The sense of Faith

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“Baba! What do you do? ” I asked the Naga Sadhu sitting quietly in his tent.

The Sadhu must have blinked a bit behind his unusually large red sunglasses and then said, ” Nothing. What is there to do?”

“I mean what is the job of a Sadhu?”

“We are here to protect Sanatan Dharma.”

“Tell me about Sanatan Dharma.”

“I don’t know anything about Sanatan Dharma. These are the questions appropriate for Mahamandaleshwars.”

Then he added a profound couplet to re-enforce his suggestion.

“Hamara kaam hai, Lund ghumana aur Rasgulla Khana.”

In English, the rough translation goes like this,

‘I Jiggle my dick, for the sweets I lick’

The Jiggler

Conversation with the muscular Baba was a little more sensible.

“Baba! What is progress?”

“There is nothing called progress. All of you caught in the trap of illusions call something a success or failure. Life is merely a series of experiences.”

“Then what is it we are working towards?”

“You are working to justify your beliefs ; we live life as it comes.”

“So there is no direction to life?”

“It depends on the purpose of your life.”

“And the purpose of life is?”

“To keep ones’ promises, not to harm anyone and respecting the creation of God.”

Then the sadhu took a drag from the little earthen pipe and handed it to a man wrapped in a white Toga. He appeared to be of foreign origin. There was another one, sitting next to him. Both were quite and statuesque. A closer look revealed some reactory response to the pungent smoke from the wood fire, which occasionally swung their way.

“What is your name?”

“Assaf”

“Where are you from?”

“From Israel.” He replied in a very heavy accent.

“How did you find him?” I pointed towards the Sadhu.

“We didn’t find him, he found us.”

For a few seconds I stared at him in disbelief. Assaf took the opportunity to smile at me in return. His teeth were yellow. His waxen demeanor prompted me ask,

“How do you spend your time?”

“Minute by minute.”

Humanity rolled in as waves, smashing repeatedly on the shores of the Sangam. For a few seconds of rendezvous with the holy water, people endured collisions and danger, then they were hustled with piercing whistles, sticks and shoves from the security. It was an upheaval akin to a loaded net full of sardines.

They came out with little droplets of the sacred water clinging on their shivering skin. Which they proceeded to wipe quickly. Meanwhile the Naga sadhus busied themselves with an anointment of a powder which turned their bodies ashen. It also made them smell of a sweet soap.

They were happy going to the river. They held hands, carried each other on shoulders, rode horses and beat drums in their procession. They danced with abandon and showed their wares to the photographers.

They are proud of their lifestyle. Sometimes ironic, sometimes specious but they bring grand drama to the event.

Quite a few looked comical and lost in the milieu.

It seems that most are actors for the great spectacle . One can doubt them, but the truth is, without these exaggerated characters, the Kumbh will be a poorer place.

The river flows in those who come to her. And they unfold to each other in many ways.

But such moments could be achieved outside the frenzy ;which was a little bit away from the main event of Mauni Amavasya.

Faith in the power of holy water is staggering. There is no question in any one’s mind that she will not excoriate the accumulated sins from their soul.

The man from Gaya educated me on this issue.

“Why do you sin?”

He reached out for my jacket collar and felt it in his thumb and forefinger.

“Our clothes get dirty. Don’t they? The same way our souls become dirty over a period of time.”

“But why let it get dirty to begin with?” I asked stubbornly.

“I till fields. God knows how many innocent beings get killed by my plough. I walk on earth, even bare feet, there could be thousands of insects and small creatures crushed under.”

“And you believe the river will wash away these sins?”

“Yes!”

There was hardly an argument left in me after that.

Living in India exposes one to a large number of people, but what I witnessed on the 10th of February was unusual. The Kumbh gave what it promised; numbers. I think the best comparison would be with an overactive beehive. The buzz of people, their footsteps ,and the many loudspeakers discharging devotional songs, sermons, instructions and calling unusual names to the lost-and-found charged the atmosphere with an unimaginable amount of energy. I was swayed, and cruised in their torrent happily. Purpose and breath filled my sail from head to clew and tack. Bulging in enthusiasm from luff to leach, I raced with them  towards the purification of my soul. I loved them and thanked them for being there with me.

Their journey was long. Even in groups, they seemed lost .

Some came to live their lives more profitably, placing hope in the number of hearts passing by.

Many were there to take care of others. They did a good job of it.

The vast gray sandy beach was full of color. Light was generous and there were many moments for a photographer to indulge.

I don’t know which category of design, the sari belongs to. The closest would be kitsch. But the yellow and blue polka dots amidst the black space of yellow grass is too sophisticated for what is usually labeled crass.

 I thought I saw only happy families at the Kumbh. I might be wrong. But whatever I saw, made me glad. They were in it together, whatever the hardship and shared the work which included cooking and taking care of children.Men participated in equal measure to keep the earth of their family intact and secure.

They have come from Bengal. Their music has a haunting note, which quickly filled the space left by a hot afternoon sun. Most were spell bound. Devotional songs and dance is their source of livelihood.  They don’t ask, they receive, according to the impression their piety makes on others.

The Nagas have quickly realized the importance of being naked. Often they demand ‘dakshina’ for a picture or two. This one looks like a hoodlum. Here he is giving me change for a hundred rupees. Whether you need clothes or not, you certainly do need money to survive.

The Kumbh initially confused me. People who allegedly have retracted from the trappings of the world exhibited the greatest pomp and show, while the commoner went about his business in a quiet dignified manner. I cannot say that all the sadhus are charlatans. Who am I to comment on their life? I got some good tips and honest opinions on life from them. But some serious conversation with a Norwegian revealed what complete surrender to a line of thinking is.

“So why are you here?” I asked him. His deep blue eyes reflected a sense of nervousness at the audacity of my question.

“It is my spiritual quest.”

“Taking a bath at the Kumbh is your spiritual quest?”

“This is but a station in my journey.”

“What is your journey?”

“To achieve spiritual bliss and enlightenment.”

“Won’t that be boring?”

“Why would it be boring?”

“Anything which goes on and on is so boring.”

“Boredom is a state of mind. We are working to transcend the mind.”

“Why?”

“Because mind leads you astray and then you cannot connect to the eternal truth.”

“And what is this connection with the eternal truth?”

“It is when you realize the nature of the universe. Then you are in supreme bliss.”

Before I could ask him more of my silly questions, he was whisked away by his colleagues. As a parting shot, he advised me to visit his Guru Swamy Nityananda’s site. He said I’ll find answers to all my questions. I thought it to be an unimaginative advise.

I recollect a few lines from Neil Young’s Ever- after,

The world is full of questions
Some are answered, some are not
The only faith you’re keeping’
Is the faith that you still got

The world is full of answers
Some are right,some are wrong
The one that I believe in
Is a wish in a song.

Adieu Kumbh, till we experience each other again in Nasik.

Where are you ?

Many years ago, my friend Suneet asked me about his father, ” Where did he go? Mr. Dubs. Where did he go?”. Suneet’s father had passed away.”He’s gone where he’d come from,”I replied weakly.

The question haunts me all the time. I have no idea where I have come from and where will I go. Long walks or hours staring at the ceiling has not given me much of a clue, but a niggle tells me that I’ve been here before and will come back again.

Life has a way to remind. It tells you not to take anything for granted. Those whom you sink into will vanish someday. Use the time. Feel without complaining.

Revelation

I did not cry for the last seven years and when Newton, my Labrador passed away , I wondered whether I have any emotion left. Him and I were joined at the hip. My siestas were incomplete if I did not use his fat tummy as a pillow, yet I could not shed a drop of tear .

A few days ago our Saint Bernard, Beethoven died after a brief illness. It was an exhausting ten days of suffering for all of us. Drips  inserted, needles  of antibiotics jabbed, ultrasound, X-Rays, blood tests were done to cure him off his suffering. We inflicted more than he was going through. The worst part was that we  did not understand the real malady and treated him erroneously. We blamed ourselves. We trusted one doctor without taking a second opinion. Personally, I realised that I have no intuition and did not intervene.

We asked a lot of questions and found very few answers. And those discovered are hardly convincing.

I took such a beautiful body, flowing in lovely whites,tans and blacks; a forehead so wide that while kissing it, I could see nothing, to the crematorium and returned with colourless grey ashes in an earthen pot.

Finally I could weep. I longed for Beethoven. No longer I wanted to accept the circle of life.

Where are you Beethoven? I cried.

Beethoven was very young when my family was in the jaws of  very difficult times. We were in mourning. His playful indifference helped us sail many a difficult memory and we slowly wriggled back to normalcy. My pony tail was especially singled out for tug-of-wars and coatings of copious saliva. We played very physical, almost rugby like snatch and pulls. Often my hand would find itself in his mouth. He was strong and before he could relieve the pressure, I experienced the magnitude of his clasping power. Sometimes the games got personal and he would get angry but never did he  hurt me.

He rapidly grew to a size which evoked awe in the spectators. Even then, we could pull the over sixty kilos of  that mass by its tail. Mind you no dog likes to be pulled by its tail and often retaliates, but not  gentle Beethoven. I remember once walking in the park when we ran into a few policemen. They were managing the Eid get-together at the local dargah. Beethoven drew their attention by his size. One of them remarked that his village will lay bare if ever this creature would walk through it. An old gentleman we  often met had only one thing to say, “this one can fight a lion.” And I would  walk back wondering how deceptive looks are. A beat of a drum outside, a wedding procession, a clap of thunder was enough to drive Beethoven under the bed. Hours of cajoling had no effect on him and invariably ended up being fed there. Then it was a huge task to pull him out for nature calls.

Newton’s loss left him heartbroken. We quickly filled our home with a little beagle; Frodo. Beethoven never really accepted him as a companion; he had grown up with Newton.

To resolve his depression we took him out to drives. I don’t know whether Rashtrapati Bhawan had any influence on his weather, but we did what we could. Slowly he limped back to normal but only for a while. Then back he went into his frosty world.

I am convinced that a soul is never without a physical form. The instance Beethoven left this lovely body, he had found another one. I hope he has a great next life.

Where are you? What are you doing? Don’t save on the hours in the parlour, look good, do well and love; this is all that matters. Then one day you and I are going to turn into a pail of earth or ash.

The Purpose Of Life

After swinging my axe for many years, I’ve come to one conclusion; purpose of  life is fulfilment. There’s an ocean of things which could have been or should have been, yet I’ve experienced so many moments when I thought this is it, this is life. Having a great time consummates my relationship with this world. It doesn’t matter whether I’m listening to Buddha Bar with my four year old son , having my face licked by my beagle, or sipping champagne on a cold sunny afternoon.

Let me tell you about how I enjoyed the daylight of  20th  January.

After a few moments of misty indecision, its morning opened into a shining crystal. I was invited by the generous Sam Shahani to photograph an event which involved vintage cars.It was co hosted by him and his dear friend Puneet Kocchar . Sam exports heavy machinery and earth moving equipment, but he and his father are big time vintage car lovers. Puneet has a mens fashion business called Studio one. The event was held at the Blue Frog restaurant. It is famous for promoting contemporary music and launching young musicians.  Blue Frog is at the Kila complex opposite the Qutub Minar. It is a pretty large area with an ample forecourt and a beautiful Peepul tree in its inner cloister.  So the theater was set for a great occasion.

I reached there well on time to see cars roll in elegantly. A red Mustang, maroon Plymouth, a 1932 Ford, Chevrolet, Jaguar, Mercedes,and a green Triumph soon found themselves in each others company. I will not hazard the details of these beauties as I was not jotting what their owners were proudly piping about .

I have photographed a few vintage car gatherings. It is so easy to be overwhelmed by their form and grace. When the light is good,  colours so vibrant, it is natural for a photographer to miss the most important point of it all and get caught in angles. You see, it is not just about cars. It is about changing times. It is about priorities, aesthetics and the verve of existence. Focus of most products now is functional  reliability and thus lack a spirit. I saw Bentleys, Audis, Porches drop people off ; none of these super cars looked as appealing as the ones which were 50 years older. I am talking looks here, not technology. Sure we have evolved and made objects which are more comfortable and predictable in every way, but have in our doing,  compromised on design.

I concentrated on relationships. A moment of quiet reflection peeled to the real fruit. Tree trunks and their shadows. Shoes, legs, clothes, handbags, a shawl ,a watch, hats, eyes and eyebrows, leaves, tiles on the ground, foliage at the background, bouncers , children, ladies, glass, stickers and the building; all conversed with the cars. It was as chirpy as an evening tree full of sparrows. The cars were no less.Their bright paint, voluptuous bosoms and extrovert nature interacted freely with the great gathering.

Can you imagine a tree look so good on a Honda City or a Santro?

Nature of cars have changed. They appeal to insulation, alienation rather than participation. All the vintage cars at this gathering though in a wide variety of shapes and sizes, were at peace with their surroundings.

It was a courtyard of joy and I’m sure the Qutub Minar must be peering over and eavesdropping to dip in to the atmosphere. Fortunately I had a camera which excelled in taking macro shots. So there I was, almost kissing metal, and found so many details which I had missed before; design of the font and its spacing, dimensions and cuts of talismans on their bonnets and bows, shapes of their sterns, tail lights and  much more.

You see the cars demand attention. One cannot cursorily ‘go through’ them.They are an exhibition of  love and craftsmanship. Years have made many organs brittle, especially rubber and beads, but metal and chrome has stood up to time with resilience.

I was touched by scotch tape plaster on one of the ante brachial part of a Ford’s greyhound. It is so small that perhaps even the most delicate of argon welds can spoil the show. The Ford will not be same without its leaping greyhound or its forearm.

Even the most weathered of accessories looked cool. Designs elements are organic, faunal , combined with architectural . It is as if each piece is in an odeon created by Rafael. Just that the elements are not that grotesque.

The main issue is how we interact with the world.Whatever we create reflects our attitude towards our surroundings. Looking at the Jaguar on the road, it is not just a machine; it is flair and style gliding in an urban jungle. Even in an environment alien to its specie, she is radiating dignity. Look around her, you see everything completed in a hurry and she, like the Merovingian, is relishing olives with  Château Haut-Brion 1959 and wiping her lips with pink satin at leisure.

And the little triumph is slightly more substantial than a pekinese in a living room but it has lit up a sullen road lined with pre-stressed concrete and screaming property dealers.

The Buick seems to lack lower lip, but her grill exudes fearsome appearance of a tiger-fish. Or some might comment it looks like Darth Vader.

Where are we heading? How will things be designed in the future. Is it evolution? Can not  cars be made which go beyond perfecting function?

What will the purpose of life  be ten years from now? Overcoming competition or enjoying great sensations? Where will Bacchus be banished?

A short drive followed when the gathering had conversed, ogled, admired in the vicinity. At the risk of being repetitive, in any party, if children are happy their mothers are happy and only then can the men be happy. I’ve stated this eternal truth so often to my wife and my friend’s wives. Women! please believe that we don’t wish to rile you. Our lives are much sweeter when you are happy. Unfortunately they find it hard to believe.

Here is Sam driving his 1932 ford. His expression and the joyous children reflect the mood of the event.

I hopped in the back seat of Rajeev’s red Chevy. This car was used extensively to follow horses in a race. It was a great rig for me to take photos of other cars . On the road people stared and admired these glorious chariots.

Growing up I often saw the Chevy Impala in Hindi movies and lived amongst Premier Padminis and Ambassadors. Maruti brought  minimalistic and functional forms which excited me for a while. Now it looks so boring. The flair of the past is way behind us. Who has the time to make such vehicles anymore? It is the spirit of collectors who appreciate value of good design which educates and titillates people like me.

I don’t know the name of this car but apparently it is a replica of a classic. It is made in Malaysia and sports a modern engine and drive train. I am perfectly fine with such concepts. At least the form is graceful and engulfs  its owner in style. With a modern fuel injected motor, appropriate suspension, gearbox, brakes and safety features, why can’t a beauty like this be produced in larger numbers?

After I drank on the cars, I sat down with food and champagne to reflect. Co-incidentally I did not see a child busy on a cell phone. Most ran about, enjoying the milieu, unmindful of the steps and other circumstances.

Live and piped music filled spaces spared by laughter and conversations. I wondered whether this is what we live for? After two glasses of champagne, I was less confused and more  convinced  that fulfillment of the self is the purpose of life.Fulfillment is not only about  pleasurable activities and good times. It is about realization that one is alive. This is how I felt after relishing great food, champagne in the company of  lovely hosts and their wonderful vintage cars.

My heart beat like a psychedelic frog…with snowflakes, doilies , hobby horses tattooed in white.

Dear reader, here I digress and take you on a different journey to visit a bunch of crazy people. They have come to India from Australia to build a boat. Yes! a boat to sail in the Ganges at Allahabad during the Kumbh.

I stumbled into them at the Kanchan Villa lodge at Allahabad. Meet Andrew Connor and his family from Comboyne. Comboyne is a village of around 800 inhabitants in Australia. It is some 400 km from Sydney. I was looking at some images of the place and wondered what madness befell  Andrew and his family to fly so far into a place where there are more than 800 people in a school! I guess it is human nature to seek what it hasn’t experienced. During the Kumbh, a place which is about 32 square km will host a population of more than that of  Australia.

Andrew, his wife Virginia,ten year old twins Jenna and Elle, sons Rye and Finn along with a friend Dylan landed in Mumbai on Oct 4th. There one day they found Jeff from Houston, America, standing at their doorstep. He had heard from someone that this team intends to build a boat at Allahabad, so wanted to tag along.” You are welcome”, they said and since then has worked with them to saw, shave, bend and punch wood into a boat.

The first question I asked Andrew was “Why??????”

Andrew has been to the Kumbh at Allahabad twice before, so thirty six years later he wanted to share the event with his family. This time he wanted to contribute something in return. What will be a better gift than to donate the people of Allahabad a boat?

Crazy Andrew and his boat.

Elder son Rye

Friend Dylan

Friend Jeff. Jeff is a national skateboarding champion from Houston Texas.

I asked Virginia how and why did she support her husband on this off-the-rails venture. She told me that she wants to educate her children by traveling and exposing them to the real world. She doesn’t send them to school and teaches at home, but the real learning would come by visiting different places and countries. I sighed. Yes! it is true, how I wish I could do that.

My hosts, the wonderful Ivan and Purnima Lamech narrated me their experience with the family. With virtually no help, no understanding of the language they sourced the wood, tools and everything else on their own. Everyone wants to wash their meal plates and do not create a fuss about anything. They embarrass all by their courtesy. The only thing they brought from Australia is ten kilos of copper nails. Some tricks they learned here, for example the paste local boat-builders use to waterproof the spaces in the joints. A mixture of cow dung and akutra.

Wood for the boat is Malaysian Saku. It is available in Allahabad. For the ribs they have used white oak, which they bend in a steaming contraption.

They started building the boat on Nov 7 in the garage of Kanchan Villa. The hosts are very welcoming of the venture. They provided all the help they could so the family was not inconvenienced at any time. So often they remarked how these people are a source of inspiration for them. Difficulties are surmounted with dogged calmness. Eye for detail and cleanliness is exemplary and never was there any doubt in their mind that this could not be done.

Wood is bent and installed in a particular manner. It is called lap shake. Nails are not just hammered into the wood; a fine hole is drilled then it is punched through to be split into a rivet at the pointy end . All nails are copper. Some nuts and bolts used are in stainless steel.

This is how the boat is going to be when finished with a sail. Oh yes! the sail material is from Australia. The boat is called a ‘  Double Ender’. It is eighteen feet long.

Andrew is primarily a home builder. His son Rye makes guitars. They have a blog called sustainabletimberframes.com.

Their journey and endeavor is inspirational. I hope to catch up with them at the Kumbh. They are  here in India till the  7th of March.

This brings us back in the loop of purpose of life. Andrew and his family has spent its time and money on a project which will perhaps make them no profit. The boat is already donated to an organization in Allahabad. There is honesty in their temperament and purity in purpose. They resolved to do something which fulfilled them.

This blog entry might appear to cover two different purposes of existence, but a little contemplation shall reveal,it is essentially the same. To restore and maintain a vintage car is time and money consuming. Having a party as a ruse to show off the cars is a moment of celebration, much like the moment which Andrew and his family will have when they weigh anchor at the Ganges.

Cheers to all who chose to live…..

O’ Benares

O’ Benares, what have you done? I find myself helplessly trapped in your story, lost in your streets and consumed by  your fires.

I have seen a lot of you in photographs, in films,  have heard many  great men and storytellers; speaking of you as if you are heaven on earth. Many believe your waters will wash away their sins. Many hope you are the way to salvation. But none could prepare me in the manner you embellish yourself with life and death . O’ Benares your gaze is distant and your embrace cold, yet I wonder why I am drawn to you, wanting to curl up like a newborn at your feet or just bob silently as a carcass in your holy waters.

A student of Ustaad Bismillah Khan exclaimed  in frustration that his house is too small. “Please come with me to America”, he said, “You will be more comfortable there.”
To which the Ustaad replied, “Am I alone here? If you can carry my Ganga to America, or my Balajee Temple , I will come with you.”
A Benarasi’s  heart beats in rhythm with an ancient culture, its myths, its rulers and its history.This profound spirit swallows most travellers who visit it, even for a few days.

The Ganges flows in its air, it dyes its saris and colours its walls. It tells many stories,some as old as civilisation and on its baluster run the rails of the city’s life. Boatmen, weavers, pundits,Domes, musicians, philosophers,marauders, rulers  and many  wanderers are rendered as soft notes of  oars as you row in its water.

The ghats are the steps to realisation. Watching the river flowing from somewhere and spanning to a yonder horizon, beyond the city and beyond its bridges, you can easily believe that it is impossible to connect with such a vast entity. Then after a while its presence becomes as normal as your own. She is there, you are here and there is nothing more to it.

The Manikarnika Ghat is the most intriguing place by the river.This is where the deceased are cremated round the clock and the business of life conducted with an unimaginable nonchalance.

No one has the time to ruminate over life and loss. Children fly kites, cows amble around chewing on marigold flowers or just sit blankly.

Dogs look about their territory.People live, get ready for school, pray, converse, drink their tea,while small processions carrying the dead  chant ‘Ram naam satya hai’ (Name of the Lord is the only truth) while weaving through their midst.

Firewood is piled high all over the place.  Atmosphere stings the senses with acrid  smoke , aromas of burning flesh, wood and other condiments, engulfing you with  honest brutality  of existence .

The business of burning bodies at the ghat is sanctioned by a mythological story. A caste of people called Domes manage the burning ghat. Legend has it that a Dome king, many years ago bought Raja Harishchandra when all others refused.The great king then had to work on the funeral ground  to pay off his debt to the sage Viswamitra.  His wife and son were sold to a Brahmin. When a snake bite killed his son ; his wife brought his body to be cremated at the funeral ground. Harishchandra refused to complete the last rites as she did not have money to pay for it.The great king passed the test of righteousness on the shores of Ganges here while the Domes earned respect for helping Harishchandra.Since then the caste is regarded as the one which can be relied upon.

Most around the burning ghat, have glazed, deep yellow eyes. Effect of smoke perhaps, but remarkably clothes dry in the vicinity without any significant carbon deposit. Many use the charcoal of the funeral pyre as firewood for cooking or simply keeping warm. Some Sadhus dwell at the cremation ground. They are called Aghoris. Like Shiva they smear their bodies with the ashes of the deceased. I wasn’t fortunate to acquaint with one, but it is common to meet such people here.

The fire which burns the pyre has to be bought. It is centuries old and  immortal.

A hospice nearby hosts those who wish to die in Benares.

But the city  celebrates life in many  ways. It weaves exquisite silk fabric. The complexity of dobby and jacquard is one of the most difficult to understand, even for masters of textile design.Power looms have replaced hand operated ones and most of the silk yarn now is imported from Korea or China. Still, with such nontraditional methods one wants to see a Benarasi textile which looks like a Benarasi textile. Modernity cannot replace the flavour of this great city.

Outskirts have the malls and big retail shops. From mobiles, to burgers and Volkswagen; almost everything is available here.

As you near the ganges, the city transforms. Houses are different, colours are different, food is different and attires are different. Space is less and silence more. Everything is shared gracefully amongst humans, cows and dogs.

Walking the narrow streets leading to the shore of the Ganges, one realizes how life has a different notion here. No one is pushed. Almost all spend time generously on seemingly vacant philosophies.

It is  amazing how almost every old city in India has a heavy tail. A part of viscera which thankfully has not shrunk to the aesthetics of modern marketing and lifestyle.

Corners and walls are blessed by Gods or their problem solvers.

Or one sees a banner displaying sixty days of mourning after Mohurrum. This is at Ustaad Bismillah Khan’s residence at Daal Mandi.

I thought Benares will be a lot like Old Delhi, or somewhat similar to Haridwar. I was wrong. Streets of old Benares have a lot more colour ,are narrower and are much cleaner. It is far less commercial than Haridwar. People are used to prying photographers. Some ignore, some smile – trying to speak in English and some ask for money. For someone as swarthy as a typical  north Indian, I found it to my surprise that I was seen as a ‘foreigner’.

It is a photographer’s delight. Colours, textures, feelings, people, light and so much more make this an essential visual journey to accomplish. No wonder anyone covering India has to see this city.

As one nears the river, complexion of human interaction changes. I expected an aggressive hard sell of religion here. There are pestering boatmen, but they do not come at you as a swarm of wasps. Nor are there donation seekers or too many beggars. It is commercial in an understated manner, which was a surprise. One can sit by the riverside and watch.

Watch the river calling its children. Watch her children speak to her or simply see her drape around their wishes and sins with a timeless obduracy of faith in her own cleansing power .

The river has the power to turn everything into a surrealistically beautiful moment. It doesn’t matter whether it is a sunrise or a water burial of a baby.

I felt good that the river is revered as a supernatural force, a greater force. Whatever logic we may use to describe human behaviour, we cannot ignore the place of emotion in our lives.Ultimately it is a matter of the heart which makes this relationship so special.

Life begins early on the banks of Ganges. Hues of the mind easily distinguished by its involvement with light, space, spirit and  body.

Some are gentle, and others more vigorous.

This workout is called the ‘Pheri’, literally circumnavigation, which it is as the mace travels front and back of the body on both sides. I couldn’t figure out the logic of the movement as most effort involves control of motion relying on the object’s weight. The boy Chandan, has  tremendous concentration. For more than ten minutes he looked at the wall and did his Pheri. Later he expounded the benefits of exercise and celibacy to me.

 Some spend time generously on precise location of each hair blessed by their moustache.

Though it was mid December, activity around the river is maximum in the wee hours of the morning or late dusk. The place is painted  with  chirps of a variety of dialects and languages, sound of bells, instructions on a loudspeaker to yoga practitioners, singers or rattle from shaking bones of those brave enough to take a dip in the cold waters of the Ganges.

Afternoons are gentler in activity, where one finds tourists ambling and exploring the ghats. Life is simpler then as most natives recede to run their lives. It is the best time to just stare and ingest the presence of this great river. It is far less polluted than the Yamuna of our Delhi, and there is a massive campaign, imploring the visitors to keep it clean. The appeal has not fallen on entirely deaf ears.

Sun sets behind the city, turning most into colourless dark forms, ready to dissolve into the night. But wait! there is still a responsibility to thank the river.

I did not enjoy the aarti ( prayer ). Actually I have never enjoyed any aarti. This one however is an attempt at exaggerated gestures, with the wrists of the participants flowing in feminine movements. I can believe that they are trying to emulate the river. To me it appeared overly contrived.

One of the agendas was to taste typical Benarasi food. Breakfast is great, an ample serving of delicious pooris and subzi, served with a few hot jalebis. Good enough to last most of the day. This dish is consistently fantastic everywhere in the city and consistently cheap. For twenty bucks, one can be satiated till late afternoon. Another interesting thing is the Mallauaa. Best pronounced with your lower lip brimming with beetle soaked saliva. People claim to make it with dew drops and milk cream. The combination is whipped vigorously till it turns into a foam. So when you ingest Mallauaa, you feel nothing. It is as if you are eating air.

It is ten bucks worth of aerosolised milk cream. This particular flavour was special. Somewhat bitter, like that bitterness of nectar when you suck on a flower’s pedicel, but over all it is a sweet meat. Benarasi paan is another specialty. It is called Maghai paan technically and when you chew it, leaves no fibrous after bodies sticking in your teeth. I sampled sweet versions which were tender and luxurious. Most natives swallow it with beetle nut, lime and tobacco. Benarasis eat two kinds of kachauris. One eaten in the morning is called the Gudhri Kachauri. It is small ( looks like a dumpling), filled with masala lentil , and is served with a preparation of potatoes and black chick peas. The other is consumed in the evening and resembles the normal version we are accustomed to.

Four days spent at Benares, photography was a given. I expected to see somethings, but most came as a surprise. The spirit of the city is unimaginable and cannot be easily comprehended. Four days are not enough, maybe four lifetimes are, but even with its sang-froid welcome, Benares made me richer.

Like Yama, It discouraged me to ask certain questions, told me the futility of even knowing those answers. But as you walk on the shores of the great river, either you wonder how you have deserved to experience the sensation or simply thank whatever force you believe in for being blessed at that moment.

Honestly, I was pretty overwhelmed in four days and just wanted to fly back home to my family. I rubbed and washed , tried to drink and sleep the sensations away. It was not to be, I was born there but strangely it was my first visit and as a turtle who reaches the place of its birth to procreate, I too have a calling to get there again.I’ll see her now in other seasons.

Till we meet again Benares.

Sweet Light of December

Winter  is here and she has brought gold to sprinkle in the morning. Never mind the smog which hit us in November, it was just a passing mood, reminding us that nothing is permanent other than the grace of benevolent mother.

This joy is shared by all. Dew drops brush your feet and suddenly you find there is hardly a shadow worth seeking. The bush and the bough entice with their drawings, but  this is the time to enjoy open light.

For photographers it is paradise. After the ordeal of summer, finally we can wake up late and still float in the ‘golden hour’.

The temptation to hoot inside the tunnel persists,  for everything I say is much louder between walls. There was a nest of wasps here and they didn’t bother anyone going through. Someone has burnt it now to banish them somewhere else. I hope they are safe and sound.

Mustard is still two months away from harvest, now it looks as if its beautiful flowers are rolled along with the morning light as millions of yellow dice on the board. The pocked, scratched and weathered Peepul must be happy to see the spectacle from above. I’m sure it has seen many a season of mustard grow under its parasol and has not tired of it.

It is cool, but not cold enough to wear pants, though I prefer to stick with convention.

There is still half of December left and I hope to see most of it in a gold day dream and  make use of it to the fullest. It is inspiring, fulfilling and illuminating. Thank you December for your lovely light.

Life in Bhogipura

I heard a bystander demonstrate to his friend excitedly how my remote flash worked when I fired the camera. “This box lights up here and that thing (referring  to the flash) barks over there.” It quite beautifully summed up the great divide between Delhi and Bhogipura. A camera is a camera in Delhi and so far no one has called it a box. A flashlight fires here while it barks there. Bhogipura is a part of old Agra, barely five kilometers from the tomb of Akbar at Sikandra which is a major tourist destination and thirteen kilometers from India’s most modern super highway, yet it appears to be stuck in its own phlegm, refusing to be inspired by the desire to know and want more.

Early in the morning black smoke rises from some households. These people are called ‘Bhadbhoojas’. They run kilns fired by trash to roast variety of stuff including gram and lentils.

Goats yawn and stretch themselves on rooftops while pigeons take an aerial survey of the place and flutter back to their masters diligently.

As the sun rises, so does the traffic and the call from many a three-wheeler driver imploring probable customers to pack-in. Vehicles labor heavily carrying more than ten people when they are designed to carry three.

Life has begun at Bhogipura. But a walk in the street also displays an idyllic scene. People throng tea shops and sip it very slowly.Conversations are long and animated.Men sit by the roadside, still in their night clothes and engrossed in discussions, while women can be seen working the household.

Later along with the heat rise the decibels of sound from the road. Honking gets continuous, denser and desperate as the day progresses .Soon, Bhogipura becomes an opera of the chaotic absurd.

Respite comes very late in the evening. This is when men grace beetle leaf shops, smoke, and overcome the stresses of the day watching little TV sets tucked in a corner. Mongrels defeated by difficulties of territorial assignments slink away to darkness. Those who have weathered favorably are usually caked in sewer solids, having spent the day cooling off victoriously in that pool. A spark on the electric wire above reveals the right which an ordinary Bhogipuran claims on the use of free energy. He has laid on a wire, a hook to steal electricity. Power meters are installations of modern era and that era began barely three months ago. No surprise that many a native has not accepted this fashion trend yet.

Before you assume that there is resident madness in Bhogipura’s walnut, I must admit that so far the description has been one sided. Despite the nonchalance of its inhabitants, they have a remarkable tolerance to the state and sweat of another human being. A Bhogipuran can spit on another’s foot without offending him. He can talk in a seemingly rude manner and is responded to matter of factly. He will honk, push, cite an expletive and the reaction he gets from his comrade is of a deaf man who walks in another direction when called.

I wonder whether the Bhogipuran is justified in his behavior. This is his world and he has inherited it from his parents and family. Electronic and print media gives him ample choice to dip into a universe of personal reckoning but to an outsider like me, he is wearing a hat too big which has covered his eyes and ears. But does he need an alternative when he is already comfortable? And what is this alternative? Duran Duran? Two and a Half Men? Clean and quite roads? Electric meters? I think not. In my restless frustration with the native I do not fail to notice the calm with which he strides the eight hours of power cut. In a similar situation I have complained, cursed and wished that I were not born in India. For a Bhogipuran,however, it is one of the natural phenomenons.It also does not matter to him how his music system sounds, neither do his teeth’s appearance after years of chewing gutka. This is the style of Bhogipuran substance.

Like most old areas of a city, Bhogipura is an eclectic place. Shops sell a lot of new stuff but many are still seeped in tradition. Eateries are of an old style where some of them use firewood and coal for cooking. Jewelry outlets are the best lit, dazzling the street with their gold and silver. Clothes and sari shops add color and then there are ‘Pansaris’ . These along with the eateries are amongst the oldest in the area.Pansaris are general merchants, but with a slight difference. They stock all kinds of prayer condiments besides spices and everything else.

My host is pretty well off. He has lived his life in Bhogipura and never bothered to venture out too far to see anything else. Even by big city standards he has done pretty well for himself, yet he has refused to spend money on simple necessities of life. An electric inverter is useless and a refrigerator unnecessary. Television was bought in the late eighties and there is no vehicle in the house, but it was important to spend a lot of money on his maid’s wedding which included a substantial amount of dowry.

Perhaps we, the children of neo-consumerism don’t understand the joy of accumulated money in the bank.

My host’s house is right at the convergence of two roads. So it’s skin rubs a public scene of whatever I have described before. Inside though, is a very different atmosphere. People hardly speak with each other and go about doing their job quietly and efficiently. There is no pressure or compulsion to shout or make a noise about anything. Acceptance of life is staggering. A cat has adopted the home and brought her five kittens to live here. She is fed adequately with a meal of chapattis and milk, duly churned in a mixture-grinder.

A mongrel uses the house as a passage way. She enters the premises from the roof, jumping over other houses to find a way to the main street outside.

The door barring the staircase has to be opened when she declares her presence with a yelp. So even if it is two am or three in the afternoon, someone gets up and quietly opens it for her so she can trot majestically to the door opening into the alley.
Teetu jeweler from across the street had sweet meats made for her when she conceived. A chai wallah always spares milk for her. It seems she is not the only mongrel given this treatment. All the dogs in the area look healthy and well fed.

Five times in a day the muezzin of the mosque next door clears his throat before blaring the prayers for the faithful from a dented loudspeaker. In between from somewhere, a group of ladies sing out-of-tune aartis. A Kali  temple nearby has a lovely Peepul tree which sieves afternoon light into mantic, piercing shafts.

Another temple in a quieter corner of Bhogipura has little tombs of saints. It is believed that spirits of these holy men visit the temple. The narrator of this tale firmly believes that no one can sleep in the courtyard at night. A gentleman who later joined the conversation dismissed it by saying that times have changed and since there are too many people around, the saints have left.

It appears that our country lives in many layers. The top most which is internationally well connected, does hard-sell of its lifestyle through media and other means.Its temptations and snares do manage to drag many into its fold, but others, are laid heavy by their history and attitudes. Fairer skin, softer soaps, faster cars, smarter phones are not this layer’s prerogative,but unfortunately, neither is basic civic sense. The problem is of trust. Most semi-urban India is typically Bhogipuran by nature and any change expected of them is treated with suspicion and considered supercilious.

But what is the need for change. I don’t believe in change, but I have faith in evolution. Three days at Bhogipura left me confused.I found Bhogipuran quite evolved in his acceptance and tolerance, yet in so many ways he has a major journey to complete. If he were not to honk, spit, shout, abuse, litter and steal electricity, I would rate him as the most evolved human in India. Is it asking too much of him ? In his typical style he will ask  why should he make such a sacrifice, he knows his way very well…..

Journey Together

Loss is a trigger which unfairly labels life as a series of freaky incidents. Recently one of my dearest buddy Newton passed away, leaving me dazed , deceived and disillusioned . Despite having people who love me dearly, I felt extremely lonely.But optimism prevailed and reminded me of the time when someone new entered my life and changed it for the better .  One vivid memory which I wish to share is the birth of my son Prithvi, three and a half years ago. It was when Mumbai was attacked by terrorists in the November of 2008.

I was whiling away time having masala chai at the hospital cafeteria slowly and anxiously since my wife Sudipta was in the operation theater. News channels were flashing the latest on the terror attacks. It was the the fourth day and operations  in Mumbai were drawing to a close. Over a hundred and seventy lives lost and here we were at the Max Super specialty hospital, Saket, New Delhi, awaiting the arrival of another. There was too much confusion on the state of the baby and its due date that we decided for a caesarian birth. I was worried for Sudipta. I hoped that she will not suffer needlessly and it will be a quick procedure .

People entered the hospital lobby purposefully and disappeared in its caves pretty rapidly. Some emerged from its cavernous insides to leave and loiter. I ate an apple pie with my tea. The aroma of fresh bakes was too hard to resist.Then I decided to complete my breakfast with a cheese omelet pizza. It was seven in the morning and there was no knowing when my life will settle itself for the day. The Pizza was too hot for me to enjoy.  I finished it nevertheless and decided to wait for Sudipta in the room. On my way, the guard at the elevator nodded as if congratulating me for a good meal. I couldn’t tell if his generosity made me happier as I was transmitting myself from an aromatic universe to one blessed with a sanitizer. Doors closed and the pungency of the germicides quickly engulfed me in that steel cage traveling to the third floor. As usual I glanced up and watched the numbers change from 1,S,2,3 and then heard that robotic Japanese announce the arrival of my destination.I strode towards the nursing station to pick up the room keys while admiring a black & white picture of a twisted rope hung on the wall.

“Sir! your  baby has come.” The nurse declared as soon as I drew close.

“So soon?! ” I blurted, not realizing that it may have sounded a bit odd to the other person. I mean, I had just finished a cup of tea, an apple pie and a pizza. Well! things happen fast. Looking back, it was just nine months. Sudipta grew big, had nausea, took this folic acid and that argenine and had to go through uncomfortable examinations at the hands of a garrulous  Bengali gynecologist. Everything is over now. Someone is already here. I don’t know whether it is a boy or a girl. I don’t know whether it is fair or dark. I don’t know what to do.

I am told to go to the I.C.U. The lobby guard stops me and inquires about my intentions. I tell him I was here to have a look at my baby. He plucks a sheet of paper and asks me to fill in my wife’s name. Then he goes through a list and declares there was no baby of Sudipta Dubey.

I am relieved. To reconfirm I go to the nursing station and am promptly sent back with the reaffirmation that the baby has indeed arrived. The guard relented and asked me to don a shoe cover and a flimsy apron. I could go inside and have a look. Inside there is another nursing station and a sprawling array of nests taking care of some dozen odd infants. The ambient temperature is a strange comfortable warm. I nervously tell one of the nurses that I believe my baby has arrived.

“What is the patient’s name?” She says in that same Japanese robotic baritone. The question irritates me. Sudipta is not ailing. She is not a patient.Nevertheless I cite my wife’s name. She confirms and leads to me a nest, nay a bay. In that bay, a little creature is squirming and making faces. Its eyes roll occasionally, fists are clenched with great might. Then it releases the tension, extends its fingers almost like talons, curls them again catching something imaginary and pulling it towards itself. I look around at the rest of the landscape. Every one of those infants is sleeping soundly. I look at the nurse who I presume was looking at me closely.
“What is it?” I realize that I am trembling. Some moments of lovemaking flash across my mind. Which one resulted in bringing this odd hairy creature into this world?. Meanwhile the nurse proceeds to determine the gender by uncovering the baby’s loin. There is a label attached to its bay. It says B.O. Sudipta. Male. 2.845 Kg.

Incredible! He is here, out of Sudipta’s tummy. He has kicked her from inside, made her sick and gave her so much pain. From me he stole a fun, beer loving companion and turned her into a mother. I stand mesmerized, wondering whatever is going on inside that little head and why is his back so hairy? What is that little black patch on his arm?Oh! and they have put a blue plastic clipper on his navel. There’s a green stem sticking out from under the clipper. His head is a little big for his body, his skin is full of wrinkles. Will he, when he grows up, wear a white lungi, have a pot belly and scratch his back with a Janeau? Will he sport a mustache? Will he become a chartered accountant? I am afraid of the future. He is busy moving his arms, this time trying to pull an imaginary rope towards himself. His face is full of scary expressions. I do not have an urge to pick him up yet am in a crazy space,aware that he is a part of my flesh and bones.

His head looks a bit lopsided. Larger at the back than the front. Is that normal? The chin is nonexistent, but he appears to be fair in complexion. He has nipples too, but faint. Does he look like me? He doesn’t look like either of us. He looks like E.T.

I wonder whether Sudipta is back.Is she OK? Does she know how to handle him? Will she know how to feed him? Look at his mouth, it resembles a blob of water struggling to keep it together on an unstable surface. How will that help in suckling his mother?

I look beyond the bay, out through the window. The city is awake to its compulsions. Inside it is quite, out there must be a world of mind numbing noise. Rumbling, tumbling, hissing and grinding, generating heat, kicking dust, fighting to keep itself going. Looky here mateys, another bird has landed for you to fit somewhere. He can have pakoras while overseeing digging of a tube-well. He could learn to sing and dance. He might make a lot of money or win the U.S open. I notice flats with black propylene water tanks dotting the landscape. He could worry himself by climbing the roof to check whether there is water in his tank or not.

How will he live differently? What will I ‘allow’? What will I refuse? What will I let go? How will he handle freedom and how will he handle constraints? I turn away from such thoughts and stride out of the I.C.U.

In our room they wheeled Sudipta in a little later. I feel helpless and impotent. An hour ago they took her away, plucked our child out like some vestigial fruit and now are depositing her back. She is not allowed to eat or drink. They sustain her through a thin plastic pipe. “How are you?” That must be the silliest question. She must be confused too.Has she seen the child? Then she said that he cried out loud as soon as they took him out.

That is the most appropriate response for this world.

Then a nurse brought Prithvi in his bay. We look at him as if observing some archeological artifact. The bed sheet is green and his coppery,pale skin shines through it. The doctor walks in and gives us a demonstration in handling of the baby. He warns us to never let the railing of the bay down as the baby can roll over to the floor. Then Prithvi farts. There is some more rumble inside his little tummy. Things are buzzing there, trying to express themselves in this world. Little Prithvi is like the earth. The center of his being is fluid and active and the outside is quivering, manipulating the many fractured expressions of his experience with life.

Like a journey into an unknown land, my time with Prithvi has its weather and other discoveries. I can predict very little of his nature. In the the last three and a half years, his taste of music has changed from Black Sabbath and Steely Dan to Rabindra Sangeet. He dislikes chocolates and loves peanut butter. He has stopped crying at school. The world seems to be bringing him in. How long and how far will he hold himself, I don’t know.

Life appears to be an aggregation of accomplished milestones, but not all the milestones are of our own bidding. A lot is mystery unraveled, something one can never really be prepared for. One has to deal with as it comes. Like profit and loss.

Newton is gone. I can feel his presence in my breath and on my lips. When I lie on the bed, I don’t miss him at my feet. He is so ubiquitous.Now Frodo is here. Little creature filling big space. Jumping, playing,squealing,scratching and biting. Whenever he wants he graces our life with leaks and poops. And we are happy, carrying on. Who amongst us could have predicted that day when Newton left  and who could tell the character which is there now. Life has such ways to take away and give back. It introduces us to different flavors. We only have to say ‘Yes’.

Newton

I feel helplessly blank now that you’re gone. Not a tear has fuzzed my sight.

I know you’re there,waiting for me to come home and how you will not let me climb the stairs till you have your kisses. You are a part of my soul; so how can I cry because I cannot smell your ears, bite your cheeks or hug you till we both fall asleep? How can I cry for my favorite pillow which is gone?

The next time I go for a walk to the park, I’ll hear your footsteps under the Amaltaas and under the bougainvillea.I’ll search for those eyes waiting for me to catch up and I’ll thank the Universe that we had such a time together.

You were there, we were together , when I painted. Sometimes you rolled over the paints, carrying their color and everyone else made fun of you. Then we loved the ripples of your soft skin when we tried to take it off .

The songs which I sing for you, now no one else can hear. They will fill my heart whenever you visit me. I know this time when the Jacaranda blooms we will hear the song of its trumpet together.

Why should I mourn? You and I are meant to be together in some ways or the other.

Other lives, other worlds and other creatures

What do you do when your friends speak a language which you don’t understand? Play along ? Keep asking the obvious repeatedly and irritating them? Yes I did, and shamelessly,but what are friends for if they don’t tell you which one is a nuthatch or what is a Verditer?

White Tailed Nuthatch – Joydev

Five days spent with friends who are passionate birders taught me a lot.  It was a journey into a territory of which I had an idea but knew little about. I love animals, perhaps more than  humans but the trip revealed how much more an involvement is required to truly call yourself even a hobbyist in this field. I also experienced the challenges of bird photography. This genre has a language and grammar which cannot be compared with other forms of documentary photography. The equipment is heavier and costlier too.

Both the friends are not professional photographers. Ishmeet is from Pune. He is an engineer and an industrialist. Joydev is from Delhi and works in the treasury department of GE Capital and when they get together, it is mostly about bird photography that they talk. Not that they don’t have other interests, but somehow their souls respond eagerly to the sight and call of birds. I must admit that I was taken by surprise with the commitment and passion which they have for their craft. One good example I can give you is that Ishmeet came armed with an i-pod full of bird calls. He uses these sounds to draw the bird out into open so he can take their pictures. Often the two of them would travel to far reaches of the country for a picture of an elusive specie. Time, temperature, altitude and comfort has little meaning in their quest. Honestly before this experience, I had an impression that part time photographers like them were like sahibs brandishing exotic cameras and lenses to pursue an expensive hobby. Far from it, these guys are crazy to the bone. Caring little about their backs or limbs, they carry the very heavy equipment to the very edge of a calamity for a picture of a little brown bird which you and I would not even notice in the first place.

Ishmeet handed me his Canon 40D straddled with a 400mm f5.6 lens to take some bird pictures of my own. This was the first time I had an experience with this focal length. Everything, including the immovable is extremely nervous and fidgety in the frame at 400mm.To make matters worse  you try to see a little bird which moves around as if it is powered with short sharp jabs of electricity.

oops!

One of my efforts

Meanwhile these guys were happily firing away with a 500mm extended to 700mm with a 1.4x tele-convertor. Agreed! a lot has to do with equipment but to make it useful is still an art which requires a lot of practice and patience.

Birding goes beyond photography too. Here it merges with other forms of documentary work. Knowing one’s subject is an important part of the process. These guys can tell the difference between a small Niltava and the Rufous Bellied one in a glance.I believe their spare time is spent studying species. In less than an hour spent with them, I found how woeful my memory is. Time and again I asked for the obvious. Out of the forty odd species spotted, I could retain perhaps three by the end of the trip. This despite making a conscious effort to keep up with them.

We started at 3.30am from Delhi. Joy had some lovely music recorded for us on CDs. There were some hard to find old numbers from the ‘Scaffolds’.  We had a happy journey due to the music. The roads are not bad and  we made it to our destination in good time, well before the arrival of the open Gypsy hired by Joy for birding.

Pangot is a small village, fifteen kilometers from Nainital. It has a population of about seven hundred. A thick forest of Oak and Rhododendron overlooks the village. At 6000ft above sea level, the place is fairly chilly even in May. The first thing which strikes when you descend from your car is the silence. Lack of sound, rather the noise is the biggest indicator of your space-time shift. Suddenly thoughts are louder and you wish them away. Call of a bird, deep from the jungle is heard effortlessly. Bark of a dog or the grind of an occasional vehicle jolt you from the soporific effects of peace. Then slowly, the vast valley and the undulating mountains in front creep up closer while  the sky rushes forth to ensconce you with its clarity.Later the quality of  sunlight finally reminds you that you are far away from your city.

View from Pangot.

We checked into the Jungle lore Birding lodge. A well built, comfortable place to stay. The dining area is cosy and has many prints of miniature bird paintings done by Mughal master painters . Instead of rooms there are cottages, which are large and well equipped. We settled quickly. Ishmeet and Joy wasted no time in assembling their equipment and acquainted themselves with the appointed guide, Mr Llama Singh.

That it was not a holiday sojourn for my two friends became immediately clear by the urgency with which we had breakfast. No loitering around or soaking the morning sun.Camera, lens,tripod all was out in a matter of minutes and soon I found myself in a group peering in the local bushes for a specie or two. The gypsy had not arrived but we decided to walk on towards the jungle for the shoot. Llama Singh would occasionally point toward the trees, asking us to navigate between the thicker and thinner branches or to their left or right, beneath the clump of leaves or some knot in the wood to locate a little bird.

Soon our relationships were more precisely defined. The following is the most common conversation which I would start in a typical manner,

“Where, where?”

“There, in that branch over there”

“Where? which branch.”

“That one over there. Can you see that crooked stem. Come down from it and then to that tree behind it, there the big branch, go to its left. See that little blue bird.”

I strain my eyes, try to negotiate the branches and still ask the question

“Where?”

By this time I notice that the two of them are already deep into their cameras firing away at 10 frames a second. I  align my sight with their lenses to finally see a little blue bird minding its business far in the foliage.

“What is it?”

“Asian Verditer Flycatcher”

I get the reply from somewhere within the mass of metal and shutter snap. So to get a better glimpse of that blue speck, I raise the 400mm lens only to discover that I am more lost than ever. The picture in the frame is moving fast and nowhere near a semblance of a bird. All I manage to see is a blur of leaves and stalk. After a few tries, I give up. There are other things to see , let the experts handle the birds and I will  look at the broader picture. The forest was buzzing with the cacophony of cicadas, bird calls and you might find it strange, the fast sketch of light and shadows. Yes I can hear the music of light. Soon I found myself training that long lens on the ground and elsewhere. I saw dancers, watchmen, bloodstains, jesters and funny bairds in a friendly melee.Scattered clouds in the sky were repeatedly plunging everything in darkness adding to the drama of this sylvan stage.

The Eyelid

Sacrifice

Curtain Rises

Impressions

Then some commotion.A Himalayan woodpecker graced the stage. The lovely bird  repeatedly disappeared behind a bough and then showed itself  briefly to provoke  firing of overexcited camera shutters. It was also my first experience watching cameras being used like a high speed sewing machine.

Himalayan Woodpecker- Joydev

The gypsy finally appeared. It was summoned from the Corbett National Park. It is an open vehicle suitably modified for viewing wildlife.I sat at the front while my friends adjusted themselves with their equipment at the back. The engine of the jeep was in the last throes of its life. Piston rings especially the oil control ones must have thrown the towel six months ago so she ran with a cough and sputter. Fortunately its gearbox was in a good condition, for most of the time in it was spent in the first and reverse . The communication with its driver Pramod went like this..

“Slow…slow…slow…stop”

“Move a little back.”

“More?”

“Stop..move a little forward.” The jeep will move a couple of paces, then..

“Stop.. go back a little…stop…what is that?”

Pramod is a patient man. No questions asked, just kept moving his battered beast back and forth. The moment it stopped a mass of  emanated fuel and oil vapor would catch up with us. I offended the driver more once by asking whether the jeep can make up the next climb. It hurt me to see a creature so badly treated. But for the fuel gauge nothing in the dashboard was functional. The plastics resembled the skin of a man who decided to end his life by overdosing on gunpowder.

The usual suspects with our guide.

It was a fruitful morning for my friends. A surprise was in store for me when we stopped by at the local grocer to buy fifteen kilos of rice grain. It was bought with a buy back agreement from the shopkeeper. The rice was to fill four odd U shaped bags. The bags then were slung over at appropriate places of the gypsy for the long lenses to rest. Quite ingenious! The bags were designed by Ishmeet and were pretty well crafted.

Evening in Pangot had some of the most lovely warm orange light. Rims of leaves were lit in bright gold, while the rest illumined like a bright idea. The contrast and the shadows filled my cup of joy. I did take a few pictures of birds but soon got distracted with the play of light.

Wild Flowers

Fairy

Conversations at the dinner table revolved around what was achieved and what remained. Ishmeet was totally focused on birds while Joydev had many questions for me. He was intrigued by what I was interested in. Frankly I was in many minds. Watching avid bird photographers at work was fascinating but was coming to some conclusions about this kind of photography on my own. My day was spent trying to create narratives, looking for metaphors and allegories. Some were successful, some fell flat.

The Plunge

The next day I decided to use my camera and completely alienate myself from bird photography.

Our guide was using a small flute like instrument to make a bird call. It would invariably agitate the birds above. On inquiry, I was told that the particular call was of a Collared Owlet. Birds sensing danger will stick together and not fly here and there. It becomes easier to take their pictures this way.

 Collared Owlet

The real bird is not much bigger than what you see in this picture!

My photography centered around textures, crests, crevices and shadows. The one thing which frustrates me is the wide gap between feelings and expression. Somethings are exciting, call to me optimistically but later,were lost completely in the frame. The expression just could not stand up to what I had felt at that time. I guess it is a personal struggle. I am becoming better at the process of elimination right at the stage of shutter release but have a long way to go yet.

Ballerina

March

Weather played truant right through. Clouds threatened the day but later cleared to let us take pictures. We had started early and saw the sun peep through cloud cover in a magnificent display of God Rays.

Boon

We sighted Himalayan Griffins basking on a precipice. They are big vultures, so need a thermal up draft to climb and soar. The cloud cover had them incapacitated as far as flight was concerned.

Himalayan Griffin-Ishmeet

Eurasian Jays evaded picture taking by mischievous hide and seek, I think they got pictures of Blue Rock Thrush, a White Throated Laughing Thrush , a Rufous Sibia, a Blue winged Minla and a Grey Bushchat amongst others. The amazing thing is that I’ve been to the mountains so often and never noticed these birds. To see them one simply has to stop….and look. They are there, happily living in the trees by the roadside.  A wealth of beauty for anyone who cares to slow down.

Grey Bushchat

Ultramarine flycatcher- Joydev

Rufous Bellied Woodpecker-Joydev

It was the end of trip for Joy, for he and his wife had to reach Delhi by next morning. The two days which he spent with us, he made full use of, by shooting from dawn to dusk. Only an hour of lunch break was the luxury availed, other than that all the time was spent in the pursuit of birds large and small. Ishmeet was no different, right up with Joy in intent and enthusiasm.

It rained quite a bit at night. Cleared for a while then rained again. Ishmeet was hoping that we will have a clear day the next morning as it was time to capture the Koklass pheasant. It is a shy and a regal bird. Normally is seen by the roadside early in the morning. Much of these sightings are a matter of chance. The bird might simply decide not to make the appearance or might have no business to cross the road. One of Ishmeet’s friend had come from Goa with his family. A bird photographer of good repute, Sandesh Dhareshwar had run into some great luck with the Koklass. This made Ishmeet even more enthusiastic ( and anxious ) to make some good pictures.

Clouds, wind and an oppressive eight degree temperature made the morning quite a handful for photography. Ishmeet was undaunted. He was not going back without the Koklass. The gypsy had gone back, so we were in our car. Slowly we made into the forest. Then all of a sudden I hear Mr Llama Singh cry..

“Sir! Stop”

I’m with the usual “Where?”

“There by the road”

“Where?”

Again my second question was ignored, Ishmeet was already pointing his lens towards some bushes. I drew the imaginary line from the lens to the ground to catch a glimpse of the bird. The bird is well camouflaged, just its head is a deep violet which makes it identifiable.

Koklass Pheasant- Ishmeet

The bird vanished soon enough. The guide called it from his mobile phone. I am not joking. He has these bird calls on his mobile  and simply puts them on the speaker. So the Koklass was called, it replied but remained discreetly hidden from the view for the rest of the morning. Ishmeet got a few shots at crazy ISOs and even after chasing its call for the better part of the day, it remained elusive.But later we were blessed with the lovely flight of the spot winged tit. A little black bird which had made a nest in a wall by the roadside. The couple would survey the landscape from atop a neighboring tree then one of them would dive with its wings plastered on its side and  at the nick of time, control the fall with a brief flap, rise for a while to repeat the dive again. The whole pattern of the flight resembled a hem of an arched crochet table cover.Light was good by this time and I believe Ishmeet got a few good shots of this lovely bird.

We headed towards Sat-tal after the morning session. Sat-tal stands for seven lakes. It is a place vehemently protected from the hustle bustle and rampant commercialization. One simply doesn’t expect a place so sylvan and serene barely three kilometers from a scene full of hoardings and vehicles caught in a traffic jam.

Bird’s eye view of Garud Tal

We checked into the Sat-tal birding lodge and soon after lunch were ready for a shoot. Weather was playing hide and seek again. The afternoon had some thunder threatening clouds, but we were undaunted. I busied myself with taking pictures of the lakes, tourists, tea and food stalls and later joined Ishmeet at the jungle to take pictures of leaves, water and other foliage.

Things to do besides birding

At Sat-tal the first major pursuit was for a crested Kingfisher by the banks of the Cha-fee river ( it is pronounced like this, I am not sure of the spelling). The guide spotted the first one sitting far away on a high tension wire. As usual it took me quite a while to locate it. It was too far even for a 700mm focal length.We negotiated the river bank, water and some rocks to reach a spot where we could see a bird basking in sunshine. It seemed oblivious to our presence but Ishmeet was very careful not to disturb it with sudden movements. So like a foot soldier  he moved on his elbows and knees, stealthily to reach a vantage point for a good shot.I think he was happy with the results. The Kingfisher meanwhile yawned, spread its wings and continued with its siesta. A couple of elegant Red-billed Blue magpies descended to investigate us. These are some of the most languid and graceful creatures I’ve seen. With an attitude of an over affected opera singer, their flight and demeanor is unhurried. The way they sat and the way they took off seemed as if they have perfected the art of existence itself. I was very glad to meet them and want to be like a Red-billed blue magpie in this life.

For a little White capped Water Red-start, we negotiated steep descent, boulders, human feaces and flies to reach a brook where one expects to see the tiny brown fuzzball. Finally we managed to spot two children and their mother. Father was reclusive and I was promised a grander sight if we managed to spot him.  Llama Singh wondered whether he has been eaten by something bigger. Looking at the size of the bird, a common crow could swallow a couple of them like vitamins to start his day . However to our delight we managed to see him a little distance away. He is just a little larger and has a spot of red on his tail . Then a very similar bird appeared and it was pointed that this one was a Plumbeus Water Red Start. Frankly it was Greek & Latin to me. I hope for all the effort Ishmeet  got some good pictures. We searched for a Spotted Forktail high and low, but to no avail but got a glimpse of a Brown Dipper. This innocuous bird had Ishmeet all excited. I wondered how nature has created creatures which look like nothing and then some which are so beautiful that you can’t take your eyes off of them. The Dipper looked like nothing, just a face in the crowd, but my friend was very eager to get its picture. The Dipper dipped behind all sorts of rocks to elude us as if it were the most regal sight in the world.

Plumbeous Water Red Start- Ishmeet

I did not accompany Ishmeet for the afternoon session but explored the nearby landscape. A large part of Sat-tal belongs to a Christian Ashram. One of the reasons the area is protected from commercial marauders. I walked to the ashram from our camp to experience the beautiful evening . Light was exquisite. Mountains were at peace and leaves happy. The jungle whispered stories and memories which a mild breeze carried  from near and far. Sitting on a cement bench, facing the sunset and hearing everything the jungle had to say, I missed my wife and son, I missed my parents and I remembered Juhi, my long gone dachshund. The atmosphere was that of a longing and a reminder that each instant we can be alone, but it is our relationships which define us. I meditated at the grave of E. Stanley Jones, founder of the ashram and felt the love of his spirit and the gratitude which the woods have for him.

Theater

Destinations

Song

I took some pictures, found some symbols, some directions, captured a sentence or two and walked back to the lodge with my mind in waves.

Way

Revelation

The next morning was spent in the pursuit of Spotted Forktail. We pulled up next to the Kainchi Dham temple. Apparently its layout resembles a pair of scissors. The forktail is a lovely black and white bird with a rotund white belly. It was early morning and we were in the shadows so the atmosphere had a blue hang to it. The bird was spotted in the brook which ran next to the temple. Ishmeet wasted no time to descend into the rocky littoral. He got some good pictures.

Spotted Forktail- Ishmeet

Above the bank, from where I had watched the proceedings, I saw children coming from within the forest to go to school. Most were accompanied by their fathers. I was happy for my country. As long as education is considered important, there is hope. Sometimes when I see filth and squalor I get terribly pessimistic, but watching many a child go past in neat and well ironed school uniforms made my morning. I was optimistic and blessed those children and their families with good wishes. The morning turned out well for all of us. Ishmeet got some great pictures of the Small Niltava. Now these birders value eye level shots.Pictures of  birds above on the branches are considered poor. The little bird graced the ground on which we stood and benevolently gave good pictures for some time before it found some other matters to attend to.

Small Niltava- Ishmeet

Sat-tal gave me a glimpse of the most beautiful bird I’ve seen so far. The Long Tailed Minivet. By a glimpse, I mean just a glimpse. It didn’t stay at the tree perch for long. Like a little flame flickering, it came to sight and disappeared in a flash. The colors of the adult are deep scarlet and black. Juveniles are a flaming orange . As they grow older, their feathers change colors. Amazing how creatures are ‘programmed’ to appear. Is genetic code like a program? I wonder if the ‘Matrix’ has revealed some of the most compelling philosophy of modern time.

long tailed Minivet Male-Ishmeet

There is a stream at Sat-tal, actually stream is being very kind to its size and flow, more like a trickle of water leaking from a small water source but it creates a wealth of pictures for birders. Enterprising guides have planted a few twigs on the bank of the stream. A wide variety of birds come to drink water and invariably end up sitting on the twigs, giving a great view of the proceedings to the photographers. Its a funny sight. On one end you see the photographer sitting on the ground quietly taking pictures and on the other his guide is rolling on grass listening to songs on his mobile. It is when the guide has to take rest, he brings the photographer to this picture heaven and is relieved of his duty. Birds of all kinds keep the photographer busy for hours on end.

Whiskered Yuhina- Ishmeet

A bird which I could not see but hear too well intrigued me. It was  the Wedge-tailed Green Pigeon which went on and on with its complex long note. Its flute like contralto filled space like a sad song does in an inebriated mind. Believe me, I’ve seen many a drunk get sentimental over sad Hindi songs and this pigeon’s call creates exactly the same atmosphere. Time and again it appeared as if saying,”I’ll wait for you forever and ever.”

This show I won’t forget for a long time. I’ve been to Sat-tal many times but have been ignorant of its avian wealth . I love the place for its serenity but now I’ll have another reason to visit it again and again.

I would love to own a long lens and do some bird photography ( It is very expensive) even though I enjoy what I’m doing at the moment . Birding and wildlife photography has a language of its own. It will take me many years to learn it and then create a personal narrative. But even if I don’t get to take pictures of these lovely creatures, it will be fun to savor the company of my crazy friends whose commitment I admire. So don’t forget to invite me for your next outing folks.

The Gul and the Jac

Whether Solar flares will end the world in 2012, I know not, but this has been the best year I’ve experienced so far, in the last five.

Over four years ago I noticed the little violet flowers from outside my studio window. I pointed it out to my Labrador Newton who always accompanied me during my painting sessions. He replied with ,”what is the big deal? “, and then looked outside with enthusiasm, may be for a crow or a squirrel scurrying on the many wires outside, but ignored the flowers completely. At that time I did not know what tree it was. For me it was the sad tree with little violet flowers which looked like trumpets. The sight prompted  me to pull out a bottle of strong beer and put Pink Fllyod’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ on the stereo to complete the atmosphere. I don’t remember whether the sad tree, music and beer made me happy, but the moment like the furrows on Newton’s forehead remain deeply etched in my memory. My studio is now at a larger place. It has more light and a grand Peepul now overlooks the windows instead of the sad tree which I now know is the Jacaranda.

In our colony all trees lose their sheen and color on dry days. There is so much dust that their leaves look like badly powdered performer of a cheap drama. Come a shower and every sentinel of the colony is caparisoned in its natural glory. A friend had commented that Delhi does not have enough variety of trees. Just outside my home at GK 2 are Saptparnis, Gulmohar, Jacaranda and a  Silver oak.A royal Semal  is just down the road. Another end has numerous white Firangipanis besides, the Amaltas . Neem is so ubiquitous that it is hardly worth mentioning. There is another sapling making its presence and it has found a home in the bosom of the Jacaranda.

A Peepul is growing right out from the stem of the big tree.

The Jacaranda is sad. It has been hacked quite a bit to ensure a regular supply of electricity to my air-conditioners. I think in pain and protest, it refused to flower in the last four years. I missed those lovely flowers and felt bad for the tree and this world. Strangely even the Gulmohar which has nothing to do with the wires has been quite too. I don’t remember its fiery display in the last four years. The only trees which have been innocently oblivious to this changing world are the Saptparnis. Without fail, each year they’ve treated us  benevolently with their flowers and heady aroma.

This year is different. The Jacaranda has bloomed.

Beethoven kept himself busy watching the tree sprinkle  gifts for all.

A ferocious sandstorm and a thundershower ended the solo concert of the Jac. It was time for the Gul take over.

It has lit the space outside with magnificent erubescence.

Its not just me who is happy. I can hear a cacophony outside every morning for we have a family of Bulbuls which has moved in. I believe the local squirrels and crows have accepted them and so have the bees.

The problem is that whenever I experience beauty , I am reminded of the sacred hymns I heard at the Hemkunt Sahib Gurdwara. The lyrics elucidated the ephemeral nature of all relationships. That none remain with you forever other than God.

I know, He played His music four years ago in this grand fashion and has decided to do so again this year. Maybe it happens only once in four years. Who am I to complain? Whatever I see and whatever I experience, is a gift from Him anyways.

I hope the music lasts a little longer. The heat of summer on its own is pretty unbearable for me, but there are fond memories of the Jacaranda and there is joy of  watching the Gulmohar shine from my bedroom window everyday. The Amaltas has erupted too and soon in a month, my favorite mangoes would carry the flavour of Indian summer to ameliorate my journey through this heat.

Life is great!