne after 300 years – driven, people say, by fear of invasion from neighbouring China. It would be 18 more years before China finally gave up claims on Sikkim and accepted it as a part of India.

But it’s perhaps no accident that the army is omnipresent in Sikkim. Most of the state is served by the 19th regiment from South India and the signboards and slogans on the rocks are written in Tamil, perhaps aimed in keeping the soldiers motivated in their arduous efforts. In conversation with one of them (in Tamil), I get a sense that these army-men feel as much strangers in this part of the country as I do; the bitter cold, language, food and terrain all unfamiliar, perhaps even inhospitable.

After a pit stop at the “The world’s highest cafe at 15,000 feet”, proudly managed by the army, we pass only bunker after desolate bunker on our way to Gurudongmar Lake. There are no signboards to show where we are headed. Our driver forges ahead on the rocky terrain on what seems like pure instinct. The landscape is stark and stunning, the snow-capped mountains of the Kangchengyao range seem within touching distance. Most of this part of the drive is in monochrome, a dry brown with a few spots of snow visible in the distance. At the lake, the army makes its presence felt again, maintaining the tiny shrine on the shore and providing welcome cups of hot tea to visitors who feel rapidly breathless, sick and disoriented at that altitude (over 17,000 feet).

Even within Sikkim there is nowhere that gives such a strong sense of being alien as Gurudongmar. Like many other Sikkim lakes, Gurudongmar (named after Guru Padmasambhava) is held sacred by locals; indeed, it is the most revered of them all. The lake remains frozen for most of the year but, when the ice melts, the waters are a clear, sparkling blue. Colourful prayer flags flutter in the breeze, as a few brave souls walk down the steep steps for a stroll around the edge of the lake. The wind starts to get bitter, cutting through the layers of protective clothing we are ensconced in. Despite the acute discomfort, there is a desire to linger but local legend has it that after noon, the wind factor is so strong that stones start flying. And so, we reluctantly head back towards Lachen village, and then on back to Gangtok.

The next evening, I am strolling on MG Road, the cobble-stoned promenade in Gangtok where locals and visitors, young and old alike meet, shop and drink. I am here to shop for souvenirs – local tea and cherry brandy mainly – to take back to ‘India’ with me. Kanchenjunga, the venerable protector deity is an invisible presence in the far distance, revealing itself only in the post-monsoon winter months.

Sikkim, I learn, is known variously as Sukhim (new home) to the Nepalese, Denzong (valley of rice) to the Tibetans and Ney Mayal Lyang (paradise) to the Lepchas. It is the Lepcha interpretation that I agree with the most.

In the next few years, it will be possible to fly into the new airport coming up at Pakyong, close to Gangtok. Enhanced connectivity with the mainland may perhaps infuse a greater sense of belonging among locals. For now though, I have to make that long drive to Bagdogra for the return flight. Entering West Bengal, the cacophony of cab horns and traffic jams sounds unnaturally loud after two weeks of peaceful driving on the Sikkim roads. Close to the airport, painted signs by the road say ‘Be Indian, Buy Indian’. I think they could have just as easily been ‘Be Indian, Bye Indian’.

TRIP PLANNER

Getting there

Fly to Bagdogra from Kolkata or New Delhi (Rs. 8,000 round-trip on Jet Airways & Kingfisher). Or take a train from any of the major cities to New Jalpaiguri and a bus or cab further on to Gangtok (3.5 hrs by road). If you’re in the mood for a unique experience, try a chopper ride from Bagdogra airport to Gangtok (Rs. 3000 per head, 35 mts).

Where to stay

For the best local experiences, stay in homestays / small guesthouses in Gangtok. We stayed at The Shire Guesthouse (Rs. 1,500-Rs. 2,500 per night per couple, inclusive of food). Or stay at the Tashi Tagey Guesthouse for some of the best home-made Chowmein & local cuisine. If you are inclined towards the comfort of large hotels, check out The Oriental (double rooms from Rs.2800 per night) or the up-market Mayfair Gangtok (Rs. 12000/ onwards per night inclusive of breakfast and dinner). In North Sikkim, your travel agent will put you up in a small guesthouse as part of the package.

What to do

Take a day to visit the monasteries in and near Gangtok – Enchey, Phodong, Rumtek – and another to visit the China border in the East – Nathu La via Tsomgo Lake. Spend your evenings on the pedestrians-only mall road (Mahatma Gandhi Road). All trips to North Sikkim and Nathu La need permits which can be arranged by local travel agents along with tours.

In North Sikkim, drive on surreal lunar terrain to Gurudongmar Lake and take a picnic basket to the picturesque Yumthang Valley of Flowers, a rhododendron sanctuary. Closer to Gangtok, you can take white-water rafting expeditions on the cold waters of the Teesta. Make this another day trip from Gangtok, or as we did, stop en route to Bagdogra airport on your way out and end the trip with a bang. Of course, you get to the airport drenched and have to change before they let you into the aircraft!