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.

Tunganath Part 3

3.

There’s a certain charm in passing the night at a temple town. Outside, the great silence of the Himalayas. The night has still not passed. Suddenly, a sound of drums. The priest is opening the doors of the temple. At dawn, the deity is woken up with a morning arati. From deep inside the blanket I hear the sweet sound of the temple bells. Its not quite like an earthquake, but it seems like the mountain booms with the deep sound of those bells, and my heart is filled with a sudden joy. I listen intently. A sense of contentment comes over me.

The puja ends. Silence returns.

Lying there, I suddenly remember Ben Jonson’s words- “Bells are profane, a tune may be religious.” But is that really true? I wonder. In those bells I hear the voice of divinity.

Again, bells ring outside, this time from the street. A flock of sheep and goats make their way down the road, carrying loads on their back. Little bells tied to their necks ring out as they move. In the still night, this is another beautiful Himalayan tune- the merry melody of the open road, like sudden birdsong in a still forest. Just as a single stringed instrument will play different tunes, or as different ragas compete for the mind with diverse emotions, the suggestive sounds of bells evoke different feelings.

I lay there and reminisce.

Childhood. Calcutta. The three-storied building of the Bhawanipur police station just opposite my house. On its terrace a large wooden shamiyana. A massive bell hangs there. Through the day, a red-turbaned policeman would be posted there, to ring it on the hour. I remember waking up suddenly in the middle of the night. My room is vaguely lit by the streetlamps outside. Everyone in the house is fast asleep. Suddenly the bell rings twice. Its 2 a.m.! The two gongs light up in the darkness like the twin eyes of a tiger. I turn to one side and try to sleep. In the day, the sound of the bell is subsumed by the roar of the city. In the morning, I hear the bells of a passing horse-drawn carriage. I can always pinpoint those distinct chimes despite the surfeit of sounds surrounding me. It’s the sound of my father returning from a round of the maidan at dawn. The carriage turns off the main road. The sound of bells cease. Now I hear my father’s footsteps. In a little while he will enter his massive book-lined study and work through the day. I sit in my little study with a small book. The blinding light of his intellect lights up the tiny toy lamp of my mind.

Pic: Old Calcutta

The ringing bell at school. The bell that signals the beginning of a class sounds so different from the one signalling its end. If it’s a class that I’ve enjoyed, I feel a sense of loss. The bell at the end of a class that doesn’t interest me brings relief. As I lie in my blanket, the sound of the school bell slowly fades from memory. I remember a class of my college professor. Animatedly reading Shakespeare. I listen to him with rapt attention. My imagination flies to the Bard’s world. The characters and events bloom vividly in my mind. The bell rings, but nobody seems to hear it. Another professor waits outside for the next class. Our reverie breaks. The chime of the bell fades away.

I remember various different bells at the Railway station or at the port. The bells ring and travellers hurry busily. People run to and fro, worried about missing their train. The chaos of the station bell enters language as a metaphor.

The sweetest bells are heard along the track-filled expanse of the Himalayas. A silent path. A still forest. Suddenly I hear bells, like a swelling invisible music. Far away I see a flock of approaching sheep. I stand to one side. Hundreds of furry bodies pass- some tripping on my feet- a massive flock crowding a narrow mountain path, trailing the sound of hundreds of tinkling bells.

I remember another set of bells on my way to Kailash-Mansarovar. A postman goes on his way, a sack of mails on his back. He holds a long stick, crowned with a bunch of tiny bells. He walks with long strides, and the bells keep up a steady rhythm. I stare at his burden of letters. He runs on from one village to the next. His sack reminds me of home, and I miss it so very much.

The chimes of the morning arati at Ukhimath remind me of bells at the banks of the Ganges in Haridwar or Benaras.

Pic: Evening arati at Benaras (courtesy Shonedeep)

Evening shadows lie on the great river. All around me, near and far swells the sound of a million bells. Thousands of temples all ring their bells together. The river is suddenly filled with hundreds of floating flowers. Little earthen lamps glitter amidst the blooms as they float gently on the river. It seems to me as if the night comes to honour the river bearing thousands of lamps to a symphony of bells.

to be continued...

Another Train

11:00 am, Sunday, 28th December. Poorva Express.
Another train. I’m so glad that I’ve traveled so much by train this year. And though this one promises to get me very late, I don’t really care. After all, late running trains is part and parcel of travel really, at least in my mind. We just got out of Patna, running a couple of hours late. Maybe we’ll make up the time. Anyways. Traveling in a first class coupe, first time in such luxury. Well, first time that I can remember definitely. Maybe the time I went with my family to Mussoorie way back in the early Nineties. But I don’t really remember. One of my co-passengers is this nice enough guy, who works in Essar in Gurgaon. He’s going home to check up on his father, who’s been hospitalized. The guy’s nice enough, and has some nice old Bengali music. Old Hemanta songs and the like. But his ‘western’ music scene is dire. Basically an entire album by Aqua! Oh well, you can’t have it all. The other guy in the coupe is this engineer from Calcutta, traveling on business. Struck me as a Hindutva type with his saffron kurta, and tika, and strings around his wrist. Figured I was right when the Bengali guy asked me if Israel was not doing the right thing by attacking Hamas outposts in Palestine. Before I could answer the Meerut guy piped in and said that Israel was the only country with any balls. So I kept quite. Guess I was right about him after all. Its guys like Eammon (that’s the Bong guy’s name, dunno how he spells it!) who’s heart’s gotta be won over. But I fear I’m not the ideal person for the job. Because as this Engineer Mr. Rawat makes clear, these right wingers (the educated ones) are very patient in explaining the whys and the wherefores of their prejudices. They believe their own logic and suffer from no self-doubt, which makes their discourse problematic, but also clear. Because they will otherwise be perfectly genteel urbane people. Maybe I’d even get along with Mr Rawat if the conversation were to be limited to train rides and how much fun they are.
Since last evening I’ve read a lot. Started off with a couple of New Yorkers from two years ago. Read a cracking piece on C S Lewis and his Anglicanism vis a vis his works, especially the fantastic Narnia books. Then read a great account of the death of the Reformist Movement in Iran on the eve of Ahmedinejad’s election way back in 2005. A very poignant story, especially the account of a then-27-year-old dissenting journalist/blogger, and the shit he has to go through for defending his belief in a free society. Read some other stuff as well, but these two were especially great. I love New Yorker I’ve decided. It joins The Guardian and National Geographic as my journals of choice. Today morning read quite a bit of Bill Bryson. That book is good, witty and immensely informative without being flippant or trite. There isn’t much of a style apart from the humour, but well, that’s quite enough, frankly. Space renders me awestruck. The vastness of it all, the loneliness and fragility of Earth’s existence in relation to the Universe humbles me. What was totally a trip was Frederick Pohl’s Gateway. Finished reading it yesterday morning. Its one of those prized SF novels that haunt you long after you’ve ended it. Among its many many charms, Gateway probably has the single most fascinating and terrifying accounts of a black hole. Imagine, stuck in slow time, being sucked into a massive bluish THING five times the size of the sun. You’re stuck somewhere inside the black hole at Sagittarius AG, perhaps only a few minutes, while normal time has already aged centuries, millennia. And you’re trapped, for eternity, alive. Man, who are we? Just who are we? Insignificant, and at the same time so precious. We are like a solar flare upon the surface of the Universe. A blip really, a precious blip. And yet we hope to leave a mark. On posterity? I don’t know. True immortality could only be when beings on a world in a different Universe which we can’t comprehend will have the full account of humanity and celebrate this small fragile race of creatures on a small, beautiful blue world that is lost amidst the eddies of infinite time, of warped space. What other true immortality is there? Meanwhile, during this my very very short stay on this planet, I want to see it in all its beauty and horror. A minute little speck of carbon and methane, I want to participate in the world, and I want my participation to be in part an intellectual one, because that is the gift of my species, and that is its curse. Actually right now, I could do with some sex, maybe even a lot of it. Sigh. 11:44 am

12:41 pm.
Saw an Esbjorn Svensson Trio concert in the past one hour. This was them playing in Stockholm in 2000. Just like Lenny Breau before him, I’ve developed an intense liking for Esbjorn Svensson. Well, not him really as a solo artist, but for the E.S.T as a group. Can’t remember, rather can’t really spell their difficult Nordic names, but boy, are those three guys good. The sad thing is that since ES is dead, there’s very very slim chance of me hearing the other two ever again, except on E.S.T. albums or whatever live videos I can get hold of. Right now, I have two, the Stockholm one, and a superlative concert from 2003. Its one of those regrets of mine- I’ll never see them play live. Just imagine how fucking phenomenal that’d be. Especially when you consider all the second rate crap that comes to India during all those hyped Jazz Utsavs and the like. Right now I’m listening to their album, Good Morning Susie Soho. My favourite of the lot.. Must get my hands on their last album from earlier this year, Leucocyte. Funnily enough, I don’t think if I were to hear any ES solo I’d like it. Don’t think I would. (Spam-Boo-Limbo just started. LOVE IT!!!) He’s the quintessential trio guy. And what a trio. They feed off each other beautifully, switching between grooves, shifts in time signatures, keys. They play like a dream together. No matter how much of a genius ES might’ve been, the joy of hearing a band in full flow is just awesome. I’ll give an opposing example- Brad Meldhau. Now THAT guy’s absolutely brilliant solo. I was as blown away by his Live In Tokyo as by any of E.S.T.’s albums. Listening to his 19 min plus cover of Radiohead’s Paranoid Android sends shivers up my spine every time. The thing is, I downloaded a Brad Meldhau Trio album- Day Is Done, and though that’s quite good, but not as great as his solo stuff. In fact my favourite track off Day Is Done is his peerless solo reading of The Beatles’ Martha My Dear. So in the absence of ES, I guess Brad is one guy to follow. The trouble is that no matter how good he is, he just isn’t as electrifyingly brilliant as the E.S.T. Truly, what a loss. I must get my hands on their entire catalogue. Eammon just asked me if Metrogyl should be given to the train staff. Apparently the guy is suffering from an upset tummy. Oh, more news. Train’s 4 hours late. Which means we ain’t reaching before 10 pm or so. FUCK THAT!!! 1:00 pm

4:23 pm.
Just left Jasidih on the Jharkhand-Bengal border. Now that Lalu’s train has stopped leading the Poorva, we’re going as per schedule. Now my only wish is that we reach at 10. It would be nice to reach, though all things considered, its been a great journey so far. Spent a lot of time hanging out of the door. A very good thing to do while the sun’s still up and you’re getting bored. Beats staring at the laptop for sure, like a moron yuppie, which I seem to be turning into. So I’m standing there, watching people trying to barge into the general compartment next to our bogie (the irony! Cheapest next to the most expensive!) at Kiyul Junction. It’s a major one, as the steward confirms. I remember going off towards Purnia by train from this very place as a kid. Yes, says the steward, the other line does indeed head off towards Katihar Junction, the next big one near Purnia. In the rush at Kiyul, this old man bound for the general compartment only makes it as far as our gate. The steward, a nice middle aged Bihari man called Prosad, lets him up on the condition that he goes on to the general compartment at the next station. So anyways, I hang on. Its quite pretty outside. The stretch-till-infinity Gangetic plains is showing some bumps and slopes as it gets close to the Chota Nagpur Plateau. Now, as luck would have it, Lalu’s train (seven compartments long, according to some idling cops) are on the same line as ours heading towards Jamui, further down the track. This means that we get a red at every successive signal. Right outside Kiyul, a picturesque sight. The branching line in the distance has a long, solitary train on it, waiting for the green signal to approach Kiyul. Its blue and white in colour like most other expresses. Wonder where its coming from. Too far to read the lettering. It’s a pretty sight as I count the compartments- 13. I follow the line away towards the horizon (most train lines can be distinguished by the fact that they are usually upon a bankment, higher than the surrounding plains. Of course, you’ve got to know what you’re looking for in the first place). A large ridge appears in the middle of a sea of flat land. Looks like Ayer’s Rock. We approach it rapidly. The branching line goes around the other side of the ridge and is soon lost in the distance. From a distance it looks like a giant hillock but it IS a ridge, and a pretty long one at that. A couple of small villages at the bottom, with a large house on a smaller bump just before the ridge starts. Looks like the local zamindar’s haveli. From the train its difficult to say if its still inhabited.
As the train runs parallel to the ridge, we slow down. I crane my neck out and see a red signal in the distance. Here we go again. So we stop, the stragglers at the doors of the general compartment start getting off to stretch their legs, pee, or just stand around and spit. The conscientious old man wants to know if we’ve stopped at a station so he can go over to the correct compartment. I tell him to relax. Poor old man. After all he DOES have a ticket right? So what if it isn’t A/C? No reason for him to feel hassled unnecessarily. Three cops with massive rifles come and join me at the gate. They’re all butt ugly, but have nice enough grins. One of them gives me the news of Lalu’s train. Apparently he’s traveling in a 7-bogie train up-front with full fanfare, off to inaugurate a new platform in Jamui. As he speaks we start moving, and sure enough, as we pass by several level crossings, villages and ramshackle roads coming up to the train line from farms everywhere, right next to the train line, are throngs of men, women and children dressed in the gaudy colours of their Sunday best, waving their hands at the Poorva, as if every passing train holds the “Honourable Railway Minister, the Messiah of the Downtrodden, the Keeper of Lohia’s Flame, the Scourge of Communal Forces, the Charismatic (and now subject of Management Studies) Lalu Prasad Yadav.” Fluttering paper flags with the lantern symbol of RJD, Lalu’s party, fringe the train line. Its all quite fascinating.
Dunno why, but proximity to cops, no matter how friendly, makes me nervous. I guess they’re pigs, that’s why. So I go inside. Look around, nothing much happening. Rawat is sitting cross-legged staring out of the window while worrying some prayer beads. The old grandfather of the little baby (an occasional grinning/bawling visitor to our coupe) is sleeping on the bottom bunk. Eammon sees me and jumps down and sits between Rawat and me. Asks me if Lalu really should get the credit for the recent spectacular profits that the Railways have been posting. The political animal Rawat’s ears perk up. I tell Eammon what I think, that Ministers by themselves cannot achieve much. What good administrators do is help cut through the red tape and ensure that there are deserving public servants in the Ministry who can do a good job. Rawat agrees. Eammon and I talk a little about going to Cal, and how frequently we’re able to do it. Rawat can’t take it and asks me where I work. I’m sure he’s dying to know who this bearded Leftie is and why is Eammon (the everyman as it were, the person who the left and the right fights over) asking me political questions in a little awestruck way. So I smile sweetly at him and say, “India Today.” That’s that.
To avoid further conversation, I take out Bill Bryson and glance through the pages. We stop at Jamui, and then Jhanjha. This means that a) we’re finally rid of playing bridesmaid to Lalu’s train and b) we’re about to enter the Jharkhand part of the Chota Nagpur Plateau. Actually I realize that a good fifteen minutes after leaving Jhanjha. Chota Nagpur Plateau means ridges, and forests! I rush out to the doorway as the train is pulling out of a station. I open the door facing west, cause if my memory serves me well, the stuff to see will be on that side (if you were to take the Gaya line further to the south, instead of the Patna line that we’re on, then you’ve got to open the other door). And I was right. We are traveling through a rolling countryside of densely forested high ridges. Further west and south, ridges march out to the horizon, hazy in the light of the setting sun. Everything is bathed in a golden-silver light. We pass through deep cuttings, the train blaring out its horn, going faster at every turn, building up a head of steam. Well none of those around. More like a head of diesel. I’ve seen this countryside countless times from passing trains, but every time I see it, it awakens the same sense of wonder as the best myths do. It does look like a mythical, fairy tale landscape, the kind that Bibhutibhushan talks of in his peerless Aranyak. It’s the same landscape in fact. Little forest streams and rivers come up to the train line, shyly almost. A sudden deep culvert disorients, but soon passes. The track curves resolutely to the right, and then the left. I look forward and to the rear of the train. Its like I’m attached to this giant caterpillar. Ancient red brick walls act as cuts and channels, works of many generations past, separating the agent of civilization, the train line, from the primeval mysteries of the forests of the Plateau. The sunset makes it just right. If we’d passed through here at the correct time, it would’ve been around 11 in the morning. Good enough, but it wouldn’t have had a similar dramatic impact. I wonder why more Indians aren’t moved by this beauty that surrounds them. And by this I mean mostly urban India, because so much of rural India lives in or near landscapes like these. Why don’t people from the city bother? And as every time I pass through some place like this, some more of my heart is hardened towards the vacuousness of the modern urban, ignorant, technocratic India.
If you’re looking at the passing land from the train, pay attention to the occasional deep cuttings that the track passes through. Apart from reminding you of Ruskin Bond’s The Tiger in the Tunnel if you’ve read it, what you’ll notice is that every time you come out of a cutting, the landscape has changed in a very subtle way. What a cutting does is basically carve up a way through the most convenient rise or crest in this constantly undulating landscape At no point is it flat, and occasionally you’ll find yourself traveling through a bowl shaped valley with forested ridges on all sides. Its quite spectacular. In fact, its an even better sight if you’re on the Gaya line. Imagine the effort to get the Railways through here! Phenomenal. The scenery changes, predictably, with every cutting. Coming out of a final, long cut, I see that we’ve left the high ridges behind (the highest of which must be a good thousand or two feet high). We pass by the station of Simultala, famous to previous Bengali bhadralok generations as a charming beauty spot. A very British phrase isn’t it? That’s what the bhadralok thought. And who am I to scoff? It IS pretty. Even though the ridges are gone, the undulating land continues, as does the occasional patch of forest interspersed with patches of farmland. Its almost sundown, and people are returning from the fields with firewood, and produce, and their gaggle of cattle. There are dogs and goats and cows milling about everywhere. A few kids playing make-shift cricket on tilled fields. I’m watching all this when I get a massive fright. A speeding train rushes by in the opposite direction barely five feet from me. The sudden blaring horn and the rush of air from the speeding brute totally shocks me. I let go of the hand rails and jump ever so slightly. In an instant, I quickly grab hold of the rails. My heart’s still racing. What a brute. And what speed. Quite a rush. We approach a station. We stop. I get off, drink some tea. Pretty soon we’ll be entering Bengal. I smile at the thought.
5:51 pm. We passed by Chittaranjan a while back and are about to enter Asansol. Chittaranjan is where you enter Bengal. The steward says that we’ve made up some time and might even get to Howrah by 9 pm if all goes to plan. I’ll stop writing.

So Far

Its summer and my annual lament for the hills begins. Now that I haven’t blogged for a good few months this seems like a good way to break the silence. But first a brief summary of where things are. Well, some six months after their engagement Rudder and Mandakini got married amidst much fanfare and razzmatazz in true Delhi style with the Who’s Who jostling with the So Whats while everybody partied. After three frenzied days of Delhi parties (the sangeet-where people predictably went apeshit; the wedding- which was solemn and beautiful; and the reception- which was a dope-fuelled surreal fest); the action shifted to Calcutta. Now most of the dramatis personae were drifting towards the home base anyway, and the wedding juggernaut only provided extra impetus. And so I returned to Cal after an entire year! It was fab, catching a train full of the knowledge that nothing could touch me for the next two weeks. And it was a mind-blast all right. Two weeks of doing absolutely nothing but hanging out, mostly in dear old JU with PG 2 kids who were first year kids when I'd left in 2004. Oh well, I had decided that nostalgia would be kept at a minimum, and JU would be enjoyed on its own terms, in the present. So we got together on the lawns (yes there is a lawn now in front of JUDE), mostly kids, Rimi, Debo and assorted junta (which included Sujoy, Rudder, Mandakini), soaked in the early spring sunshine, got wasted and talked a mile. The Arts Department fest (Sannskriti) was going on just as we’d landed, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. There was the general air of festivities to add to the buzz, and the buzz was great. Man, it would be impossible to even try and narrate all that was done, and seen and experienced. Some things stand out.
First there was the impromptu Rented House performance. Yes folks, we still live! So what happened was this. We were hanging about on the lawn, passing smokes and bad jokes, as infants (relatively) came and gaped at Rudder and me and made their own assumptions about how cool we were or not. We acted the only way we could- with a detached, wry, slightly up-turned lip kinda smiling winking reminiscing free-form sorta way. I think we went down fine. When there’re myths to maintain we usually rise to the challenge. And Rimi is the Spin-meister. It’s a talent all right, the ability to package cool, and Rimi is a past master in that. Anyway, so we were sitting around when someone suggested that we should play. Sujoy- in his goofy groovy-baby avatar, which he dons when he is happy, readily agreed, as did Rudder. I was a bit skeptical, but what the hell, more myth-making! So we agreed to go around town collecting guitars from the various (countless) people we knew, so that we could get the gig done in the evening. And after many split hairs and travels around the city, which included a trip to the Supersonics’ lair, we ended up in the AV room in JUDE playing for a gaggle of kids, who loved it. And there was dear Andy Lal, the current HOD, who dropped in and had a good enough time. All fears of no-show (mostly held by Rimi and Tintin) were proved unfounded and we turned in a solid set….well, I did forget some lyrics.
Then there was the Cal reception, where me and Sujoy went in dhotis that a kindly old neighbour of his helped us wear. A much less grand affair than the Delhi one, this one was mad enough, what with the drinks and the blue smoke and the general debauchery…and so that passed. A word on the bride- Mandakini looked insanely pretty throughout, and spent a good part of that week drunk. Absolutely gorgeous. Though, I’ve decided, that was one wedding enough for this year. I’m going to no more. They give me the heebie jeebies!
The other really nice thing was meeting Dana. Whenever I do meet her, I realise just how much I miss her. Is it her charming grin, or her no-nonsense gung-ho, or her fabulous driving skills? Dunno. But its just no fun without her around. We saw this new movie on the Sixties- Across The Universe. Didn’t like it one bit. Especially after reading a book as fabulous and clearheaded (on the Sixties) as Revolution In The Head, all these crap nostalgia fests cut absolutely no ice. You want the Sixties? Come hear my 1965 playlist baby! Days of careful scholarship, and nights of assiduous downloading has ensured that I’ve got a fairly stunning lineup, from the Kinks to Cutis Mayfield, and all points in between straddling pop, rock, soul, r n b.
Before I left I saw a Tin Can play, the quite stunning (visually at least) Video.
But no Sue, and no Wee Kiddo! How could a Cal visit be fulfilling without them?! I yearned for them through those two weeks.

Anyway, Cal was done, and a bumpy, scary plane ride back and I was in Delhi, being met by Bunny-me-love who whisked me off to 4S for a beer. Welcome back! Then there was the Eastwind Music Festival. It was no Glastonbury, but it was great fun an essential boost for the Rock scene. Most of the bands were either crap or both crap AND full of themselves, but some stood out. Thermal and A Quarter were great, doing a fantastic job of spinning their funk-rock grooves….had me jumping in the aisles.

And then back to work…lots of work.

Its been two months since then, and much has happened, so very much. Daya came down for a visit, as did Shonali, met Sathe intermittently, got drunk and slept little (still do); missed meeting Avishek and KP countless times…etc etc. That and so much else… Four things need to be mentioned:
1. I love David Lynch. Sujoy turned me on to him. I remember watching Blue Velvet while in JU. It had made a strong impression on me, but it didn’t really mean much either. Then I saw the Twin Peaks seasons, as well as Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway. I love his stuff, and it’ll take an entire post to say exactly what and why. Saw all the main Oscar movies too, starting with Michael Clayton, and moving onto There Will Be Blood (what a soundtrack!), Sweeny Todd and No Country For Old Men on DVD. I think I need to see Blood and Old Men again. Stuff I need to sort out. They didn’t exactly come across as great movies! I’ve been going on a movie bender. Apart from the movies I saw for reviewing in the magazine, there’s also been chestnuts like Clerks, The Leningrad Cowboys Do America and my all-time favourite, Picnic At Hanging Rock. Saw Juno with Smriti. She was a lot of fun...Juno somehow wasn't.
2. Jyoti. I knew her long ago, when I first came to Delhi, and was working as an intern at Miditech, the production house. Didn’t really speak much then, but it was cool. Then I quit, and she disappeared…till last year, when she collared me on Orkut and asked me how I was. We’ve been chatting since then, mostly online…and its like I’ve known her forever. Well, she came down to Delhi for a whirlwind visit. In my usual brilliant way I kept promising I would meet her, and invariably get waylaid by either work or women, pissing her off no end. But we met finally, she came to my office. Then to my place and dinner at Flaming Wok (with horrible coolers!) after which I dropped her to her friend’s house in Saket. Through it all we talked and we talked, and then we talked some more. Sometimes, with the right people, you just have so much to say. Met her again for a brief drink the next day. Finally the day before she left for Benaras, I went and visited her at DU. She studied there, and like me, loves the feeling of being in a campus. I’ve never really been to that part of town, so Jyoti took it upon herself to show me around….the beautiful tree-lined avenues of DU (where bigotry, in the form of a massive no-smoking zone has reared its ugly head), the alleys of Kamla Nagar, cycle rickshaws ferrying the young and the academic…finally we settled down in a lovely old courtyard in the Arts Fac (as she called it) and talked again. Then we went looking for tea. It was lovely, she was wonderful.
3. The Tibetan protest. The goddamn Olympic Torch passed through Delhi last week amidst crazy security, much chaos and general grumblings. I left early for work as I would have to pass through the very heart darkness (at least on that day) called India Gate. My auto was waved through, but for some reason I was left fuming seeing the security measures. My fair country seemed to have internalized all of China’s paranoia. This is the Indian state, I couldn’t help thinking….providing the powerful might of state machinery to a country that is a human rights violator (but then again I shouldn’t be surprised, as our good friend the US is one as well) which covets our territories openly. Dunno why, but it was a dull kind of pain and anger that wouldn’t go away. A sense of betrayal. Came to office, and bumped into Toto online. Her “kids” from Lawyer’s Collective would be going for the parallel Torch run organised by the Tibetans from Rajghat to Jantar Mantar, she said. Won’t I go? She asked. I had work, I said a little lamely, and yet before she replied, I was sure that I would do something, not just forget about it. So I headed out to Jantar Mantar, as the run itself would have already started. When I got there and saw the large crowd of Tibetans with their slogans, those beautiful flags and the hoardings, and the monks chanting, it moved me deeply. I lit some lamps to commemorate the protestors in Lhasa, and stood quietly to one side to watch. People have asked me how the gathering was. All I can say, that there was a general feeling of joyousness to the proceedings. It was a grand day for protests, with a deep blue sky and bright bright sunshine. The people looked solemn, but at peace. Some groups of kids were laughing and joshing around, others rushing about busily organising stuff. Loads of journalists, including freelance photographers from publications as diverse as Paris Flash and The New York Times. There were our own tv news channels and all the shallow poseurs that come with them. Thankfully, they weren’t hogging the limelight as they're wont to. The protest run came in three waves, as I sat with a group of elderly Tibetan women- momo sellers from Majnu Ka Tila (or Little Tibet)- and joked about journalists and Aamir Khan. Madness ensued once the speeches started. Mostly it was empty rhetoric. I just wished and hoped that the Tibetans got their say. Look at it this way- this is about them, not about self-promoting NGOs and politicians, and definitely not about Bollywood stars. I left once that geezer George Fernandes started railing against the Congress (!!) for some reason! It was heady feeling. “Summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the streets boy!”
4. Swimming. Ah, swimming! Its begun again.

And now, the hills. I just have to have to have to go!!