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City of the Sun.

Sometimes its good to snatch a few days off without too much overthinking and set forth, on the wings of a prayer and a mask. And watch a winter sunset, in roughly three hours thanks to direct flights, on one of the last few days of 2021, over the vast expanse of Lake Pichola in Udaipur, Rajasthan.

The icy wind blows the blue grey waters into little ripples, winter visitors, the migrant black ducks, bob around serenely, the last rays of the setting sun, light up the little islands and the pristine white palaces dotting the waters in an unearthly glow, the blue mountains in the distance, recede into a blurry haze and the huge orange orb, slips over the horizon, going, going gone. Its easy to turn poetic in Udaipur. You’ve also, just ticked the box of one more thing to do, while in Udaipur.

The state of Rajasthan is all about color. There’s Jaipur, the Pink City, Jodhpur, the Blue City and then there’s Udaipur, sometimes called the White City, because of the plethora of marble palaces to be found there but more commonly known, as the City of Lakes. Six, to be precise, each more jaw dropping than the last. Lake Picchola, however, seems to have more than its share of impossibly romantic history and ancient spots, replete with the myths and legends of a warrior clan who made Udaipur it’s home. It’s also the oldest and the largest lake in Udaipur.

Formerly the capital of the Mewar Kingdom, the walled city ringed by the Aravalli Hills, was founded by Maharaja Udai Singh II in 1559 and had a farsighted Maharaja Amar Singh, who realised that the chronic water shortage in the area could only be solved by creating man made lakes, fed by the rivers of the region.

This is the land of the Suryavanshi, or the Sun Dynasty, the clan born believed to have descended from the Sun God itself. The Maharanas of Mewar, who worship the Sun as their primary deity, whose ancient line, carved out this city nestled amongst the mountains, acknowledged as being one of the most beautiful cities of the world.

Theres an Old City and a New City, each a world of its own, in Udaipur. Soaring, arched stone gateways (known as ‘pols’) guard the different areas nestled inside the Old City where caparisoned elephants once made their stately way in and modern vehicles are still not allowed, in some parts. The only way to navigate the steep, uphill- downhill, narrow alleys if you wish to spare your legs, is to use the mighty auto rickshaws, whizzing by at a speed which would put a meteor to shame.

The Lal Ghat area of the Old City, is probably one of its busiest areas, bursting with traditional havelis turned boutique hotels, craft, curio and garment shops, which offer overnight custom tailoring facilities of beautiful block printed and zari embellished textiles, local and also chic, European style cafes, peeping out from in between age old mandirs, monuments, museums and the City Palace, all clustered around the waterfront.

The sun has set and you don’t feel like moving (partly also, because you’re frozen) for fear of breaking the spell. But as dusk falls and the lights start coming to life around you, you cross over one of the arched bridges spanning the lake, get lost for a while at the timeless beauty of the open skies meeting the endless waters , surrounded by a magical cityscape and then, following your nose, descend and wander into one of the many cafes on the other side of the lake. The one we chose had been rightly endorsed by Lonely Planet for its honey banana pancakes and coffee. Sitting perilously close to the dark, lapping waters, watching the floodlights come on, one by one,to frame the ancient monuments and the architectural wonders flanking both sides of the lake, indulging in a bit of time travel.

A dinner booking made a month in advance, at Ambrai restaurant in Amet Hotel, just up the road in Chandpole, is reluctantly recalled. An auto is hailed, whose driver introduces himself as Prince. Ten minutes later, we tumble out from his carriage more dead than alive, after a death defying drive up a steep, curving, uphill road, which has both ways traffic including cars, bikes autos, people milling around and a parade of shops, spilling out onto the carriageway, which can at best allow one vehicle to pass safely. Not only a popular shopping hub , Chandpole is also where, many hotels famous for their view and food, ( in that order) and also for discouraging walk ins, are located.

Outside Amet, hopeful diners are being turned away politely and the maitre d at Ambrai restaurant, has to be gently prodded, to remember our booking. Credentials duly scrutinized, we are finally ushered into the hallowed, much vaunted open courtyard, right on the lake, with its equally famous, giant spreading mango tree. As a final compensation, however, the candle lit table where we are seated, has a view of the lake that makes you forgive all trespasses ever committed against you.

The waiter perches an ice bucket on the balustrade right next to table and cheerfully assures us that if it falls accidentally into the waters lapping just below, it won’t really matter. Suddenly, you’re grateful for the wide, stone balustrade between the deep, dark waters and yourself.

The necklace of lights on the opposite side of the lake, marks out the City Palace, Gangaur Ghat, mandirs, monuments. Sitting just a little distance away, plumb in the middle of the dark lake is the many splendoured Taj Lake Palace Hotel, mostly known still, as that hotel, where 007 and his lovely ladies, once cavorted. On the other side is the equally famous five star, most beautiful Uday Vilas Palace Hotel, playground of the rich and the famous. From afar, the strains of a bhajan being sung in a distant mandir to the rhythmic beat of dholaks, comes floating across the waters, plaintive yet pulsating, at the same time.

Then, Cheerful Waiter, serves up dinner and all is forgotten except for exploring the brilliance of the famed Junglee Maans, assorted succulent kababs, a divine, crunchy boondi alu chaat and buttery breads, a divine coupling of divergent tastes, textures and juices. Rajasthani cuisine is like the land itself, …timeless, varied, colorful, with options for a royal feast or a simple vegetarian thali meal of dal bati churma, ker sangri, or streetside snacks like pyaaz kachori, mirchi vadas, dabeli and an astonishing, mirchi chai shot, to name a few.

Ambrai is flanked on both sides of the road, by a row of other hotels, including Lake Pichola Hotel and it’s equally famed terrace restaurant Upre( literally, The Upper) where too, crowds of disconsolate people hang around outside, hoping to get a seat. With nary an auto in sight, an urgent shout out, ensures that the Prince of Daredevilry comes to our rescue again and zooms us back safely, to our hotel doorstep.

Walkabouts are, however, the best way to get to know Lal Ghat because lurking in almost every nook and corner is a bit of history and a snatch of the glorious past, while the local people, are friendly and helpful. Eyes firmly on dodging humans, autos, bikes, cars, stray bulls, down a section of the madly busy area, a sudden look upwards, reveals a short flight of steps, leading to the magnificent 15th century Jagdish Temple, with its towering, intricately carved sandstone exteriors and the massive and resplendent image of Jagdish(Lord Krishna ) inside.

So now you’re in Jagdish Chowk and a hop away from Bagore ki Haveli, an old mansion turned into a puppet museum and also where the famous Dharohar folk dances are performed by Rajasthani women, at a daily cultural show held at the Neem Courtyard, on most evenings.

Walk past the museum, through one more towering stone gateway to find yourself right on the waterfront, at Gangaur Ghat, the primary ghat on Lake Pichola, site of one of the most important festivals of Rajasthan, when elaborate processions are taken out from the City Palace, move around the city, and culminate in the immersion of the idols of Gan and Gauri, at the lake. A traditionally dressed Rajasthani man in a multicolored turban, tunic, jacket and dhoti, sitting on the edge of the ghat, plays the sarangi, coaxing his wife, sitting next to him selling trinkets, to smile a bit for the phone cameras. She complies, although grumpily. Flocks of pigeons suddenly swirl in the air, the haunting wail of the sarangi, mingles with the sound of the whirring wings, the cries of excited children and the mutter of the launches passing by on the lake.

Sarangi player on the Ghat

Next stop, the City Palace, owned by the royal family of Mewar, spread over 37 kms, an architectural marvel, a sprawling complex of 11 palaces, gardens and courtyards and even a vintage car museum with the present Maharajah’s huge collection of vintage beauties, on display.

Much of the main palace is a museum now, including narrow, winding stairways, a complex maze of rooms and spaces, offering glimpses of an opulent past, an astonishing paved courtyard on the first floor, with fountains and fully grown, neem and mango trees and the cloistered women’s quarters, the zenana, breathing untold secrets. Not to forget a gigantic iron cage parked right in front of the grounds, meant to trap tigers.

Cages used for homing pigeons at City Palace.

On 12th December,1911, during his visit to India, King George V held a Durbar( court) to which all the ruling princes of India were asked to attend. A special chair for each ruler according to his status,was placed in the court. Maharaja Fateh Singh defied the directive and did not attend the Durbar. Photo of the chair and a replica of the Maharaja, as displayed in the Palace.

Peacock themed mosaic courtyard at the City Palace.

Across the glinting waters, shimmers yet another beauty, the yellow sandstone and marble palace, the Jag Mandir aka, Lake Garden Palace, built on a verdant island. Constructed from 1551 to the seventeenth century by three successive Maharanas, as a lavish summer resort and for pleasurable activities, it once, also served as a refuge for the errant Mughal, Prince Khurram, later Shah Jahan and according to local lore, inspired him to build the Taj Mahal in time. Need we say more.

There is more to see in other parts of Udaipur but everything pales after experiencing Pichola.

Udaipur. Go see it sometime. There’s magic in the air and the sun never sets. The Suryavanshi dynasty, has made sure of that.

Mondrian and Ma.

There’s a soft, white cotton dress made years ago by a local tailor, lying in the depths of one of my cupboards.

It’s a sleeveless, knee length shift dress made of white satin cotton, with patches of coloured cloth in primary colours, sewn onto its front like a grid, each piece marked out by a thick black dividing line.

It looked like a no other shift dress around in the late 60’s and wearing it, always guaranteed curious stares and even more curious conversations about it, adding to the fun of being seen in it. As a very uncertain young girl stepping gingerly into her teens, it definitely added an extra spring to my step, a feeling of being a tiny bit special because it always, effortlessly out shone what the others wore. Such is the power of clothes

Given how enthusiastically and how often it was worn, its hard to believe that the dress has survived till this day, with its sheen still intact and nary a rip or a stain after so many years, despite changing three residences and a lot of storage and handling.

This was of course, because of my mother, who became its custodian once i outgrew it and understanding my crazy attachment to it, kept it safely through the passing years, knowing fully well that it would probably never be worn again. And this by someone who wasn’t a keeper and who, like my father, believed in a clutter free, tidy home and giving away anything which would serve someone better.

A bit about this dress now.

Those were the days of master tailors, the more anglicized ones, who ran their own establishments in the ‘sahib para’, the more colonized parts of the city. Smallish in size, they would have several tailors working silently and assiduously, presided over by the majestic Master, who usually drew out the patterns of the outfit being made, sitting cross legged on the floor, no drawing boards or software around. There were the cutters and the team of tailors, their treadle Singer sewing machines thundering away on the low, slatted, wooden mezzanine floor above, the floors strewn with scraps of multicolored material, well thumbed, fat, fashion design books, bits of colored threads, buckram, elastic, measuring tapes, a sort of tailor heaven. The whole shop breathed of that peculiar smell that new dress materials have and of dignified and dedicated labour, everything an offering at the alter of the God of Clothes.

It was in just such a shop called T.Hussain Tailors on Free School Street, that my dress was born.

The inspiration behind it, came from my eldest sister who was not only a genuinely talented artist, passionate about reading up about art history and artists but was also deep into following current fashion trends on clothes and make up. New clothes were (still are) considered essential for the autumnal Durga Puja festival and she being the eldest ( the rest of us three younger sisters, were clueless about anything except fooling around, forget designing dresses ) would sit with Ma for hours and figure out what would suit us individually and who would wear what. And then relay the chosen designs and the relevant pictures from the pages of international fashion magazines and directions to the Darzee, as the master tailor was known then. Amazingly enough, that particular Puja, T. Hossain, sitting in Calcutta, replicated exactly for me, the Mondrian dress which had hit the Parisian fashion ramps, designed by Yves Saint Laurent ( YSL) and taken the fashion world by storm.

There was art, design and high fashion, contained in that one dress. Pieter Cornelus Mondriaan also known as Piet Mondrian (7th March,1872 – 1st February, 1944), Dutch painter and art theoretician, who is regarded as one of the greatest artists of the 20th century was known for being one of the pioneers of 20th-century abstract art. He changed from figurative painting to abstract painting to such a degree that his ‘artistic vocabulary was reduced to simple geometric elements’. ‘The Mondrian layout typically uses horizontal and vertical black bars to divide the design into rectangular shapes. The shapes can be filled with color, images, text, or a combination of all those elements.’

The fashion designer YSL, took these design elements, worked them into a couture creation and voila, the Mondrian dress was born.

I had very little idea about all of this high falutin’ stuff. It was simply a dress which made me feel a cut above the rest during my most tentative years but i did know that it was called a Mondrian dress and that it had something to do with a famous artist, a detail which i would utter with great flourish, when queried about its unusual design.

The summers came and went, I left the family home post marriage, the dress stayed in my wardrobe even though other clothes belonging to me and my sisters, were duly given away.

I have no idea at what point of time my mother took it to Ghatshila ( the country home in Bihar) or why ( possibly because of the shortage of shelf space in the Calcutta home) but i would see it in the Godrej almirah on my visits there and never questioned why it was there or even, why it existed at all. It seemed perfectly right for it to be there, the shining star of my school days.

It came back on the mover and packers truck when the house was sold in the late 90’s and duly given back to me by my mother. I took it unquestioningly and stored it away safely in a cupboard, where it stays till now.

One doesn’t question bonds of love or a mother’s instinctive understanding of her children’s unspoken thoughts or feelings, or the profound significance of familial relationships, woven into things of everyday use. That dress has the comfort, the tears and fears and wondrous anticipation of the future played out in a secure childhood and the boisterous days of growing up with my sisters, sewn into it. But most of all, I think, it carries the loving, protective and nurturing energies of a mother, a sort of silent legacy to be inherited and hopefully to be carried on, from a time when there were no Mother’s Day.

To all the mothers young and old, out there. Happy Mother’s Day.

Corvid speak.

Earth Day came and went. We are now sufficiently well informed about what we have done to the planet and how it’s all coming back and slapping us in the face, quite literally. Torrential rain in the deserts of Dubai, heat waves in early spring where I live, drought in the southern parts of the country, snow in places which have never seen it so far, to mention just a few.

Putting out some bowls of water and something to eat for the heat parched birds in the early morning, has now become something of a family habit. Two crows, possibly a male and a female, are often seen waiting, perched on the rails of an open spiral staircase, which runs down the west side of my house. Alert and inquisitive, they are highly intelligent as crows are known to be ( almost as intelligent as chimpanzees and Gorillas according to National Geographic) and are seen sometimes, dipping the bread pieces given to them, into the water, before eating it. They also alert other crows in the immediate vicinity when there’s something interesting to eat and soon, more join and jam together. Crows are known to be very sociable, they move in groups and even sleep together in the same tree at night.

It was only recently that i realized that the same pair, then change places and fly to the terrace of a neighbouring house to the south and sit there comfortably, for the rest of the morning. Keeping an idle eye on them from my verandah while I go about my work, ( I think, they do the same with me) has thrown up some interesting insights. Being a lazy admirer of pretty song birds so far,this is definitely a new journey for me.

They’re clearly a couple who have their own language and mutual interests. They communicate through their calls and also through their body language, with feathers ruffling and and watchful stance, when something catches their attention but prefer to sit mostly in silence. Observant and wise, they joined in the hysteria with the other crows in the area, when a mongoose walked into the garden, flapping and cawing in circles overhead, alerting everyone, bird, animal and human, to the stealthy intruder. In fact, whenever there’s a ruckus created by crows, one knows immediately something untoward is happening in the surrounding s. A kite, which roosts on yet another terrace nearby, is also often chased away by them, clearly seen as an enemy.

Both birds look fairly old and one, i think the male, has a permanently open beak. They watch other crows breaking off twigs and slim branches from trees to build their nests in them but don’t join in. Perhaps their work is done and it’s a retired life for now.

A (Corvid) short story.

Still offended but gradually coming around.

Friends again. All is well. Male chest, puffed with pride

Whether they are messengers from the spirit world ( these two seem like old souls, to me!) as is believed by many cultures, to whether their all black suits makes them mysterious or why a group of crows is labelled ‘ a murder of crows’, adds to their mystique but Earth Day was a good day to remind us that they are gradually diminishing in numbers as green cover disappears in urban areas, as does the loss of nesting , habitat and foraging and also the proliferation of mobile cell towers.

Hopefully, though, there will always be enough to ‘crow,’ about. And if perhaps, we humans actually learnt a few lessons from the ‘ bird brains’, about living in harmony with our surroundings and being supportive of each other, we probably wouldn’t need an Earth Day, at all.

The Colours of Life

The gardenia which has refused to bloom so far, has suddenly burst into full fragrant glory, perfectly in tune with advent of the Spring Equinox. The amaryllis lilies have broken through the hard soil, the tiny white jasmine buds,the flaming pink bougainvillea, the starry kamini and the blood red hibiscus, have all been reduced to its supporting cast but no one is complaining. The colours of spring are here, at exactly the right time, like every year.

Its Holi, the riotous festival of colours, heralding spring, rebirth, leaving the old and the tired behind. Nature never fails to remind us of the cyclical nature of birth, death and re birth.

The gardenia oddly enough, is clinging onto it’s dead flowers along with the fresh, vibrant new ones, much like humans who are often loath, to let their dead go. The tree is studded with fresh, white blooms but the worn out, wilted, yellowing flowers hold on tight too, like reminders of much loved ones, who have gone suddenly, much before their expected time, for no apparent reason except perhaps, that their allotted time ran out.

The exuberant colors of spring and it’s celebration is everywhere, while in other places, some live in world suddenly robbed of all its hues. A child has lost her young mother without warning, a husband his beloved wife, the world has turned dark in a split second before an aged mother’s blank eyes.

A dried yellow, leaf drifts to the ground and joins the heap lying scattered around the base of the trees. Evolution and involution is happening silently, simultaneously, the unity of the law of nature and the laws governing human life, meeting on the same plane of universal expression. The old tree gives up but the new shoots springing up next to its gnarled, wrinkled roots, are ready to take over.

Nature doesn’t mourn it’s dead, it’s laws simply redirects them back to the elements, from which they birthed. Mourning our dead is our gift of love to those who have gone, sometimes much before their time, sometimes expected, the farewells, always long.

A man comes to rake the dried, dead leaves, into a heap; the flames from the lit fire leaps and crackles as the pile burns. Smoke clouds the air, the heat from the leaping flames touches nearby trees. The little pile of ashes once it’s done, is all that remains of once living, dancing, glossy green leaves and laughing, sparkling flowers in their prime.

Dusk falls. The egret treads the still waters of the shallow pond, diving down lightning quick, to ferret out that elusive morsel, the flock of brown and white waterhens following him on his heels, aren’t so lucky. The Holi full moon is rising majestically from behind the darkening coconut palms, it’s radiance lighting the verdant wilderness with an unearthly glow, the bats preparing for the night, the tiny insect creeping unseen on the ground. An owl screeches and is answered by a cackle from another unknown night bird

The world continues to move forward. Everything passes. Everything happens at its own chosen time, nothing is wasted. The cosmic rhythm presses on, the universe hums, the exchange and flow of calm, loving, planetary energies with those of the sentient world continues, unhindered, undisturbed, forever in flux, always in motion.

The lost legends of Langkawi.

A single pebble, painted a royal blue, lies on the rattan table next to me, with the word ‘Laugh,’ written on it in white. It feels smooth and comforting to the touch and makes me wonder if it’s part of Pelangi Beach Resorts’ efforts to add some more shine to the guest experience or if a contented visitor had picked it up from the shell strewn, silky, white sands bordering the Andaman Sea spread out in front of me and scribbled his/ her feelings on it, leaving it for the world to share. A bit like a message in a bottle, washed up ashore.

Langkawi, the cluster of islands on the southern most tip of Malaysia, seems to have that effect on people, possibly stemming from the almost palpable sense of serenity that wraps the place and anyone so inclined, too. After a few fallow weeks, when my mind ran short of anything worth writing about, its now experiencing what a board in the reception area of the resort says , ‘When the mind becomes clear the heart is happy. ‘

It’s definitely a happy heart which looks out onto the greeny – blue, usually calm sea, dotted with a chain of low, thickly wooded mountains rising out of it (one called ‘ The Pregnant Maiden’ because of its rounded curves) the occasional speed boat leaving a trail of white foam, zipping from one island to another, fishing boats stationed motionless far in the distance, the wide arc of the sky, curving into infinity.

The Flame of the Forest tree behind me, bursting with brilliant orange blooms, has one blue bird and another yellow bird perched on a same branch, chirping and twittering their varied tunes in blithe harmony. And that I guess, is what makes this main island , part of an archipelago of 99 islands, just off the north western coast of Malaysia, seperated by the Straits Of Malacca, live up to its sobriquet, the Jewel of Kedah.

Surrounded by the Andaman Sea, the main island is a mix of green paddy fields, jungle-clad hills, and gushing waterfalls. The curving shoreline with powder-fine white sand, rustling coconut trees and endless beaches,is a tiny piece of heaven which leaves you wondering why going with the flow is so difficult elsewhere. There’s almost no other way to be here. The silence is broken only by the varied chorus of the multiple bird calls, the gentle breeze blowing in from the sea and the quiet hush of the ebb and flow of the tranquil sea waters. It’s easy to connect with the inner you here, regain your equipoise, be still and simply surrender to what the universe offers you freely, in all its glory.

Guests are somnolent on their recliners under the shade of the stunted, wispy triangular shaped trees on the white sand, the only movement coming from a foot long, yellow and black speckled lizard, watching with beady black eyes, the humans encroaching on it’s domain. Later, during early evening we spot a Monitor Lizard, easily mistaken for a baby crocodile, clambering clumsily out of the waters, to spend the night on dry shores. The day breaks late and the orange sun sets in brilliant hues, at around 7.30 pm.

Sunset on the Andaman Sea.
PC: Rinita Sen

Sunset skies over the Pregnant Lady mountains. PC. Rinita Sen.

There are things to do and see other than lying supine on the beach, which gives the visitor a better idea of these untouched islands. Sea cruises, shore excursions, deep sea diving, watching the famed batik painters create pieces of art or even a fire throwing event and trying out the skywalk in Eagle Square, where a replica of the White Crested Eagle, the symbol of the island, stands poised, ready to soar into the wide blue yonder, are usually the popular touristy options. Langkawi translated, in fact, means ‘ island of the reddish brown eagle.’

There’s a cable car ride too, skimming over the tops of the heavily forested hill sides, overlooking the endless expanse of the sea, which gives a pretty good idea of the bio diversity to be found here.And if you’re lucky, you can spot the Dusky Leaf Monkey or Spectacled Langur, the cute white eyed simians, an endangered species, who live in the jungles here

There’s a theme park, Lagenda Park ( Park of Legends ) next to Eagle Square, spread over 50 acres, with a lagoon, ponds and gardens, statuary of mythical birds, evil ogres and beautiful princesses, reminders of the many myths and legends that surround Langkawi and justifies its popular description as the “Island of Legends”. There’s a legend or myth surrounding almost all of the islands attractions but there’s something about Langkawi, which makes it all seem so real, that it’s easy to slip into a state of willing suspension of disbelief.

And if myths and legends and contemplation, aren’t your thing, you’re now in a very prosaic duty free shopping zone where everything the material mind craves for, is available in the duty free shops lining Cenang Street in the busiest, tourist friendly, 2 kms long Pantai Cenang beach front. Its bars and restaurants, many with live music, offer after dark entertainment, there’s a famous underwater aquarium, and it’s also a great place to visit night markets and view the spectacular Langkawi sunsets.

A friend in Kuala Lumpur has asked for some chocolates, so in we go into one particular duty free chocolate heaven and exit quite some time later, a bit gobsmacked by the vast selection and the vastly lesser prices. Shops selling premium spirits, electronics, perfumes, all duty free, gorgeous, locally crafted crochet dresses, finely embroidered linen and raffia bags, with fresh juice bars thoughtfully interspersed in between to rejuvenate parched souls, find takers from all parts of the world but luckily, there are no milling crowds.

In fact, Langkawi has figured on the tourist map only since 1986, when the first Prime Minister of independent Malaysia, developed it as a holidayer’s paradise and placed it on the international map.

There’s a reason for it, too. Local legend has it that in the late 18th century, a beautiful young woman named Mahsuri, was wrongly accused of adultery and put to death. Before she died she put a curse of bad luck on the island that would span seven generations. Langkawi then experienced a period of tribulations – from the Siamese invasion to a series of droughts and floods, prompting the people to believe in the Mahsuri curse. Its only when the seven generational curse ended that Langkawi was thought to be ready for international exposure and not a day before.

My collection of shells and odd bits and blobs of sea formations collected from what the tides left behind, has grown steadily in inverse ratio to my time spent with the sea and the sky, legends, monkeys, spent curses and folklore.

If I had a pebble I could paint on, i would probably choose to write one word on it. Peace. Or perhaps, happiness. And leave it next to the blue one, hoping that the chain would keep going, adding it’s good energies to the mythical, magical, alchemical mix, that is Langkawi .

A bit of giving

Rummaging through an old rosewood box filled with odds and ends, out fell a single, plastic bangle. Bright green, with a white band running around it. It was originally a pair but clearly, only one had survived.

Not surprisingly, it refused attempts to slip it on my wrist. Its been many years since my niece, aged about ten then, had given it to my much slimmer self, on my birthday. She’d bought it with her limited, pocket money and was thrilled that she could give it to me.

There’s a small statuette on my desk, of a matronly woman hair tied in a bun, with the legend, ‘World’s Greatest Mother,’engraved on the base, awarded to me years ago, by my two, very young daughters. Somewhere too, tucked in between the pages of an old diary, is a worn out card, made by my younger daughter, aged four or five, for Mother’s Day, with pictures cut out from magazines, a collage of all the things I liked including chocolates and kaftans. And accompanied by a loopy, handwritten message, hoping that I’d score all my favourites that day. There are some tiny acorns too, stored away somewhere, brought back for me, by another child, from a holiday in the hills.

Little gifts from children, which have survived time to tell many tales.

Little things which have only heart value but probably gave the kids bigger joy, in giving them. Like a seed being planted which later developed into the desire to share and give to others, the desire to make others happy too.

Children like to give, they are naturally kind and eager helpers, sharing whatever they like, maybe even just a handful of dried leaves which excite them. They seem to understand quite intuitively that love and other happy emotions comes in many forms and giving, is one of the many ways to show it. In time, they will learn that it also breeds many more virtues.

The same kids are all grown up now. The gifts now cross a range of things and are of greater value,each precious,each a reminder that the seed that was planted years ago, has blossomed well. The thought and the emotion that prompts the giving of carefully chosen things, tells of a bond that survives no matter where they may be geographically, the material stuff, just a physical manifestation of it.

They come with love, gratitude and concern embedded in them but they have also taught the givers, that generosity helps in leading a happier and healthier life and in making and keeping good relationships with friends relatives and co workers, to develop a sense of purpose and to look at the world with compassion and empathy .

Teaching children to give on a regular basis, is the surest way to keep the most important cycles of life, going.

Research has shown that toddlers as young as two are happiest, giving, rather than receiving. Nurturing generosity in kids( altruistic giving, even more)helps teach them life skills and thoughts for others, instilling positive character traits, all valuable tools in navigating life’s path and which gives them the confidence that they can if they want, change the world around them.

As opposed to takers, who, more often than not, remain cocooned in a self absorbed world.

Giving also stimulates the brain’s mesolimbic pathway, or reward center, releasing endorphins, leading to boosting self-esteem and happiness and combating any feelings of depression.

The bangle, the card, the acorns and the statue, remain like talismans against the vagaries of time. In them lies nestled, relationships that have sweetened and ripened over time and the thoughts of the givers, who have discovered that the heart of living a better life, lies in giving, whatever be the way, a generosity of mind and spirit, with no strings attached.

Name and fame

Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.

Well, heres a prompt, I can’t resist. Simply because my name and I, have had quite a fraught relationship and I think, quite successfully disproved the Bards query, ‘What’s in a name?’ Plenty, as it turns out.

It’s starts with being the third amongst four sisters and being given names which vaguely rhymed with my mother’s name. Rhyming names, by the way, were once almost a tradition amongst Bengalis, in fact the only way to name your kids, not quite sure why though. Since I haven’t taken my sisters’ permission, I’m not mentioning their names, suffice it to say, that my parents took the easy way out by keeping the core alphabets the same in each name, with a letter added or subtracted, here and there.

And oh, by the way again, our nicknames, ( also a Bengali tradition) rhyme too. Fortunately we all look quite different from each other and though there were one off cases of mistaken identity over the years, we did see many eyes glazing over, when our younger selves were lined up and our names rattled off to new faces.

As with most Indian names, there’s a divine connection to my name, too. In my case, a bit subdued though, unlike my other sisters, who have a perfectly acceptable significance to their monikers.

Diti was sister to her better known sibling, Aditi, according to the Puranas. She was also wife to sage Rishi Kashyap Muni. So far so good but according to my paternal grandmother (who remained perpetually aghast at my name and beseeched me to change it by affidavit, as i grew older)she was the mother of two monsters. She used the word ‘daitya,’ which signifies demons but in my childish parlance, I translated it as monsters.

So I basically knew myself to be ‘Mother of Monsters’ and since no one else around me was any the wiser, that’s what I grew up with. Not that it mattered either way. No deep, dark complexes were born because of it, in fact I grew quite attached to my peculiar status.

With all the Goddess of Learning, Good Friend, Beautiful Face, etc floating around me in school, I was quite happy to be myself, just that I had to repeat, ad infinitum, that I was Diti not Aditi or Dipti or Tithi, which is the case, even now. I actually seemed to be the only one around, with this name.

The trouble arose when i joined college, an extension of the missionary school, where I studied. At a meet and greet, welcome session for freshers, one of the Irish nuns, known for her ramrod straight posture and gimlet eyes, in an attempt to be unbend, invited us to introduce ourselves and just like this prompt, share it’s significance. While the others blossomed in their nomenclatures, when my turn came, I stood up and said dutifully ( since that’s all I knew) ‘Mother of Monsters, Sister’. The piercing blue eyes froze and I was told to sit down, in an even more icy voice. She clearly thought I was taking the mickey out of her and it was no surprise, that my marks in Paper Four, were less than dismal that first year.

The trouble with my name continues. My husband’s renewed passport had his wife as Dipti. Whoever the person in charge, obviously thought there was a spelling mistake in the original passport and very obligingly, took it upon himself to rectify it. Changing it back to Diti, required me to present myself for police verification with all documents for them to scrutiny and check, if I was indeed for real.

On another occasion, a gentleman verifying personal details for the social security Aadhar card, decided to enlighten me and those around me at the counter, on the ancient origins, exact significance and myths surrounding my name, in great detail. He clearly knew his mythology very well and left me wondering idly, if a daitya could be summoned at will. After all that, my gender came as male,on the card.

Sometimes I’m Ditty, sometimes Dethi, sometimes even Dwiti. I guess I’m lucky that I haven’t been called Tweety, so far.

Then after many perilous years came the Book of Baby Names written by Maneka Gandhi. Shock number one. It listed Diti. Shock number two? Written against it as its meaning, was ‘Illumination’. A moment of epiphany, with me doing a mental jig of joy. Validation at last.

Google now tells me that Diti is a Sanskrit word which means glory, glow, splendour and that she was an earth goddess. Could a body want anything more? She was also the mother of the Maruts( storm deities) and the Daityas, a race of giants. So perhaps my grandmother wasn’t so far wrong because Diti, did in fact beget two famous daityas, Hiranyakasipu and Hiranakshya and others too.

However, that apart, life is definitely easier and when I’m asked (even now)what my name means, instead of a disjointed mumble, the reply is an airy ( read, triumphant) ‘Oh, it means Illumination’. Stress on the last word.

Even better, I now have one younger Diti in my surroundings and one small child too, so perhaps the deadhead Diti days are done. And as if that isn’t enough, i was asked by an internationally renowned, much awarded author, while signing my copy of his book at the launch, what Diti meant. In one of his later books,the first of a trilogy, the main protagonist had my name but obviously, it was purely coincidental.

Still, i cant help admitting, it definitely felt good. Good to be part of a select few, good to finally see the light.

Tripping along.

Think back on your most memorable road trip.

Actually, that doesn’t require much thinking. Road trips and I have shared a close relationship, especially at a point in my life when they were mostly unplanned, with some essentials tossed into the boot of the car, no hotel bookings, just setting off into the wide blue yonder, like birds released from a cage.

There was a fifth and silent companion, back then, too. With no gps, every journey to the known or unknown, was navigated with the help of our indispensable, trusted heavyweight AAEI ( Automobile Association of Eastern India) directory, which provided the most detailed maps of highways and roads to almost ( well almost) every nook and corner of the country. And of course, along with the help of passersby, who more often than not, gave wildly conflicting advice and muddled matters even further.

Going round in circles and getting lost in strange places was a given, when road signage wasn’t the best and the roads themselves, quite unpredictable. Sometimes a very interior road, would just give up on being metalled and petered out into a dirt road or came to a dead halt but it was all shrugged off philosophically, as part of the trip. One just backed off and tried another route.

Of all the zillion trips made, past and present, the one which remains indelibly etched in memory, would be the sudden unplanned detour we made on the way to Ghatshila, a small town in the neighbouring state of Bihar where we had a home, many years ago.

There we were at the three road intersection at Baharagora, a small town made famous because of its convenient location on NH6, for truckers, long distance buses and people like us, stopping for a khullar of strong, sweet tea, at the row of tea shops lining the crossing, before carrying on with the rest of the journey. This pitstop is a junction where three states, West Bengal, Bihar and Orissa, meet.

Perhaps it was the punch packed by the strong, sweet ginger tea, which spurred us to flex our journeying muscles but post the tea break, we turned the car confidently, towards Chandipur, a small town off the beaten track, next to the sea in Orissa, cancelling our visit to Ghatshila in Bihar, the original destination. With no idea where Chandipur was, nor where we would put up for the night or anything at all. All we had was the AAEI directory and a cheerful certainty based on nothing, to show us the way.

The roads were initially a delight and we sailed along happily till road signage indicated that we needed to get off the highway and enter lesser known roadways.

We drove on many miles through lush green, paddy fields and waving palms, then trusty AAEI directory sort of gave up. We turned to passing villagers for help and became even more confused. The sun was slipping dangerously close to the horizon and the afternoon light was beginning to fade. The two small girls, (aged seven and three) on the back seat, were getting restive since we had already been on the road since early morning. We were also running dangerously short of food and water.

As darkness fell, asking for directions became increasingly tricky. Those asked at the succession of interior villages we crossed, seemed to not understand our query at all or were clueless about Chandipur, leaving us stranded in a maze of narrow winding village roads, going in all directions. At a point when we were wondering if Chandipur existed at all, a last ditch effort paid off. One old villager, God bless his soul, when addressed in rather shaky, Bengali-fied Oriya, gave precise instructions on how to reach Chandipur.

Having thoroughly memorized his directions,we drove on in pitch darkness. It was already late evening. The villages we crossed, were dark, the countryside still and bare of any life except for the occasional jackal caught in the headlights slinking across the road, striped snakes, slithering swiftly into the bushes and startled hares, running for their lives. Finally, after many twists and turns, we reached Chandipur late at night, well after 11 pm .

There was only one hotel there, the Tourist Lodge run by the Orissa Government and it too, seemed to have gone to sleep. The guard at the locked gate looked justifiably suspicious and let us in very reluctantly, quite convinced that we were anti-socials in some way and the hotel manager had to be roused from sleep, in his quarters. Only to tell us that there were no rooms available. I probably looked distraught at this point of time or maybe he saw the two exhausted children, curled up on the rear seat, so he then very kindly offered us the choice of taking a dormitory for 30 persons.

Of course, it was no choice at all. We hired the vast dorm with 30 single iron beds, lined up like soldiers, swathed in heavy, cotton mesh mosquito nets and took one each. Waking up early next morning, I looked across to scan the kids and found the younger one( aged 3 and given to hair raising antics) missing from her bed.

Telling myself not to panic, I scooted over to her cot. She wasn’t there. I lifted the net. Nope. It took a few minutes to calm down( too many shocks over one day, had clearly taken its toll)) and realize, that she had fallen off the bed and was hanging close to the ground on the other side of the bed, (not in my immediate line of vision) the mosquito net acting like a hammock, sleeping blissfully through all the fuss.

The rest of the holiday was peaceful enough. The sea in Chandipur was unique in that it receded for miles during ebb tide in the early morning and one could walk for miles quite safely during the day, on the dry, pebble and shell encrusted sea bed, for as long as one wanted. Watching the waters come back with a sweep and crash during high tide in the early evening and surge against the bottoms of the wispy jhau trees lining the pristine, untouched beach, was an unforgettable experience. There was even a pretty deer park with friendly deers within the premises, which kept the children safely engrossed, for hours, although the younger one managed to step on a nest of angry red ants along the way and got bitten thoroughly.

The drive back to home after a few days days was uneventful and done in record time, with two wiser and rather chastened dragon slayers, in the front and two tired but content children, at the back.

Not that we were overcome by regrets. Despite the multiple ‘ omy god,’ moments, the trip had been quite exhilarating and the girls seemed none the worse for it, either. What it did, was to put to rest forever, any future thoughts of whizzing off on harebrained, impulsive, spur of the moment road trips,small kids in tow. Wisdom, won the hard way.

Harvesting riches.

The northeast winds are blowing, the temperature has dropped steeply, and a watery sun, has put in a rather late appearance. No one is complaining though because we know it’s the last hurrah of a far too short, much craved for, winter in Bengal, before we settle in to the usual run of longer, hotter days

How do we know? Not via the weatherman but because today, 15th January, is the festival of Makar Sankranti ( sankranti: movement of the sun)for us in Bengal, coinciding with Lohri in Punjab, Bihu in Assam, Pongal in Tamil Nadu, Ugadi in Karnataka and others too.

Almost everyone in the country is marking the day when the sun transits from the southern hemisphere to the North, astrologically, from Sagittarius ( Dhanu) to Capricorn ( Makar, the dragon) farmers are celebrating the beginning of a good harvest season and it’s officially, the end of the winter solstice.

Along with that, it’s also a pivotal time for many throughout the country, to thank Surya, the Sun God, with an early morning dip in the icy waters of the river Ganga because its believed to be especially blessed by divine presence today and even those who die during this time, are thought to be relieved of their karmic cycles and attain everlasting peace.

Pilgrims, sadhus, devotees, from miles away, are thronging the southern tip of the Sagar Islands situated where the river Ganga meets the Bay of Bengal, 123 kms from Kolkata, at the pilgrimage spot of the Gangasagar Mela, precisely for this reason, braving the freezing conditions to atone for mistakes past and present and pray for blessings.

Makar sankranti is special. Not only is it the first festival of the new year, the only one to be celebrated according to the solar calendar across the country in different regions but also a day when material, geographical and spiritual benefits all come together in total alignment and theres a lot of gratitude and good energies everywhere.

A great day to fly kites (carrying messages of thanks to the heavens) to stuff yourself with mostly sweet delicacies made for this day only, light bonfires of wood and thatch and offer a prayer around it, beat a drum, dance ( folk dances) and generally experience and celebrate, the joy of life.

Which is exactly what makes this day special for most, even for those who aren’t especially engaged with the festival.

At the most basic level, the truly gorgeous sweets, made of rice flour, coconut, milk, sesame and jaggery and the merry making, are a distinct draw but more importantly, it’s the first festival of the year which brings with it a hope and a prayer for a better world, for peace, abundance and harmony.

Everything connected with it, like the foods made today with ingredients symbolic of unity, sweetness and warmth, the folk dances and the festive meals harking back to age old rural , agrarian traditions, the shared prayers of thanksgiving for the first harvest, all help to realign scattered energies and emotions, towards a consciousness that holds us together in love and a shared commitment to a happier, plentiful and more peaceful world.

The day is done, the sun has slipped quietly over the foggy horizon, the farmer and the city slicker have renewed bonds over shared customs and traditions, which heal, nourish and give hope.

Arguably, a good way to start a brand new year.

Mission, not impossible

What is your mission?

This is one of those arcane words which was once reserved by me for those special people, who voluntarily opt to fulfill a stringent duty towards a particular target, be it social, spiritual or plain fanatical. It had very little to do with ordinary me or my very ordinary life.

That is, until i encountered a lay Buddhist organisation, which defined ‘mission’, as something that everyone had or needed to have. In short, a ‘mission’ to work towards happiness for self and others and yes, it also involved spreading the message of peace, hope compassion and courage, in general.

Having a mission in these circumstances, meant having a goal, a target which was rooted in changing oneself, reflecting and weeding out the inner negativities, stopping the blame game and accepting that things in the immediate and bigger environment, could only change if we changed ourselves from the core. Every difficulty encountered was a means to strengthen oneself, to evolve and to see it as a challenge which could be overcome, depending on ones determination.

Mission so defined, wasnt a rarefied duty of the chosen ones but something required of anyone who didn’t want to feel a victim and live a hope-filled life in the present but always moving forward. In short, everyone had their own respective missions to fulfill.The Buddhist way of living is simple, always based on reason, respect for all living beings and practical applications and applying it as guided, brought its own rewards and benefits.

Along the way though, ‘mission’, has evolved into something more broader, more nuanced in its implications. Its not fodder drawn from self help books nor motivational talks but a growing feeling of awareness, that comes over time

A feeling of responsibility and the need to do something about it, period. At the risk of sounding like a moralistic prig, the word for me now, embraces a consciousness of and trying to do my bit for, some of the many issues that cloud our existence and at the most basic level, just chip in, wherever one can be of help in whatever way one can; working towards overcoming petty everyday negativities that become so much a part of life, that one stops seeing them as being the big zeros which rob life of joy. So much more but suffice it to say that living in an empathetic and contributive way, is a good way to go. Trying to, at any rate!

Sometimes a goodfriend and guide, appears to help you along and in my case, my wordpress fellow blogger now friend, Joy, at http://this-happened.blog/ whose poems lift and elevate and carries one along to a wonderful world, one never knew existed. Her words encourage the exploration of the ‘ inner continent’ that rises exponentially in time, to remind us of the mission to purify the senses and be more aligned to receiving the gifts of the pure consciousness that exists within us and outside as well.

Today, 12th January, coincidentally, also happens to be Swami Vivekananda’s birthday. His message of ‘Arise, awake and stop not till the goal is reached’, was his mission, which continues to galvanize and motivate millions throughout the world, particularly Indians. It’s the message of the Vedanta,doing something worthwhile for mankind, living not just for oneself but for the greater good recognising the divine in every one and working at it ceaselessly without fear, till the goal is reached.

I still hesitate at using the word mission loosely because it seems a very grandiose way of describing what is in fact, a sensible, practical, peaceful and beneficial way to live a life. But since the prompt is asking for ‘my mission’, here it is.

Not such a big deal, simply a way to move forward to a better, more peaceful life with some clear guidelines, not like new year resolutions, made to be forgotten.

In the dark

Writing in the dark isn’t quite like dancing in the dark. For one, the only light that’s shining right now is the screen light, beaming it’s fluorescent brightness onto my face, certainly not conducive to creative genius. Two and paradoxically, the senses have jumped into full alert, so everything in the surroundings,including the lone, fugitive mosquito which has sneaked in undetected and whining around in circles, seems like a potential threat. Darkness seems to promote silly thoughts.

I’m sitting in total darkness after a sudden power cut, which has already lasted well over twenty minutes and left my house and the neighborhood in near complete darkness. Since these are a rarity now, the emergency lamps kept ready for just such situations, are predictably also comatose.

It’s very early in a winter evening. A sudden silence hangs in the air. The ceiling fans have fallen still and the hum of the many electric gadgets dotting the house, a permanent background score to every day, is gone. The steady, now very loud ticktock of the vintage wind up, wall clock, adds to the time warp type of feeling, especially when it strikes the hour, a very doomsday sort of sound, normally interpreted as being quite cheerful. The muted and distant clamour of rush hour traffic because all the windows are shuttered against the winter chill. And the constant and now amplified, steady buzz of the jheejeepokas alias the crickets, who are quite undeterred by the sudden darkness, because that’s what they’re meant to be. Someone calls out, a street dog barks, something metallic, probably a kitchen utensil, falls to the floor with a clatter. We wait in hopeful silence, for the lights to come back on.

Darkness in the city, so different from darkness in the countryside, in the mountains, near the sea or in the forests. Each with its own distinct vibrations and energies flowing on different levels and directions, merging and creating their own realities, another realm of being. A heightened consciousness of the universe, a first hand experience of its many glories and infinite splendours.

The full moon over tumultuous seas in Puri, the darkness just another shade in the silvery light, that picks out even the grains of rough sand with startling clarity. The sudden fluorescence of the towering waves crashing on the beach, the fishing trawlers with their searchlights, bobbing far away on the horizon, the gusts of wind, blowing the salted air in from the sea and sand into your eyes, making them sting.

Darkness in the Nilgiri mountains where people go to sleep early. Household lights dotting the sides of the mountains like fireflies, go off, the night deepens, a lonely dog barks, heavy mists float in and out dreamily and gradually blots out everything except for the arcing radiant indigo blue sky and the myriad, shooting stars, crossing paths across the skies. A leopard prowls silently, hoping for a meal.

The dark in the districts is an intense one, broken by the lights from houses and establishments, turned off early as the owners retire for the night. The night is made of the many sounds and energies issuing from the tall mango trees, the heady fragrance of the Raat ki Rani, the night flowering jasmine, the sleeping ponds, the sudden screech of a fruit bat, the still warm clay earth, the many langurs, birds, goats and cattle, who’ve turned in for the night too.

And in the forests? Once experienced and never forgotten in Betla Reserve Forest. Tall, silent,trees dripping moisture like falling tears, the all enveloping, dense black night clothed in the sharp, green smell from the saal and the mahua and a multitude of other trees and vegetation, hanging in the air and thousands of eyes, glowing in the dark, surrounding the bungalow standing on stilts, in the reserve forest where we were staying. Chital deer, who came out at night, in great big herds.

Darkness in the city, impelled by shock electric cuts,seems a pale opposite,….. like someone hit the pause button without warning, throwing everything into confusion, bringing normal life to a sudden halt.

From another room comes the sound of my daughter’s cell phone, playing, ‘The End of the Line’, by The Traveling Wilburys.

‘It’s alright, even if you’re old and grey
Well, it’s alright, you still got something to say
Well, it’s alright, remember to live and let live
Well, it’s alright, the best you can do is forgive
Well, it’s alright (alright), riding around on the breeze
Well, it’s alright (alright), if you live the life you please
Well, it’s alright, even if the sun don’t shine
Well, it’s alright (alright), we’re going to the end of the line
Source: Lyricsfind.

The lights come back on. In their absence, some darkness, some reflections, a bit of writing, a song which explores the meaning of life and that at ‘the end of the line,’ love is all that stays, perhaps the universe’ reply to my comparisons. ‘It’s alright’ and so it is. Everything, a part of the bigger picture, the same darkness everywhere, the mind determining it’s reach and nature, individual perceptions stamping it with its own unique colours.

Sudden power cuts are probably good for the soul and the trying to be, meditative mind. But only occasionally.