NYC Music

New York may have turned into Yuppie Paradise but musically it has closed the decade in style, on top of the pop heap. Excuse me then if I indulge in some dancing about architecture.

It has been a fantastic Indie decade for the city, contributing more unforgettable albums to these fragmented ten years than any other time since the CBGB’s heydays in the late 70’s. Be it The Strokes’ Is This It? or TV on the Radio’s Return to Cookie Mountain and Dear Science or Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut, its been a thrilling ride. In my opinion though, 2009 has put all the other years in the shade.

Just take a look at this year’s releases. Among the countless hipster faves, you’ll find such gems as Antony and The Johnsons’ The Crying Light, Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion, Julian Casablancas’ Phrazes for the Young and arguably the best album of the year- Dirty Projectors’ Bitte Orca.

Pic: Antony Hegarty, beautifully brittle

The Crying Light was the first of the lot that I managed to get. Its impossible to go through the strangely luminous, teasingly seductive songs that makes up the album without being profoundly moved. Everyone knows about Antony Hegarty’s much talked about sexuality, but it really amazes how few have actually heard the music. A great amalgam of jazz figures, understated autumnal strings and Hegarty’s beautiful voice, The Crying Light is absolutely brilliant. Although the album deals with issues like death and decay it’s a classic statement of the creative will turning fear into a defiant celebration of life. Epilepsy is Dancing, based in part on the famous Japanese Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno, who at 106, is still performing, is a case in point. And then there are deeply sexy, playful songs like Kiss My Name, one of the most accomplished come-ons set to music that I can think of. On top of all that, Hegarty’s album makes one of the most personal environmentalist statements in music. In the haunting Another World, he sings, “I’m gonna miss the sea, gonna miss the snows; I’m gonna miss the trees, miss the things that grow.” A beautiful album.

Pic: Animal Collective, Good Vibrations

Very happy with life seem Brooklyn favourites Animal Collective. They delivered another early stunner when Merriweather Post Pavilion was released in January this year. MPP is like most other AC albums in one way- it takes time getting used to. At least so I thought, before I heard the album a second time. Its no understatement to say that this is veritable candy-shop of an album- immensely accessible, and with new sound-treats in store every time you visit.

Lyrically the songs move away from the tribal hootenannies of yore, peopled by strange animals and colours, as Panda Bear and Avey Tare write about the joys of domesticity on Summertime Clothes. Of course, if you’re as Day-Glo as these gents, even your domesticity’s slightly weird. They write love paens to wives and children in the band’s surreal metaphors on My Girls and Also Frightened. On Brothersport As opposed to being slightly cheesy, its actually exciting and very touching, especially when coupled to the fairground music that goes with it. Ah the music! All AC albums have followed the relatively simple but hard-to-execute sonic architecture of overlapping circular arrangements culled from samplers and damaged-guitar tones, that come together for soaring choruses and then break down again, creating a compelling ebb and flow. In MPP, they get it very right because all the sounds chase the very conventional song structures in a dizzying sound that’s designed for the inside of your head. Grounding this kaleidoscope wash of sounds are deep bass pulses, tambourines and the occasional tribal thud. By the time the album orgasms in the joyous Brother Sport, you’re left breathless and grinning. AND they made Billboard Top 20! Last month’s Fall Be Kind EP’s no slouch either.

Pic: Julian Casablancas, Synth Popper!

Strangely enough, you hear distinctly AC-ish sounds at 1:53 of 4 Chords of the Apocalypse, a great blue-eyed soul number delivered with uncharacteristic ferocity by Strokes-man Julian Casablancas. Yes, you read right- Casablancas and ferocity in one line. Nearly all the members of the Strokes had released multiple solo albums- barring guitarist Nick Valensi- but what people were really eager to hear was new music from the band’s singer and songwriter Julian Casablancas. Finally released, his debut solo album Phrazes for the Young is a triumph.

It starts out on familiar Strokes territory with the chugging, chiming guitars of Out of The Blue bursting from the speakers. But by the time the glorious chorus comes on, it isn’t guitars that come to the fore, but synthesizers! And this from a man who we all thought was a late-Seventies, guitar chewing, Velvet Underground-loving pop purist!But the song’s so good, you can hardly imagine it existing in any other sonic context. The other tune on this short album that most resembles The Strokes is the raging River of Brakelights. But the other six songs take one musical left turn after another, all the while retaining their quality pop hooks. So while Glass can only be described as a combination of Western Classical motifs and shiny, glacial electropop, 11^th Dimension wanders through a looking glass world of cheesy 80s synth pop, treated percussions and a decidedly 50s guitar figure. These wildly disparate elements should never mix, but here they do so, miraculously. In a similar vein, the deep soul of 4 Chords of the Apocalypse suddenly morphs into sampler-led sonic terrorism in the chorus, which then leads to a delightful sweeping guitar solo. It’s a mesmerizing mix, one that feels perfectly logical.

Casablancas has often been accused of singing in a sullen whine. On Phrazes he buries his vocals deep in the mix ala Mick Jagger on The Stones’ Exile on Main Street, and just as Jagger did on that album, Casablancas proceeds to unveil his rich range- considerably better than on the Strokes’ albums- from the fantastic soul croon on Apocalypse to a warped, wry sing song on the country ditty Ludlow Street. His voice is expansive and expressive. It grows on you, and soon you’re humming the tune. Ludlow Street, another strange mix of styles, is the masterpiece on this album. It starts with an ominous drone like something out of the There Will be Blood soundtrack before morphing into a country lament for the soul of New York City. While Casablancas rips into the gradual marketing and yuppification of the world’s greatest- and once the most bohemian- metropolis, banjos duel with pianos, drum machines and loud brass. I’ve never been this pleasantly surprised.

And finally, Dirty Projectors.

Pic: Dirty Projectors, obstinate eccentrics

When I saw Bitte Orca, it looked strange enough for me to get it. And when the heavily reverbed prog guitar intro of Cannibal Resource started, with the very Led Zeppelin heavy drums, I was lulled for a second into thinking that this would be a straightforward pop album. Of course, I knew nothing about band mastermind David Logstreth. Pretty soon the soaring, ethereal voices of singers Angel Deradoorian and Amber Coffman started floating all over the place, in precisely written parts over stop-start rhythms, Tinariwen-like handclaps- all tied into a very Captain Beefheart-like approach to songwriting. Its difficult music, but one that let’s you in if you give it enough time. And once you’re in, the pleasures- melodic and rhythmic- just keep on coming.

Take Temencula Sunrise for one. Soaked in the same warm communal vibes as Merriweather- is this the dawn of an East Coast love-in?- this songs winds its way into your skull through a beautiful chordal acoustic guitar figure that is as eccentric as Longstreth’s high, keening voice; which suddenly leads up to a gloriously electric chorus and then breaks for the second verse which is arranged like a song from Tinariwen’s Aman Iman from two years ago. Longstreth evidently takes African music seriously, and you can hear his influence on the band that two of his erstwhile protégés formed- Vampire Weekend. Anyway, the song then goes into a compelling, driving yet utterly inscrutable guitar solo- more inventive than anything Jack White has recorded in the past few years.

Further on you have the brilliant Timbaland soul r’n’b pastiche Stillness is the Move. Amber Coffman outdoes herself in a masterful vocal turn of glorious radiance. Then you have the unsettling folk ballad Two Doves and other highlights like Useful Chamber which winds all over the place over eerie keyboard figures and voices, a dancefloor beat before convening for the strangely uplifting chorus of “Bitte Orca Orca Bitte” and another blistering solo that Jimmy Page would have been proud of, as would be Thurston Moore. Its mesmerizing music, messy by design and rich in melody and rhythm. Its my favourite album of the year by miles.

Kid A, a personal history

After almost a decade of the album being released, I downloaded Kid A today.

It’s a big deal for me.

Back in 2000, I was 19 years old, a sophomore and a diehard Beatles nut. I was also nuts for all of Britpop, at least the most mainstream artists in it, like Oasis, Blur, Ocean Colour Scene, Kula Shaker, The Verve. You name it, I loved it.

I loved all those melodies, the classicist songwriting, the guitar solos, the “wow these are my rockstars” kind of stars-in-your-eyes devotion that these bands inspired. I loved the way they dressed, their haircuts, their guitars, all that cool gear man!

Yet, there was one band that I just felt no attraction for. Radiohead. Of course, I had heard and loved Creep and Karma Police and Just, even No Surprises. But Subterranean Homesick Alien? Thanks but no thanks. This was just too weird for me, and I couldn’t abide by electronics. And what was with all that moaning anyway? Why couldn’t I make out what Thom Yorke was trying to say?

So no Radiohead for me then. In fact, when my copy of Ok Computer got whacked, I couldn’t give a damn. After all, Travis was much nicer. The Invisible Band? I thought it was a classic.

In 2000, I heard all that brouhaha about this crazy new album that Radiohead have come out with, something called Kid A. I read about it in music magazines- “Thom Yorke has an emotional meltdown!”; “Radiohead says, ‘No More Melody!’”; “Colin Greenwood confides, ‘We could almost kill each other’”. This weird band had apparently gotten weirder. Apparantly this album had no guitars, no songs, just ambient moaning, and lots of electronic didgeridoo.

Kid A was a work of painful genius, they said; it captured the disjointed new Millennia; it was the sound of the new century! Thank you, I’d rather weep to Parachutes. Chris Martin had a better voice I thought. The very name, Radiohead, reminded me of all those strange noisy bands on Rock Street Journal with ‘head’ in their names- Portishead, Buckethead, Motorhead, Jarhead, god-knows-what-head. It was so, you know, musty and Nineties!

When I left University with my MA in 2004, all of 23 and nowhere to go but away, my musical tastes were the same- Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Oasis, Kula Shaker; and bands that sounded like them. The only anomaly to this was probably my un-analysed love for The velvet Underground

And so I carried on through those lost years (in a way), as my career atrophied and went nowhere and my yearning for the mountains grew into an unrequited hurt. But musically, 2005 and 2006 were rich years. I was finally earning, though peanuts. I had a little cd player. I could finally go to a cd shop- in this case Music Land in New Delhi- and pick up old albums by The Band, Traffic, The Byrds, Motown. I could finally hear all these great bands and their albums from the 60s and the 70’s; build up a record collection that I could be proud of.

But it was a record collection that mirrored those of my peers. There was nothing I didn’t have that they didn’t. I was hanging out with a peer group at least 5 years older than me, and it did me a world of good too, as I started listening to more Jazz, Bluegrass, Folk. But there was nothing I could call my own, apart from The Beatles, and we all know just how many other billions regard The Beatles as their own! It was as if this decade, my decade, was passing me by and I knew nothing of its music, hadn’t even bothered to hear anything new. It would all be inferior to the 60’s anyway, I told myself. Why bother?

And then, 2007.

I was finally in a job that I was comfortable in; that gave me some breathing space; that didn’t ask for too much of my time. Better still, I had a regular income. And I was in a band again.

Being in a band that rehearses every other day and that wants to play its own songs does things to you that would never otherwise happen. You start thinking of music as something organic, something that grows. It ceases to be a commodity, no matter how highly prized. The band's guitar player Sujoy (The Prof) introduced me to Bop and Swing; to Django Reinhardt, Lenny Breau, Esbjorn Svensson, Brad Meldhau and so much more. Meanwhile my editor at the magazine, Sanjoy, exhorted me to write on music.

Easier said than done. I had discovered Indie, and so my first reaction was to write on Devendra Banhart or LCD Soundsystem or The Strokes, often in a haphazard way. Would staid suits (the predominant audience of my magazine) be even remotely interested? But it was a start, and I was grateful.

I got albums by the dozen. Including Radiohead’s In Rainbows. Swayed by the beautiful, haunting songs on that album, I went back to their earlier albums, especially Ok Computer. The songs started making sense. They ceased to be miserable moanings in the dark and became immensely complex bits of enjoyment. Then I discovered all those covers of the band's music by other bands, jazzmen. These forced me to listen to Radiohead-music with fresh ears.

Over the last couple of years I’ve discovered more bands and music than I can possibly keep up with. Much of it has been great. Since I was now writing on them, I had to pay better attention. Under Sanjiv, my erstwhile editor, I was forced to think about how to write, how to present my ideas, how to tie it up in a cohesive way. All the stuff, basically, that you never learn unless you’re doing it. Again, I’m extremely grateful.

My own songs started to reflect this broad palette. That, in turn got me thinking about song structures, melodic lines, key shifts, what have you. And as I grew in music, I started looking at my old loves in a new light. For the first time, I could enjoy The Beatles in an objective way, looking out for details, making notes about the songwriting and the arrangements. The internet was there, along with a plethora of books on music, for any questions I may have. Then there was the Prof, arguing with me on every turn. That helped.

I was even going to the mountains.

And so, after years of being in denial, I downloaded Kid A. From the horns-led mayhem of The National Anthem, to the panic disco of Idioteque, and the fragile beauty of Morning Bell- I'm dissolving in an ocean of sound.

Everything in its right place.

Songs of Winter

When I came in to work today, the first day in over two weeks when I don’t have anything to worry about, I was determined to make it my day of music, albums back to back. On a whim I put on the Fleet Foxes' album from last year, then The Arctic Monkey’s Humbug, and finally Antony and the Johnsons’ The Crying Light. You couldn’t have three more dissimilar albums, or three more dissimilar bands for that matter. While the tripping melodies and harmonies of Fleet Foxes are by now as familiar to me as a favourite blanket, Humbug is dark and brooding, fascinating in the details, but claustrophobic in the main.

And what can I say about The Crying Light? Its one of the most haunting and intriguing albums I’ve ever heard, and not only because of Antony Hegarty’s voice or his sexuality. As I type, he is singing seductively, teasing me to kiss his name. Joy.

So let’s get straight to my Songs of Winter, shall we?

Julian Casablancas- Phrazes for the Young

I don’t know about you, but for me any new Strokes related release is a cause for celebration, especially when its such a weird pop album like this one. Keyboards, slow soul, Krautrock, drum machines, surf guitar, loud brass…boy does he pile it on thick on this album, sometimes all of these things in the same song! But the man’s way with melody and his uber-sexy voice totally does it for me, every time I hear it.

Antony and the Johnsons- The Crying Light

Although it came out way back in January (which is when I acquired it), I’m listening to it more often- probably because winter’s approaching. These are sophisticated torch songs, flowing with melancholia that inspires, rather than saps. The baroque strings, the playfull jazz times, the beautiful melodies, and above it all, Antony Hegarty’s tremulous, mournful/playful voice weaves a rich tapestry of shadow and light.

The Beatles- Remastered boxsets, Mono and Stereo

What can I say? I’m shameless. But the detail! Its like a window to a world wiped clean of dust after a long shower. My favourite album turns out to be Beatles for Sale. Curiouser and curiouser.

Pearl Jam- Backspacer

I’ve never been too great a fan of them. So when people told me their new album was pretty great, it didn’t make much of a difference to me. Having heard it- though only twice- I can say that individual songs ARE actually pretty good, especially where they give themselves some space to stretch out.

Arctic Monkeys- Humbug

I don’t know what to make of this album. Its maddeningly dense, and many of the riffs and tempos and melodies sound like each other. There are lovely little bits of detail though. A fabulous manual of how to write a modern Indie rock album.

Love- Forever Changes

Not particularly new in my affections. No modern band has been able to capture the melodies, the songwriting, the hope, despair, ennui and rage of this diamond of an album.

Paul McCartney- Chaos and Creation in the Backyard

I just can’t tire of this album. Its just so sure-footed in its pop nous that its stunning. Just listen to the way the arrangement builds up in Friends To Go, and you’ll see what I mean.

The Supersonics- Maby Baking

I truly think this is the best Indian rock album of the year, full of stupid lyrics, great melodies, interesting arrangements, and tons of rock songs that stick in your head. The boys from Calcutta have swallowed The Strokes and Britpop whole, and have come up with this superb debut. I love Blotter.

The Strokes- Is This It? and Room On Fire

When in doubt, put on The Strokes!

Well, these are what I’ve been hearing to, obsessively. Of course, I still haven’t stopped playing Bitte Orca, the best album this year by a long, long mile.

Note to myself- Have to hear the new Devendra Banhart album.

A Week in Films Part 1

I've never had a lot of time for films. I like them, sure, but they're not my art form of preference. I mean, if there's a toss up between a movie, a new album or a book, the movie would come a distant third. Imagine my amazement then, when I suddenly realised that I've been seeing a lot of movies lately- and in movie halls, no less.

There's something immensely soul destroying about going to a multiplex, paying some insane amount of money for the ticket and then being assaulted by some trash that I definitely wouldn't want to pay 150 bucks for. Anyhoof, no point in cribbing.

And while PVR Saket might be the total opposite of a New Empire or a Lighthouse or a Globe Theatre, at least the seats are nice, so you can doze off if you're not interested in the drivel on screen.

As it turned out, the movie on my screen was Quentin Tarantino's latest, Inglourious Basterds. What can I say? If you're into gratuitous violence, people not acting but pulling faces, and plenty of campy humour, this film's for you. But as war movies go, this one's brilliant for not taking anything too seriously. And there IS something deliciously funny with watching Hitler and Goebbels getting their faces shot in, and beautiful women being strangled to death, which steps over the Hollywood line of never killing the beautiful woman so, well, inglouriously. The main villain, a self styled Nazi "Jew Hunter" called Col Hans Landa, is played with bristling menace and hypnotic suaveness by Christoph Waltz.

Pic: Christoph Waltz is brilliant as the creepy Hans Landa

In fact, his performance pretty much makes the movie. Brad Pitt, as the leader of the Nazi-hunting Basterds pulls a white-trash-American-supremacist-but-anti-Nazi face and sticks to it faithfully for the rest of the film. And anyway, he's there to look good in a smoking jacket- or anything else- and toss off one-liners.

Pic: Brad Pitt pulls faces and carves swastikas on the foreheads of the Nazis that he doesn't kill

The other great thing about the film is that QT unashamedly shows off his nerd-boy love of the cinema. The main plot turns on an old Parisian cinema and its Jewish-victim-with-a-terrible-grudge owner. Then there are references to a hundred different films, dialogues from other movies, situations, sets, what have you. The Nazis are a delightfully wooden and creepy bunch. This is just as well, as a nuanced Nazi is problematic, carrying with it the twin baggage of justification (just doing our job) and general German complicity with the Nazi regime. Then there's the chance that Germans would actually take offence to bits of dialogue which move seamlessly from the Nazi-hating to what might be construed as German-hating. After all, in some places in the film, the American characters boast about killing themselves some Germans. But I guess QT can get away with non-PC, and more power to him for it.

Diane Kruger, in a small but important role, plays up the camp as the actress/double agent Bridgette von Hammersmark beautifully, and the opening scene of Lans Handa in action is perfectly taut with tension and menace.

Pic: Diane Kruger's at her campy best

In the end, QT even has the balls to get Pitt to say the film might be his masterpiece. It definitely isn't, but if you can keep your quibbles aside, its great fun. And another thought: QT can write!

Pic: The QT

But not as much fun as having that noted charlatan, Arindam Chaudhury, sit in the row in front of you, watching the movie with his entourage. Wonder if Planman plans to do a desi version of it anytime soon?

You Poet

You Poet

You poet of unremembered night who are also the soul, the breeze, the tumbling of lights from railroad steel to bop licks are gone.

You poet of coronets, blowing hard and soft into a night heavy with heat or supple with rain and mud-splattered shoes are gone.

You poet of drunken yells, bells and sleepless spells of crying out loud for the sheer solace of unprovoked joy and love are gone.

You poet of shivering thighs, slapping holy pubic hair to moan in the gently rolling breasts of ceaseless sighs are gone.

You poet with visions of the snake and the ghosts of bums hurrying through lands of memory, words, boasts, stories, songs and children are gone.

You poet giving voice to the unknown distractions of moving moving, never stopping to find hypnosis in television sets and tax returns and bonds of money and gore are gone.

You poet of ghostly horses, saints and cons, sweet snatches, St Teresa bums, mumbling Dharma chanting woodsman poets, beatific dogs and movement are gone.

You poet I dream of in wild longings of desperate kisses I never had, the friends I never yelled “Fuck You” at, the madman who’s always fading from my memory, the song I should’ve followed to an end, the preacher I never flung a book at, the chronicler of a nation of the mind where all freedom resides in words, thoughts, desire and despair, but kindness too, are gone.

You poet, wizard of words, typing lines of distilled riffs cutting through sky blue domes and forgotten desolate tomes are gone.

Ah woe.

- For Jack Kerouac, who died devoid of poetry forty years ago. RIP Ti Jean

Chandrashila

I sat beside a cairn atop Chandrashila watching clouds rise. Freezing in Sujaan's choti at Tunganath, a combination of sleep deprivation and oxygen depletion had effectively ruled out my much cherished ambition of making it to the peak before sunrise that day. Feeling a little better as the day wore on, I decided to make a try for it. After all, it was a beautiful sunny day.

At Tunganath, the weather changes every ten minutes. This a local saying, and absolutely true. I definitely didn't want to tempt the weather while the sun was still shining. So I told Biru to wait a bit for Sujoy and Debo- the friends I was travelling with- to wake up and struck off on my own. I had last climbed it in May this year. I was way fitter then, so I had very little hopes of making it up there without huffing and puffing my lungs out. As it turned out, the mountain paid me a huge compliment. Probably because I was a lot better used to breathing on this altitude, even with stops to make calls to people (high up the peak I was getting a signal from Gopeshwar on the other side of Chandrashila!) and admire the scenery, I still managed to get up there in half an hour. I was about to ring the bell at the tiny temple of the moon, when I happened to look beyond, and time literally stood still. Far away, yet strangely near, on the North Eastern horizon rose a gaggle of sharp peaks.

Pic: Nanda Devi and her sisters hold court on the far horizon

Two I could immediately recognise because of their distinctive shapes- the mighty Nanda Devi, and Hathi Parbat, the presiding peak of the Bhyundar Valley.

The temple was forgotten. Mindful of the fact that soon either my camera's going to freeze or that the batteries are going to give up, I quickly took as many snaps of this magnificent scene as I could. In the not-quite-noonday sun, the distant white peaks look like translucent chalk sketches against a blue 3D sky. Needless to say, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, except maybe in some dream.

The immediate patch of rocky ground behind the temple (the highest point on the peak) is covered with cairns. These vertical structures of various sizes are made from slabs of stoes from the peak and seem to be constantly made and re-made. In May I had asked Biru what these structures signify and he'd said that these were memorial stones. To my fevered imagination they look more like portals into some other world. Amongst them, a Japanese man was singing.

It was a surreal sight. This middle aged man had planted his walking stick upright, slung his thick ski jacket and hat over it, and was lying in its shade reading a book, and occasionally breaking out into song. He grinned at me and went back to reading and singing.

Pic: A Japanese sun-worshipper on Chandrashila

A few feet from him, at another part of the peak behind some other cairns, another of his compatriots was sitting still in a lotus position with his face towards Nanda Devi, deep in meditation. In all there were three of them. I was to bump into them over the next few days, either meditating on tatami mats on the peak, or wandering about wearing a lost look in Tunganath, where they were staying at a different choti.

Making sure that I wasn't disturbing them, I plonked myself down on a rock face overlooking a deep precipice. Down below, through the haze and rising wisps of clouds I could see the wooded valley that had so caught my fancy the last time I was here. In front of me, still visible clearly, rose the distant panorama.

It felt just so exhilarating to finally see Nanda Devi, unencumbered, in all her glory. The other time I'd seen her, it wasn't this sideways view. Rather I'd seen her head on, part veiled by the Mai ki Toli ridge, but with both her twin peaks visible. This was from the Binsar sanctuary in the Almora hills of Kumaon, from where its much closer. From the peak though, she looked serene, detached from the dramatic, wild beauty of her environs. Its easy to see why people revere her so.

But my view of her and the other distant giants depended purely on the whim of the clouds. By nine thirty, the day's heat had had its effect on the sub-tropical climate in the valleys which were giving rise to a succession of little pillow like clouds. While many dissolved in the cooler air above, many more started to form little gangs, which then became bigger gangs.

Pic: Cloud-eye view

Clouds change shape better than any con artist. Constantly forming, disintegrating, reforming, flowing into, out of, over and around ridges, they form an elaborately graceful ballet of carefully choreographed chaos. And so they roamed about me, avoiding this high peak, but erecting and dismantling teasing curtains between me and the distant peaks. So every now and then, all evidence of the far vistas would vanish, leaving me to wonder at what I'd seen. The first time Nanda Devi was cloaked, two Monal took wing, circling overhead while uttering mournful cries, as if in her memory. Then there were the giant Himalayan Gryphons, their backs glinting in the sun, gliding from one air current to another, circling the upper air. They seem totally at home, yet impervious to the beauty of the place.

Pic: Massive Himalayan Gryphon flying high

As the sun climbed higher, the ever present buzzing of large , laggardly flies increased. I'm absolutely not well informed on insects, but the sheer variety I saw on this lonely peak was breathtaking. And then there were ravens. Massive black birds, graver and more ominous than your average crow. They seemed to be constantly watching, flying from one impossible rock overhang to another, squawking, and making these strange half conversational sounds. They are mysterious birds, who indeed hold parliaments when there is a quorum. I can't think of a more appropriate word to describe a group of these birds.

When there was nothing to see, I simply closed my eyes. Immediately my ears pricked up. The wind blowing; a sensation of cool moisture on my cheeks; rustling, buzzing insects; an occasional avian cry. But above all, silence. Every now and then, a sound from a distant village, many thousands of feet below. Startling and funny, like rocks talking to each other.

After a spell, I opened my eyes, and the clouds had shifted. I could see Nanda Devi and her sisters holding court again in the bright sunshine. To my right, above the great green valley that leads to the Anusuya Devi temple in the jungle, huge plumes of clouds were forming. In front of me, due north, Neelkanth was suddenly revealed in all her glory. Further North East small tufts of clouds hung in the air between Chandrashila and the Kedar Massif, casting little shadows on the rich bugyals (high altitude meadows) below the range. At moments like these, I stared in vain at my notebook, struggling to find words evocative enough to describe this beauty. I smiled to myself, imagining the poet Coleridge on this peak, startled out of his opium haze into a fresh appreciation of the sublime. He was a staunch lover of mountains, sometimes recklessly so. One one occasion, he managed to get himself trapped in an impassable grotto in the Lake District. With dusk coming on, and risking exposure, he decided to shut his eyes, take a deep breath and will his way out of there. Opening them, he realised that there indeed was a way- through a difficult and dangerous rock scramble. Sure enough he did. A fascinating story. My guess is, he'd have loved this place.

Bang in front of me, between Chandrashila and Neelkanth, rose a bleak naked rocky ridge, which the local people refer to as kala paththar. An evocative enough name. Back in May, it was covered in snow and ice, but now there were just rocks, and the occasional huge gash signifying the path of a winter snow-field. But it says something about the enormity of the geography here that these same locals believe that there's nothing there. Wrong. Behind and beyond that ridge lies Nandi Kund, an enormous lake from which rises the Madhyamaheshwar Ganga, as well as the huge green hanging valley of Pandosera. That way lies a high track that crosses a couple of high passes under the toe of mighty Chaukhamba to gain access to the Bansi Narayan temple on a massive ridge further to the East overlooking the Alakananda Valley. According to Biru, many sheep-herders often go that way, as do other local people to collect Bramhakamals or the huge lotuses that the high Himalayas are famous for. Someday I'll get to see the place, I hope.

Pic: The forested river valley below Chandrashila, with a snow covered Kala Paththar in the background.

Chandrashila is the highest peak on a long, high and incredibly serrated ridge that runs south to north from the forested valley of Chopta to the highlands below Chaukhamba, running parallel to the Sari and Madhyamaheshwar ridges. Some of the other high ridge-points that I'd been climbing over the last few days with Biru now lay below me- awesome mountains in their own right, but somehow dwarfed by their magnificent setting. As I gazed, some ravens took wing, circling lazily in the morning haze.

Through all the shifting weather, the four white pillars of Chaukhamba rose imperiously, as if above human concerns, glinting severely yet reassuring in the sun. To think that just behind its massive ramparts lay the Gangotri glacier and all those fabled peaks.

Pic: Chaukhamba

Some of them I could see from there- Thalay Sagar and Shivling, beautiful spires both, are visible slightly behind the Kedar Massif. Then come the peaks of Meru, Mandani, the Bhagirathi group. Many peaks, of which I am not sure of the names. In those fabled lands had travelled both my heroes- Eric Shipton and Umaprasad Mukherjee. Both had also come here. In his journal on the 1934 Nanda Devi expedition and the subsequest crossing of the Kedar-Badri watershed under Chaukhamba, Shipton wrote about a zig-zag high altitude pass he took to get to Chamoli back on the way to Joshimath on the road to Badrinath. There it is below me, rushing down the eastern face of Chandrashila on its way down to the forests of Mandal to join the motorable road to Gopeshwar and Chamoli.

Pic: The old pilgrim trail

Mukherjee made special mention of this pass, extolling its natural beauty and bemoaning the unwillingness of pilgrims to take this harder but more enjoyable old route just because there was a tarmac road passing below through Chopta. He was writing in the early 60s. Now, it has fallen even more into disuse. While in the dry cold weather of May, I could easily make out the contours of the path, now in verdant October, just a memory of the path existed. Mukherjee was a deeply religious man, but even he acknowledged that the true reward of making the long and arduous climb to Chandrashila was this view of the high peaks. Amen.

This land is so old. It fills you with a deep awe that's beyond simple religiosity. As I sat in that private paradise of mine, I prayed that I'd never forget it.

Good Day Sunshine!

Jumping out of bed at the cold, unearthly hour of 4:30 am I stepped out in the freezing night to have my breath taken away by the galactic arm of the Milky Way stretching over me. But I hadn't much time to lose, as I had to get to the peak of Chandrashila by 6 am or miss the fabled sunrise. So I ran in the lightening darkness, my lungs heaving with the effort in the rarefied air and my head spinning with the cold and the exertion. Behind me the Chaukhamba and Kedar peaks brightened in the fast-approaching dawn. Ahead of me, on the ridge-line the silhouettes of other sunrise-spotters intent on their goal, trudging up. One by one I overtook them, my head spinning. Below and behind, I could see a torchlight in the darkness- Debo and Biru coming up behind me.

A loud yell of exhilaration escaped my throat as I rounded the last hump and came up in front of the temple of the moon atop Chandrashila. The sky had cleared behind me, though Chaukhamba and the other giants had yet to catch fire. I made my way through the gaggle of people on the peak to the farthest point on the ridge. This is what I saw, over a half hour that lasted forever. Night below me and daybreak at 4,100 m. The sun came out slowly, like a grand comedian with impeccable timing, behind the beautiful spire of Nanda Devi.

The love of mountains

Durga Pujo is around the corner. When I was a kid, the very thought used to make me go weak in the knees with happiness. Tired as I grew of it, Cal's pujo is still something to behold. In my opinion, it is the closest one comes to a carnival in this country, apart from the actual Goa carnival of course. Great memories, happy memories.

Right now, all I can think of is one thing- going to the mountains. If anything can be said to have usurped Durga Pujo's place in my affections, it has got to be the mountains. In fact, the joy I get from altitude far outstrips my childhood fondness of Pujo.

Why? Well lots of reasons really. But if I were to really put my finger on it, it would be this- the Himalayas- and other hills and mountains- are the only places which are truly spiritual to me. I mean, to walk for hours up or down mountains, through the humming quiet of the roads and forests and rocks and fields; to see geography crumpled up and refashioned on such a gigantic scale; to see the high peaks glistening unimpeachably in the sky, and to look down to see deep blue valleys emerging as if out of some primordial dream of belonging- that is the closest I come to any sort of religious epiphany. I mean, if the beauty of the land can bring tears to your eyes, isn't that something to cherish? Outside of the Bengal-Bihar countryside, where I grew up- no other place affets me as deeply.

Hence, not a month goes by without me feeling eternally grateful for my life- to be able to live and work in a place from where the mountains are just six hours away; and the high Himalayas a mere 14 hours.

My parents travelled ceaselessly, or so it seemed to me as a child. From our home in Purnea in North East Bihar, Siliguri via Kishanganj was only a six to eight hour drive away, so I'd been going to Darjeeling from the age of two. Puri was the other favourite, us being Bongs, so many a holiday was spent there as well.

But some of my favourite trips with my parents has been to the mountains. I remember the December jaunt to Manali- my first snowfall!!- in 1996 and the absolutely superlative Kedarnath-Badrinath trip of 1999. That's when I really started to see the mountains as something beyond the promise of cool climes and snow peaks. The sheer sensory experience of the Garhwal was something. I'll never forget the Kedarnath massif rising out of a cloudy dawn behind the temple of Kedarnath, or Nilkantha floating like a shark's tooth in the air above Badrinath. But it wasn't just the peaks. What I loved best was the journey to get there.

Kedarnath from Gaurikund was the first trek of my life and quite unforgettable. You start among the thick forsts of Gaurikund, and over the next 14 km, you rise up inexorably to finally emerge into the high valley above the treeline, springy turf under you and exhilirating vastness all around you.

While in college, me and some friends made our way to the Valley of Flowers in 2001. A magical land if I've ever seen one, this was high altitude all right, and I realised that the Himalayas are a most happy addiction.

Imagine my plight then, when for five long years various circumstances kept me apart from my love. Only in 2006 could I go again, this time to Mussoorie. I was aghast to find the same spoilt Delhi brats whining in a Cafe Coffee Day store on the Mall Road, but heck I could not argue with the bits of clouds playing hide and seek with me around the lush mountains of Tehri Garhwal.

Another long wait of two years. By 2008 I'd had enough of all this dicking about in the city, trying to earn a livelihood and all that. So I took off to McLeodganj to meet my friend KP who was staying there. Took another friend of mine, Debo, along.

Pic: Dharamshala and Kangra Valley shrouded in clouds, seen from McLeodganj

This was it, mountain madness had finally caught up with me and had claimed me for its own. In fact I can pinpoint the moment when it happened. The first was when I awoke at dawn on the bus to Dharamshala to find us in the middle of the Shivalik highlands of Himachal Pradesh, going past a beautiful river, on the way to Kangra. In the distance, through the clouds I could see the giant ramparts of the Dhauladhars sweeping up to the sky. At that moment, I knew exactly what I'd been missing all this time.

Pic: Triund, on the ramparts of the Dhauladhar Range.

The second moment came a few days later. Debo had returned to Delhi, and me and KP were making our way up to Triund on the shoulders of the Dhauladhars, on the way to Indrahar Pass.

Trekking up after so many years with a spoilt body full of smoke and repose was always going to be hard. The fact that I was shit stoned didn't help much either. In fact, considering the difficulty, I insisted on getting even more high, and KP was only too willing. Half way up Triund, at around 2 pm or so, wheezing and pulling my tired, screaming legs up the next boulder with my heart threatening to jump right out of my body, the clouds which had surrounded us for much of the trip burst and rain came pouring down. My predicament just got worse. Not only did this meant that the going got even tougher, as veritable rivers of mud were flowing down the quagmire of a track but my dope paranoia made me imagine that the mountain was for some reason trying to shrug me off its back. Still, we kept trudging, past immense boulders and even larger dead tree trunks in a shadow land of cloud, thunder and rain. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we came around a bend and-Triund! A high altitude meadow, with a gentle mist hanging over it and myriad little flowers blooming in the grass. That's when I was convinced that this was the life for me.

Fortunately, that trip pretty much opened the floodgates. Next I went to this place called Viratkhaai above Chakrata in Western Garhwal for an adventure sport camp. I lost a tooth falling off a bike and got ravaged by leeches, but the place was magical.

Pic: The Yamuna coming down from the mountains north west of Mussoorie.

The monsoon had just hit and the various valleys were wrapped up in a shroud of mystery, as our Press bus went up along crumbly roads over horrid precipices up to the camp, past beautiful waterfalls and entire river systems swollen into floodwaters thanks to the incessant rain.

Pic: Mountains of Tehri Garhwal at Dhanolti near Mussoorie.

Next I went to Mussoorie again, which was pleasant. Come October, and I was off to Bhuira, this charming hamlet in the Shimla hills of eastern Himachal.

Pic: A cairn atop a hill in the Shimla hills near Bhuira

While there, us friends trekked up this local hill top. Crisp in the fall sunshine, I tugged at my beard and spaced staring off into the middle distance.

Early this year, in March, while it was still cold enough to discourage tourists, me and a friend of mine, Priyo went off to Binsar, a forest sanctuary above Almora in the Kumaon hills. Having missed a bus, and then having travelled for a full 12 hours through North UP (hell on wheels), when we woke up to a stunning Himalayan panorama (pic below) it was all worth it.

Pic: Nanda Devi and other giants at dawn, seen from Binsar.

Each and every moment of my time there was sublime- whether it was staying in a century-old forest guest house in the middle of an oak and rhododendron forest with some immense cedars for company, or the sight of the majestic Kumaoni peaks- Trishul, Nanda Devi, Nanda Ghunti, Panchachuli among them- or a fabulous trek of some 20 km through the beutiful valleys and ridge-tops of the Almora hills to the ancient temple town of Jageshwar from there.

Another trip to McLeodganj followed in April. This time there were quite a few of us, and the pace was less frantic. Indeed, for once, I was happy not to try and cover too much ground and just relax instead (I still forced them up to Triund though!).

Then in May, on my birthday along came the big trip to Tunganath and Chandrashila, again in the Kedarnath mountains of Garhwal.

Pic: The high Himalayas of north Garhwal, Tunganath.

I'd never been this close to the Greater Himalayas before, and although because of unseasonal bad weather I couldn't do the extensive trekking that I'd planned, climbing up to the top of Chandrashila at over 4000m was heady enough.

Over the next month, making my way through work and bad news I felt so horrible in Delhi, that I made another quick jaunt to McLeodganj. I have friends there now- especially a group of young locals who run home stays for European and American backpackers in the villages of upper Bhagsu and Dharamkot, above McLeodganj.

That was in June. Haven't been back to the mountains since. All I've been able to do to keep my mountain-starved mind from going insane is to read countless fabulous books on the mountains, my favourite ones among these being my hero Eric Shipton's collected travelogues and Journals, and the travel writings of my other mountain hero Umaprasad Mukherjee- some of whose peerless Bengali essays, I've tried to translate.

So, why all this talk about mountains at the end of September? Well, it ties in with what I said at the beginning of the blog. Durga Pujo is around the corner again, and this time, I hope to be back in Tunganath, staying in Sujaan Singh's lovely choti- with probably one of the best alpine views in the world- and meeting the irrepresible Biru.

Pic: The view outside Sujaan Singh's unassuming choti at Tunganath.

I intend to hijack him and make him take me to Madhmaheshwar and Deoria Tal, two absolutely fantastic places in the deep valleys and high ridges of the Kedarnath mountains along one of the greatest watershed areas on earth.

I've got my fingers crossed.