Maggie and Chai

Scoffing at the humble Maggie Noodles was routine for me, as I saw my friends and cousins stir up a hot bowl of noodles through the years. To me it appeared a compromise of sorts to eat ' instant noodles' while there existed the more gastronomically evolved chow mein, pasta etc. All this attitude stayed with me till I did my first real Himalayan trek.
After 4 days of trudging up the cold slopes and eating half dried rotis with potato and pickle, I had enough! I could have killed for a hot meal of rice, dal and the works. Combined with the sub zero temperature, was the unending mountain slope, which just kept sloping up. For a first timer, this was as difficult as it could get.
In such hostile terrain...on an overcast stormy day as we tired trekkers lumbered though the last few kilometers of snow...did I discover my love for ' Maggie'. On a small clearing just across the snow...was a small man with a mobile shop of sorts...making hot tea, omelettes and Maggie. We followed the delicious smell till we reached him and stood there transfixed and he broke one egg after another and made the perfect ‘Omelette Maggie’ combo. He charged us thrice as much, and frankly I would have paid much more than that! Thus was the affair with Maggie rediscovered and has been rekindled with love on lazy weekends.

I longed to feel the same thing again...and as they say ' When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you get it :)
This trip to Mumbai was so special. It was raining cats and dogs...and everything else along with it. The skies had kind of opened up and wouldn't close.
I was staying close to the sea in Colaba and needless to mention the wind was wild...each time I ventured out, it turned my umbrella inside out and I had to get drenched. Despite all the hazards...I risked myself that Saturday morning to see the morning sea. The muddy brown Arabian Sea seemed starved...it lapped at the shores with a frenzy that scared me. Huge waves broke on the promenade and carried away stuff strewn on the road. For once I thanked my weight...the sea couldn't sweep me off.
I walked cold and windblown alongside the sea wishing for something hot. And there he was...out of nowhere a tall man with few plastic cups and a thermas of tea. He knew the look when he saw it...stopped unasked...poured me a cup...and took the money and left.
The cup of tea has got to be the best I’ve had in years...it was regular tea spiced with some ginger and masala. And to stand in the rain...with drops falling into the tea…and watch the sea crash on the gate way of India.

For lack of inspiration, the ' Mastercard' tag line kept playing in my head...cab to Mumbai 5000 Rupees, stay in hotel 4000 Rupees, cup of tea on a rainy morning by the sea...priceless!!

The Rockstar!

I have met quite a few Pastors in churches across India in the last few years. They were wise, knowledgeable and had the special quality unique to spiritually inclined people.

This Easter was special. And I have concluded that the Pastor in our church in Pune is by far the most talented man ever. It isn’t an exaggeration if you read through the rest.

We were a little late for the Sunday service and tip toed to the empty seats. The singing wrapped up and the Pastor climbed the pulpit. In his usual mellifluous voice he proceeded to talk about Easter and brining out the symbolism of the rising of Jesus. He does speak well, among the best orators I have ever heard. The intonations of the pitch are perfect and he also adds a subtle theatrical touch to the talk.

I was listening to him, like the rest of the church, in wrapped attention. At a certain point in the message, he wanted to make a point about the story of how Jesus was betrayed and how he came back on Easter. Pastor broke into a song! I have heard him singing hymn before and he is melodious. But this was different!!

He had a tiny jingling handheld instrument that he shook with the beat of the song, and he broke into this almost rock like anthem. For a moment I was stunned. Everything in the periphery melted away, and I could only see our Pastor, standing in the pulpit, singing the song. If I had to compare it with any rock number I know, it would have to be ‘Hotel California’. The beats were kind of similar and so was his style of singing it.
His voice did the works…he slowed down , recited few lines in a different tone , had just the right accent and gave the finishing touches to a performance I’ll never forget.

The audience watched spellbound...I looked around to see people’s faces. Such talent is rare, combined with the kind of person he is. There was an element of surprise as well, as not many are musically gifted and instances of people singing completely out of tune is not rare.

I haven’t heard anyone of late who can compare with his voice, skill and ability to perform without any accompaniment.
For me, the man is a rockstar!!

The music plays on

I spy a bit of winter blue sky broken by the branches of the gulmohar tree, with leaves browning in the dry air, and no sign of the blushing red blossoms that weigh its branches all through spring. The branches sway to the rhythm of ‘ thandi hawayein’ as Lata’s timeless voice goes on unendingly about the beautiful cold breeze.
Time doth fly. Am listening to a very old collection of oldies with voices and melody which till date remain unparalleled. Pity most of these folks aren’t around anymore.

Am thinking of Kolkata, when as a kid I used to be sent to a music school around my house. I loved music, but hated the regimental style of learning it. And to learn it from someone who I thought croaked like a frog! As a kid I used to despise the day of the week when my music teacher would come home and ask me to bring out the harmonium. She would systematically plonk it on the bed, make me sit opposite and then with a sense of grandeur sing a song that I would have to learn and sing the same way post practice.
I would occasionally gather some courage to say – “ I don’t like this song, can you teach me this instead”. She would size up this 4 feet something eight year old sitting opposite and then on second thought give in.
My mom would bring in the teacher’s tea and goad me on to sing louder. There never existed any sense of delicacy about the whole process.
In retrospect, it was actually quite funny. I would on purpose mess up the ragas, go off tune on Tagore songs and upset my teacher….till she gave up.

With my mission accomplished, I joined a little more democratic music school that I walked to post school few times each week. I would initially be intimidated by the enormity of talent around me. Most of my country cousins seemed so bursting with talent, that I felt pretty inadequate in every possible sense. I looked around and saw kids who would grow to sing and play music in big talent shows and with maestros like Pandit Hari Prasad Chaurasia and Zakhir Hussain. I usually saw myself in the audience and staring at them and clapping. I did harbour some fleeting dreams of being in the spotlight and in a resplendent red gown, with my hair done up with huge glittering earnings – entering a stage and all standing up to applaud. But it was a fleeting dream usually interrupted with my mom pulling my quilt off to get ready for school.

All of these musical rendezvous did end with pragmatism taking over…other things took priority. When I look back on all of this – I almost have an out of body experience. Doesn’t feel like it all happened to me. Seems like I was observing my life happening around me. And taking notes. Some of those notes make me cringe. Some make me smile. And some make me wonder, if it was really me.
The one thing am certain of is that if time could be turned around, I would indeed be in the black and white era, where most things existed in black and white. Where the white was white and the black was unadulterated black. Absolutes. Not many greys. And these golden voices sang unendingly.

Bachpan

Mom used to say that when she dropped my brother off to kindergarten, he would be the most composed of all the kids. He was a brave, independent child and not afraid of most things ( he's legendary…really!) . Anything novel interested him. But once in the school, the composure was challenged as he saw a dozen kids howling for their mother. Amidst the cacophony of the children, he would look confused over his shoulder and then decide to join in the howl. And there he would be crying, some real, and some crocodile tears looking more at the other kids and less for familiar faces. I have no clue how I was : ) Maybe someone else in my family has stories from my childhood, maybe not. I hope there are some stories.

But the story I like most was of my mom leaving me home alone to pick my brother from school, when I was 2 or 3, and me clambering up the couch to reach the low curtain rod and grab this delicate doll made of sea shells. All I knew was that the white stuff had something to do with the sea (Shomudro in Bengali). The colours painted on it looked good to me and in the process of admiring the tiny doll I obviously dropped it and broke it into a gazillion pieces.

Mom came home to see this apologetic looking kid at the doorway - and she tells me that I ran to her wide eyed and mumbled in baby tongue "Ami Shomuddo Bhenge Diyechi" which loosely means " I broke the sea". She couldn't do much except smile with such overwhelming apology coming from a kid who professed to have broken the mighty sea. And yes, I was spared the spanking and the tale was passed around to all and sundry.

Am home alone again, and know that even if I break all the sea shells around - she ain't coming by to chide me and make me understand that I can't break the sea.
And after all these years, maybe I do really miss all her nagging and bullying and coaxing.
Coming to think of it...lemme try dropping one of those bone china cups - just to be sure that she really doesn't spring up from thin air to give me a piece of her mind :)

Braving the Zanskar

The notion that one realizes what fear is, when you face death or an extreme life threatening event, seemed a little over the top to me. I didn’t quite buy into the idea, that till you were painted into a corner with the option of fleeing or facing the object of your fear – you wouldn’t quite know what you were capable of.

But some recent events have taught me otherwise. I now know why people do extreme sports – why they jump off cantilevers suspended by one slim rope – why they jump out of helicopters with a parachute bag.
Might qualify as less dangerous (but enough for my appetite of adrenalin) White Water Rafting is what I did in the Zanskar river this summer.

The Zanskar flows through Ladakh in the Northern most provinces of India and is one of the largest tributaries of the Indus. It flows through the rocky terrains in its muddy brown splendor with sky high rock facades on each side, intercepted by boulders which it crashes into creating white foaming whirlpools and then flows along its way. This river isn’t pretty. It’s powerful. It’s strong. And it’s loud.
As our vehicle moved along the rocky mountain with the river flowing through the gorge – I got occasional shivers hearing the sound of the water breaking on the rocks.
It sounded like it could crush steel leave alone human bones. With nervous grins on our face, we alighted on the bank of the river and slipped into our life jackets and helmets.

None of us had done white water rafting before. But strangely, a couple of us loitered ahead and picked up the oars – which prompted the coach to nominate us as the ‘leaders’.
Big word – ‘leader’ – not someone who needs to motivate the group with verbose speeches – simply, someone who would sit on the first seat of the raft and face the waves head-on!!
My stomach churned…I silently waited for the butterflies to settle…questioned my need to be the first one to pick up the oar and look brave – and chastised myself.
There was no going back – the choice was made. The two leaders were chosen, an urban war cry was shouted and we waded into the river and climbed the raft.
Me and Tanu – two women – very different in demographics and statistics (of all kinds) sat in the first seats. We exchanged looks, and gritted our teeth as the coach instructed us on the rowing techniques and how to rhythmically count “1 – 2” as we paddled the boat.

But NOTHING prepared us for the first wave which greeted us into the foaming white conundrum. It seemed nothing less than a tsunami wave to me. It started at a little distance with a surge in the water, grew into a gigantic wave in a matter of seconds, rose like a serpent way above our head and then with one huge crash, landed on the two shivering ladies on the first seat. We literally ‘faced the blows’ head on!!
Our vision disappeared into the watery wall. I gritted my teeth and feigned courage – while the not so adept at theatre let their fear show. I’ll never forget the look on friend’s face who also had her son on the raft. It was a mix of horror combined with regret at deciding to do this dangerous sport, risking not only her, but her son’s existence. The wave post crashing into us proceeded to rush into the raft and inundate it and evoked a collective high pitched scream from all. The scream bounced off the rocky walls and echoed across and amplified the fear.

Post the first hit, it was rough. But we had learnt the much needed art of controlling the expression of fear. Me and Tanu, like two possessed women shouted “1-2” loud enough to wake up the snow leopards in the forests. We paddled the raft and moved it through choppy waters and whirlpools. Cannot take credit away from the coach who guided us through it.

Would it be less brave to accept that setting foot on hard rocky ground post the hour long watery rollercoaster felt like heaven? To add to the sense of drama – the point where we alighted was the confluence of the Blue Indus and the Brown Zanskar – the aquamarine blue Indus mingled slowly into the brown muddy Zanskar creating a vision worth the ride in the raft.

The rafting episode sure was nerve wracking, but I would do it again. And in wilder rapids! Why? Guess my appetite for adrenalin has increased.

A small village called Kitpi

A part of my family hails from Assam and I assumed that my ability to follow assamese and wear a ' Mekla' qualified me as 'fairly well informed' about the North East. But was proved thoroughly wrong with a trip to Arunachal a while back.

Arunachal Pradesh, and to be specific Tawang and the adjoining villages, are a melting pot of culture and heritage that has been delicately preserved through the invasion of electricity , television , tourism, politics and last but definitely the most important “ the Indo china War.

Among the 5 days spent in and around Tawang, the trip to Kitpi is very close to my heart. After a brief drive to see a few waterfalls, we stopped on the fringes of a mountain. Then begun our 4 hour descent through dense foliage. With the weight of my rucksack and of course my own weight, gravity wasn't of much help!! I had to clutch onto vines and trees as I dangled down the slope. Then we crossed a slushy paddy field (rice is their staple food) to reach Kitpi.

A village of ten families. This community is called the Mompa tribe. Each with their wood and rock layered houses, each house 300 + years old and strong as any steel structure here. The people are like the houses. Layered and extremely warm inside!

After they dressed me in their traditional attire ( a local wollen knit wrap around skit and top) and we washed off the grime - began a dance and drink ritual (Chang is to Mompas what tea is to us) to welcome us.

Initial fear turned to amusement and then to laughter as I witnessed an 80 something year old lady dancing like a grasshopper and slurping on the local arrack. She pulled me along with her to dance and wouldn't hear of my protests to down the fourth cup of Chang. You cannot refuse Chang as its tantamount to disrespecting the Mompas, and you cannot drink too much, cos you lose it after 2 cup. I won't delve further on my evening, as I have little memory of how I reached our room.

A peaceful lunch and a siesta wore off all effects of Chang. We spent the evening handpicking cabbages and spring onions from the fields to make momos for dinner. To imagine picking vegetable for my own dinner from the fields now seems like a distant luxury . Dinner was another musical panorama, as that was the only common language between us and the locals.

The Mompa community lives in their own little word that is untouched by modern day values and comforts. Our hostess in the village is my mother's age ( 57) and she works from 7am to 5pm ( sun goes down at 5pm) in the fields all by herself - everyday. And she comes back with a toothy smile and fusses around guests.
That what I call spirit!

The evening with the Mompas was an inspiration to preserve innocence . Else, can you imagine a world where you have one electric bulb to light up the dark evening and all you hear is the gurgling of laughter and the haunting tones of the mountain songs?

Rubix!

Freud would be terribly pleased to rent me as a specimen for dream analysis on my early morning hallucinatory escapades.Some mornings are little commonplace than the rest. I am just about sprinting at 100km/hr jumping from one roof top to another, not sure trying to escape something or running towards something.Other mornings are more eventful. I find myself atop the mast of a ship in the midst of a storm, the mast swaying and me attempting to climb down. Once on the deck of the ship, I find the ship sinking and a zillion voices crying to be rescued, mine being the loudest. The only thought of self preservation buoyant in the watery grave, I grab onto something and stay afloat dodging hungry sharks, reptiles. It usually ends with me swimming against gigantic waves which engulf me and the dream is lost in a whirlpool of panic.

This is the pattern when some subconscious panic sets in. Which usually follows news which I am not completely insulated against. Yesterday – a plane with 200 odd people crashed in an airport I had landed in a while back. A few days back, my favorite haunt for German savories and Tea was blown to smithereens. And the list goes on.
Does it make me insecure? Like hell it does.I donot know when this little music box with dancing figures is going to run out of battery – after all it is all ‘ random selection’ right.

So there are days when I wake up with thoughts as crazy as this and stumble onto the joggers’ park. And the sight that meets my eyes leaves me smiling. A BIG grin is what it elicits.Irrespective of all the planes, trains and buses which crashed the previous day – my joggers’ park stays unaffected. I find people walking as briskly, jogging as rhythmically as every other day. I find older folks doing yoga with the kind of sincerity that’s rare – each breath pulled in with as much passion as existed in a living form. There are folks who just jump – randomly with arms swinging wildly in a frenzied attempt at losing weight and staying healthy. Frenzy is what describes the disciplined attempt at keeping to this routine and not letting anything get in the way. I sure admire it.

I look around and find the frenzy all around.
The man who parties real hard and cannot stop talking of the drink he downed or the women he went home with.
The millionaire who floats one venture after another making more money than the combined income of a mini country and yet eats oats and tasteless gruel – all to keep fit and create more wealth. I hear it’s called ‘wealth for wealth’s sake’ and not because it can add further to an already swank quality of life which cannot be perfected.
I see the frenzy in spiritual folks as well. It’s this deep desire to know the self and realize god through the understanding of their purpose on earth. They spend time, money, energy and emotion in visiting holy places and spreading the word of the lord and themselves living in abstinence of all sorts.
There is the frenzied executive working longer hours and trying to create value and equity within the organization.
The frenzied femme fatale making more efforts to look better and find more admirers.
Young couples procreating in frenzy. One child isn’t enough – you got to battle randomness of life.
And of course the neurotic few like me attempting all of this and making frenzied observations and conclusions.

It’s a sense of running the marathon not knowing the distance of the finish line. For some it ends prematurely. It’s tragic, but like a dear friend says “they are spared the grind”.
For some, its goes on longer – they are Nature’s pride. They don’t question. They go with the ‘motions’ – accept it as it comes and do what nature leads them to.

And then there are some – who go through the motions, and usually with a bewildered expression as nature hands them one rubix cube after another – go, run and solve!