Preservation

Preservation of the wild, wild grasses,

and the hinterlands they constitute

the dreams and fires they conjure

the whole of it, shiny and a galore

Terror and screams in night-time stories

wishy-washy tales that romance the once empty,

once mindless, uncultivated streets...

Preservation of coloured glass windows

and the puffy white clouds that pass by them

Beady, amorous eyes; lucky scrunchies, anticipatory smiles

The once unpainted walls, bare with inexperience

the glass half full with colostrum

and polaroid photographs that captured,

so beautifully, laughter...

Roadside Observer

It has been two and a half years now, since we have been acquainted. I see you every morning during the week when I am on my way to school, and during the weekends I generally forget to think about you. You remain a distant memory that comes fresh to mind as if a new discovery has been made, a random epiphany of the day that gets my eyebrows to rise up a little or makes me frown (or both, simultaneously), but only transiently. That passing thought is forgotten so naturally and effortlessly the very moment my mind gives birth to it. As if that is its destiny—to be born only to die as quickly, the very next instant. Like chickens.. Anyway, there you are. Or the thought of you, at least, that makes its entry into my conscience and ebbs away serenely, as soon as your image is hidden by the halting bus that will take me to my destination.

Because of this reason, I feel guilty every time I see you.

Image courtesy: http://foxtalbot.dmu.ac.uk/resources/wintertree.html

New Beginning

Words of truth, the moment they are spoken you realize that it is exactly what you wanted to hear. An admission of submission. But the very instant that you hear those words you hate the sound of them. Your immediate reaction is that of denying those sounds that reverberated through the particles of air to reach your ears. That nectar of truth is poison to you, you decide. You are better off without it.

Secretly, however, since you are a wanderer at heart, you will go back to that moment again and again. You will play the words in your head again and again; the very words that you deemed as dangerous and forbidden. But it is like watching the aftermath of a car accident on the road. You just have to watch it. You just have to look! The blood, a lifeless body on the road amidst confusion and desperate calls and howls and yelling.. You will stare shamelessly while reveling in the inappropriateness of it all, and walk away..

If you think about that, though, something deeper reveals itself to you. The fun was not so much in the situation itself- the accident, I mean. Nothing about an accident is fun.. yet, there is deep satisfaction in knowing that you can actually walk away from it. At that moment you experience freedom in it's full form, and that is the kind of moment that lets you in on the elusive feeling of invincibility..so rare, so delicious..

The scene of the accident is very much like the sinfully beautiful words playing in your head right about now..And knowing that you can walk away from it all; just hop on a bus and leave, having but a vague idea about your next destination... well, now that... that, is what we all crave, don't we?

That, dear reader, is our forbidden poison which we are better off without.

Slow burning embers of leftover passion,

they await,

quite patiently and longingly

to witness the aftermath that never was

the aftermath of self-destruction.

Arms wrapped lovingly around

the bundle of blankets, and hot chocolate

from which hands are gathering warmth

amidst cold and unkindly deserts.

The moon shines brightly tonight

it seems symbolic of love (in the hay-day)

A constant, cruel reminder of coy smiles

and hands slithering down one's pants,

Of a confused mixture of lust and need

confused with lovely feelings of love.

Tired eyes which find it hard to blink again

and lift themselves up to stand up to a world of pain

terrible tragedies trigger unfamiliar emotions

they're as real as the silken clouds seen often in paintings..

As the earth shakes beneath those feet once more

Those eyes, they search for a lighthouse, the silver lining.

Dance

I dance when I'm happy

I dance when I'm sad

I dance to settle the stomach

when there's too much food inside

I dance to let those tears fall;

the tears I don't want to wipe

I dance to bathe myself in sunshine

My river running along on my side

I dance when there are currents of tension,

over-analysis, a little beyond redemption

I dance to cover the pain caused by

others, and some from self-infliction

I dance to feel sexy and strong

and quite darn good enough

I dance to feel beautiful

I dance in your imaginary arms

and in front of an ephemeral audience that sits

in awe of Me and my apparent Perfection.

The Real Indian Woman

I sit here watching the slight, dark-skinned woman clad in summery pink sari looking down at the recently-born backyard chicks and making conversation with her neighbour, the woman who is renting out this one-bedroom shack to the student I'm staying with during my attachment at Mudumalai Tiger Reserve.

I can't help but feel a surge of empathy for the woman in the pink sari. My mind is reviewing plausible options which would allow her to leave her drunk, unemployed and abusive husband and live what I imagine to be a consequently emancipated life, allowing her to afford her 12th standard-pass daughter's college fees and to let her 10th standard-pass son study further. Unfortunately for her, leaving her husband does not even feature in her list of options, if at all she has a list. She works for her neighbour-friend, cooking and cleaning for the student with whom I'm staying, all in stealth because her husband likes to see his wife waiting for him at home, and also for whatever drunken consequences that may arise (all beyond his control, of course), cook his meals and rear his children. Maybe it is damaging to his ego that his wife has had to assume the role of breadwinner since he is too drunk to find a job, let alone keep it.

I overhear the woman in the pink sari correcting her friend, telling her it is not whom she thinks it is that was driving the truck which passed by her gate a few minutes ago because "it is still at home sleeping like a log".

For her sake, I wonder if it is a good thing that she is stuck and doesn't even know it. In this lifetime, maybe it is better that she does not have a list of alternatives.

Let their eyes simply meet each other a few times, and within seconds it has begun. A love story that lasts the duration of a train journey. Pure, simple and everlasting in its transience...

afternoon siesta under cool shade of a Peepal tree

music of the blowing wind to keep him company,

his body is tired, bent and broken

he wonders if he has yet been forgiven..

for she is his life, his strength, his all

but when unkind words are spoken love is not enough

Heart, heavy with guilt and regret, still he hopes

that his feelings will suffice,

that she has decided to make another sacrifice

he'd like to lie with her again;

longing turns to misery turns to pain

as a calming breeze blows over his face

the shade seems like an oasis; just like her mind

Her words, her hands, her shy smile

he misses her comforting embrace..

T4: Knots & Ties

Ultimately, it is about the connections. I am a sucker for smiles and love and handshakes and hugs. Stick around for some potential sap.

Ramesh

He was in-charge of the tiger-tracking device (let's keep things at a technical minimum..!!). Always smiling and cheerful, with an ability to tell stories in his sing-song manner of speaking. Everything he said, he conveyed musically.

Khagesh

Smart and very well-informed. Whether it be people or the animals of the reserve, he takes a keen interest in keeping himself up-to-date. He asked most of the questions about life in the U.S., the cost of living, the cost of a kilo of wheat...

He is touted as the best driver in the reserve. He was our tiger tracking man with the highest record of tiger sightings in the reserve. And boy, is he proud of it! Loves his work and goes into the jungle everyday, eyes shining with the same child-like unquenched enthusiasm to see his friends, the tigers.

Jairam

One of the few villagers who is literate in English. Very capable and has a very sharp eye. Hard worker and a proud father of two little children. The kindest eyes I've seen in a while. Soft smile and meek voice. An honest, simple man caught in a family feud involving buffaloes.

Mukesh

Smiling and generally silent. Young man in his early twenties, I would imagine. He was our cook and the one that wished me a good morning everyday with the same intonation in his voice. It was hilarious and touching :) He has an infectious laughter. Lost in his own dreamworld. Recently separated from his sweetheart but was brave enough to attend her wedding.

Kaalu Ram

The residential dog. My little furry friend who loved to wag his tail and be petted. He is camera conscious; hates being photographed but withstood my constant clicking to get a good picture of him.

Subhadeep

Fiesty, friendly, funny and flirtatious. Very passionate about the work he does and cannot stand it if others are not the same way. He doesn't like arguments unless he wins or has the last word. Enjoys music and food. Loves to trek through tortuous mountainous paths and walk with the tigers (the latter's not on his request!). He taught me a lot about the vegetation in Sariska on my first day there, and I learned an important lesson from him which is: in order to enjoy a forest you must learn and understand as much as you can about it.

Krishnendu

My two-week internship was blessed with good company from a wonderful new friend who has a lot of experience in the field of wildlife research. Smart, charming, witty and brutally honest. Loves his speakers as much as he loves the music that comes out of them. Learning to play the guitar and on his way to quitting smoking. Great storyteller. Cares about the work, the people from surrounding villages and strangers that come to learn for a short time with equal and disarming compassion and alacrity.

You will all be missed for all the laughs and company you provided me in that short time. You made it all quite worthwhile.. :)

T3: Favourite Things

Start Time- 07:40 h

End Time- 08:44 h

Current Time- 08:19 h

As I sit in the gypsy waiting in excited anticipation for "CP1" to emerge from his temporary hideout (he thought he can wait us out but ha! he doesn't know how much we'd love to get a glimpse of him!) I try to think about other things. The longer we wait, the more convinced I become that he can sense us nearby either because our thoughts are focussed on him so strongly or that he can smell our distinct human scent..or both.

Is it necessary to explain why seeing a tiger never stops being fascinating? All fellow animal lovers will agree that the nature of this sense of wonder for any animal is quite beautifully child-like; eyes widening, mouth half open, a concentration into the much elusive "present moment" that will impress even the most stoic saint...

The most interesting thing about this sighting is that I was the only one in the vehicle along with the driver. So, in a way, I feel honoured as if I am privy, now, to a great secret while everybody else has missed out. I was at the right place at the right time; well not really, I decided to abandon my data collection because of the langurs. This brings me to the second point of pride- no man-made instrument was used to determine the location of the tiger. We simply tracked him down based on the sudden warning calls of the langurs! They croaked.. we listened.. we followed.. we waited..and then, we saw! :)

***

Sights, Sounds, Smells

Imagine an open, stone courtyard, a tea-cum-snack stall squarely situated, with people surrounding it and savouring kachori-kadi and some sipping on tea while squatted in that Indian way on the parapet, smoking beedi at the same time and discussing tigers under the cool shade of Peepal and Gular trees while the temple guard, dressed in his neatly pressed khaki uniform waves around his bamboo lathi summoning, every now and then, the approaching car and directing the tourists to the park at the back of the premises that houses the temple within which rests the monkey god, Hanuman. I'm told this is the only temple in which Hanumanji's statue is in a recumbent posture. The temple, situated in the heart of the Sariska reserve, was built a very long time ago to commemorate Hanuman's meeting with Bhima in the Mahabharata...

I look up from my notebook and see a man rectifying his tilak using the side-view mirror of someone else's car. A little to the right, the temple priest comes out from the back door and proceeds down the stairs calling to the monkeys to give them laddus. That the numerous monkeys and langurs are given prasad from the temple is, in my opinion, quite humourously apt! I smirk and look towards the sky and instead am distracted by some round boyish faces quickly popping out and in from a balcony above me to look down at me stealthily so I wouldn't notice. But I noticed and, after hesitating for a second, waved. The little round faces broke into smiles and so did my heart.

***

Firsts

Gotta love 'em.

The best one?

Getting drenched in the first rain of the season in a place which enjoys primarily arid and excruciatingly hot summers. Somehow that sticky, bothersome memory has been erased and replaced with happy thoughts and smiling faces. You can hear peacocks cooing while one of them descends angelically onto a branch of a tree in the distance. This is one great way to experience the Divine.

***

Just for fun

I get to see, as often as every time I am out in the forest, peacocks proudly fanning their colourful plumes to attract a mate.

Morning tea and afternoon coffee. I am quite spoiled here :D

T2: Light of the Night

Last night I attended a typical Rajasthani reception in celebration of the daughter of one of the villagers (and employee) of Sariska. Entering through the brightly lit entrance of patterned shamiana I felt all eyes on me; I, who was in my maroon t-shirt and black scrub pants that were torn at the ends. Still, I tried to pretend I couldn't see anyone and walked casually into the abode of a conservative, uneducated and simpleton Rajasthani family where the women wear their traditional attire of ankle-length skirt, matching blouse and a dupatta wrapped gracefully over their upper body, head and as a constant veil to the face.

Bright summer colours against the backdrop of a dark clear sky and a cheese-coloured full moon pasted onto it, food, the latest Bollywood music and a crowd segregated based on a tacit understanding of hierarchy determined by socio-economic status, education and job description. I sat with the ACF and DFO and some other abbreviations. I, a woman, was entitled to a meal with the men because I belong to this privileged upper social stratum.

I had a nice conversation with my recent PhD student-friend while waiting for dinner to be served which put me at ease. Dinner was a typical Rajasthani spread of puris, chana, sabji, boondi raita as well as various types of sweets like rasagollas, kaju barfi and sooji halwa. People eat in a certain order (read: hierarchy) and men eat before women (except, of course, in the privileged group). The food, needless to say, was finger-lickin' good with a perfect spice content. I found this surprising because in this region of the desert state of Rajasthan, as I'm told, people survive on one meal a day which consists of thick rotis (bread) and a "chilli-curry" of sorts (= way up high in the spice-o-meter, eye- and nose-watering category, if that helps). Vegetables are rare constituents of the local man's meals due to (I'm guessing) affordability. Instead, liquor is consumed in generous amounts to make up for the obvious nutritional deficit..!!

Travelogue

Dear Readers,

Here starts my attempt to keep a regular account of my jam-packed and potentially most interesting summer. I am in India and I am interning in various places in the country throughout these three months. Will try to find inspiration wherever I can in the hope of curing myself of recent writer's block. Ok, so since this is the first post it shall be labeled "T1". Subsequent blogs will follow suit with appropriate number labelling. Read on... :)

--------------------

5/27/2010

I took the 6:05 am Ajmer-Shatabdi to Alwar, Rajasthan. Was received by three cheerful PhD students living at the Sariska reserve base camp. :) The jeep ride from the station to Sariska was interjected by a few stops:

Stop #1: Lassi shop in Alwar city. Five large steel glasses of original Rajasthani sweet lassi and my concurrent 'initiation' into the group upon completion of task at hand!

Stop #2: Big Bazaar to get a month's worth of groceries.

Stop #3: A house in a small village on the way. There were lots of people sitting in rows and being fed on account of a death in the family; there were children running, smiling, playing; there were buffaloes chewing cud as a couple of crows hung out on their broad black backs sheltered from the unforgiving sun under a shed built with wood and straw.

Stop #4: Abode of aunt of one of the students. Drank straight from the bottles of water they offered us and played with a chirpy yellow Labrador pup of no more than a year or two.

Stop #5: Arrived at destination Sariska. An extremely hot (it was 50 degrees in the thick of the afternoon. I'm told the temperature dips as low as 40 degrees at night) but beautiful place. Even on the drive here one cannot but fall in love with this place's beauty that has a characteristically Indian rustic quality.

There are peacocks by the dozens within the base camp premises. My jaw dropped open in surprise as I realized the irony- we city dwellers go crazy when we spot even a single one of these curiously magnificent creatures or hear their tantalizing call, whereas it is but commonplace to live among them for the natives of the reserve. Family groups of Langurs are found hanging out in the trees. One female langur was having fun slapping the residential dog, Kaalu Ram, and the poor bugger simply took it because he is scared of anything that moves!

Mystery Eyes

The bus ambles along on a dusty road flanked by fruit stalls and people standing, watching curiously, with eyes squinted, partly due to the setting 6 o'clock sun in their tired eyes and partly because they're curious about the passers-by that are temporarily residing in a large blue wobbly monster of a vehicle.

As a traveler automatically I become ten times more interesting, more mysterious to the casual observer; without a past or a future, simply in the one present that being the exact scene in which the outsider is looking at me through the partially curtained bus window.

And I? What do I think about my transient spectators? All of them, for me, come with baggage. They are completely "in context" as opposed to me. In the zone. In the thick of their respective lives; squatting with their material possessions, digging noses, enjoying a cup of cutting chai with their mates or haggling with the fruit sellers for mangoes at a reasonable price.

mystic river

Colours..many of them, forming a crazy concoction of chrome..but you can see each one distinctly too..some are in containers and others are splashed on the canvas; some more shy than others and some just happy to be alive! Our minds change colours so often and so quickly and so subtly! We never even notice the changing nature of our evolving thinking unit..Each colour in that picture that's up on my wall is important and necessary and different from the other...yet quite so..insignificant. Just a part of the bigger picture. What an important message this $5 poster is screaming at me.. your own hues, facets, phases and flavours..they're all part of you but you are not dependent on them..they are not YOU. They are not all you. There's a bigger picture here somewhere...it's something like a constantly flowing river. Extrapolate on to that river. Now if only I can find it..

I am an Emotional Creature!

http://www.youtube.com/user/tedtalksdirector?blend=1&ob=4#p/u/21/YhG1Bgbsj2w

Nuff said.

Black and White

This photo of us is all faded and smelly

It smells like old books do

and it’s discolored the way they are, too.

This room is now dull

and the furniture is damp

In the darkness you can see a sheet of dust

that is lending to this scene

a characteristic sadness about which one would read

in renowned literary works, perhaps.

All that black and white and sheen.

I walk about in solitary desolation;

I have lost yet another friend

There is no room for acclimation

to fate and its repetitive trend

I walk, I look around me in puzzled wonder

What thus happened to bring us asunder?

I wonder…

Questions outnumber answers as I travel

through time and events to unravel

a plausible reason, but to no avail

I have always failed.

Yet, this room looks distinguished

like that old photo of my grandparents-

Thatha on chair and Patti standing by his side-

there is something special about that photo

All that black and white.

Maybe I won’t do away with this photo of us, yet

that is now all smelly and faded

maybe I’ll hold on for a little bit more

I’m not entirely jaded.

Trumpet Man

There was a trumpet man.

He played his trumpet all the time.

He had a horn which he touted;

he loved to blow that horn.

He played his trumpets so loud that

he could hear no one else but

himself

he marched on by himself

with his trumpet blowing loudly on

on and on

and people watched and they talked

but he could hear not a word

as he blew his trumpet in their ears.