A week of Sunday mornings

Getting to Havelock Island is hard work. But perhaps there is something to say for the length of the journey. With every stage of the travel, you move a step away from the rapidity of life in Mumbai, and a step closer to the mildness of life in the islands.
Which is not to say that there is no adventure to be had; or that the life on the islands is idyllic. Far from it. Havelock is the centre of all scuba diving activities in the Andaman & Nicobar islands. It is also a place where the coming of tourism has created an uneasy tension for the local population.

Three-way street
It takes two flights and a ferry, and costs approximately Rs 10,000 to reach Havelock. It is a small island with a triumvirate of roads that meet at a tiny little roundabout at the Market. One runs down from the jetty; one will take you to Radhanagar beach, the island’s most popular seaside spot; and the third that comes from Kalapathar is lined with resorts both cheap and expensive, offering log huts with varying degrees of comfort.
The ferry to Port Blair is the lifeline of the island, and its only link with the other islands littered around it in the Andaman Sea. There is a helicopter service, but its schedule is more unpredictable than the moods of the sea.
Which are many. The thing about being on a small island is that you can get from the windward side to the leeward in a matter of minutes. At one end, the water is calmer than any swimming pool in Bombay. A warm, shallow blue-green, just meant for paddling and splashing about, perfect for a morning swim when you’re not still quite awake.
As you travel along the island’s coast, the colours change with alacrity, turning into a deep blue as you get close to Radhanagar. The water there is edged in white; the surf of strong waves that will pick you up and toss you closer to shore. A swim there is like an ayurvedic massage, pillow fight and kickboxing session rolled into one. You always emerge battle-weary, yet somehow refreshed and happy.



Meandering about town
The jetty and the Vijaynagar crossroad where the triumvirate roads of Havelock meet, are the two centres of activity in Havelock. The beaches and villages on the island are numbered, though in a manner of numbering that is conclusively Indian. Beach number 7 follows Village number 2 and 4 in tempestuous confusion. Most of the residents of the islands are Bangladeshi refugees brought there by the Indian government. Turns out that the villages were numbered in the order in which they were settled, which is why Beach 5 is on a different road from Village 4. They acquired names much later.
Along the beaches, all the land has been sold to resort companies, some of the more recent sales made at preposterous prices. But if you rent a motorcycle and go around riding the smaller offshoots of the main roads, you’ll find that away from the tourism and the beaches, farming still continues in the interior of the island.
Aimless riding around and exploring is one of the main activities on the island. With two litres of petrol in the tank, you have enough fuel to travel the length and the breadth of the island several times over. Many a day is well spent looking for the next likeliest spot for a swim; what other decision is of greater importance?
Just rent a set of snorkels as well. The water around the Andamans is rich and full of life. From nearly every beach and swimming spot there is an easily accessible bit of reef where you can easily spot shy clownfish peeping among the anemones. You can also rent a boat to go snorkelling at a further away spot. It’s something you can try even if you can’t swim because most boatmen give you a floating device and throw you a line; secured to those you can merrily bob around, looking into the water. Just remember to put loads of sunscreen on the back of your legs.



A more energetic holiday
If you’re looking for something a bit more energetic, sign up for a scuba diving course.
There are two kinds of holidays that can be had on Havelock. One is the restful ‘do nothing’ sort I’ve described so far, where you spend you time swimming, chasing the perfect spot of shade on the beach and snoozing in it, and sipping coconut water as you read your book and wait for the sunset.
This is not the holiday you will have if you sign up for scuba diving, but you will not regret it. For the first day-and-a-half of the course, you will feel like you’re back in school, learning the theory of the equipment that helps you survive underwater, and then performing exercises with it that help you deal with possible emergencies. The hard work done, you’ll spend the other two days with your eyes wide open for the most time, as you navigate a completely different world, with its own set of rules and full of so many hundreds of beautiful things. At no point during these four days will you have time for anything other than scuba diving, big meals, and very sound sleep.
Havelock is a small place that even during peak season may seem rather empty and bare to you. But often, during this time, the resorts take turns organising little parties every night, to which all are welcome. There will be music, sometimes even a live band and dancing. In the distance, there will be the moon presiding over a dark sea.
It was at one such party that I spoke to some of the resort and dive shop owners who have made Havelock their home. Tourism and their presence has brought good things to the island; but also wrought changes that no one fully understands. There is more money, but no land, few jobs, and exposure to a way of life that is unfamiliar. But the people and the place still retain the original charm and innocence. It is a place where tourism has come slowly and without the big restaurants, shacks, casinos and discotheques that are the mark of a busy seaside holiday spot. Neither is it a place that has room for these. Don’t go there looking for a cleaner Goa; that is one kind of holiday you will not find in Havelock.



A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times in January.

diving!

There's seawater rushing up my nose, suddenly harsh and corrosive. My brain starts sending me danger alerts, reminding me that I have a nose, not gills, and I cannot breathe underwater. With the mask off, my eyes burn and I want to sputter and snort.
Instead I pretend like all is cool. Like I’m the cat’s whiskers and all that stinging water doesn’t bother me one bit. I swab a palm across my forehead as though wiping off sweat on a balmy summer afternoon, and look around at my teammates giving them the thumbs up.

All this time my brain been telling me I’m mad. It’s shrieking that I’m completely, utterly off my rockers; that I’m not supposed to be immersed underwater in the ocean and certainly not without my mask. Another part of my brain, the more logical one, is telling it to shut up. The regulator bringing oxygen to my mouth from the tank strapped to my back is still firmly in place, it says. ‘Stop being a chick’ it adds, sounding dangerously like an annoying colleague.

I slowly put the mask back on, tilt my head back and snort to clear it of water, and look to my instructor to see how I’ve done. She gives me the thumbs up and I can see she’s smiling. As she turns to the others, I give a smug nod to the jellyfish that’s been hanging around my shoulder. Minutes before, it’d been mocking me saying I had no business being here. I showed it, didn’t I?

To swim or to sink

When you’re learning to dive, the turning point between wondering whether you’ll be able to and knowing you will is the first time you take off the mask and let the salt water use your nose and eyes like a playground. This is when most people go gasping up to the surface, losing track of where they are and the equipment their life depends on. It's the part I was most skeptical about too. But get past this, and the rest just steps of a learning process. And getting past is easy if you can keep the urge to press the panic button under control, even every cell in your body is screaming in retaliation.

You'll discover, that the more annoying part is the way the compressed air from the tank dries up your mouth. Getting thirsty 12 m below the surface, surrounded by a crush of salt water and not quite able to swallow thanks to the big regulator stuck into your mouth, is more than a wee bit inconvenient.

It's a lifestyle

Staying at the Andaman Bubbles dive resort for the four days of the course, diving seemed more like a way of life than a sport. We woke early to get out while the tide was high and the sun still climbing the sky. By the time I came back in the evening I was too tired for anything more than a big meal and a night of sound sleep. Drinking and smoking are no-nos and everybody is fit and tanned, or on their way to getting there. The conversation revolves around the day’s dive, the conditions, the merits of the location, and the creatures spotted.

But before you're let into the water, there's the theory. Facts and figures about the underwater world and the principles behind the equipment that will allow you to navigate it. For the first time in the many years since college, I found myself studying along with breakfast so that I would be prepared for the day’s quiz.

For a holiday, it was quite hectic. I didn’t do the whole chilling by the beach, going for a swim then lying on a sarong and reading thing, and fell asleep two songs into the cool resort party I was invited to, live music be damned. But all worthwhile sacrifices for what I got in exchange.

Getting down and dirty

Once you get past the theory and get intimate with the equipment, you're finally allowed into the water. In the beginning, I felt graceless and bulky. I would either sink to the bottom, head down by the numerous weights tucked in my belt, or bob around on the surface, made buoyant by the air-filled jacket I was wearing. The mocking jellyfish was back, smirking translucently at me again.

The trick lay in figuring out that even the minutest change in the amount of air inside you can make a significant difference at a depth. When you're 12m below the surface at neutral buoyancy, (positive buoyancy makes you float, negative makes you sink, and when it’s neutral you’re a bit in water like an astronaut in zero gravity) swimming over a big boulder in your path is a simple matter of breathing deeply to rise up above it, and then exhaling to float close on top of the coral bed again.

All I remember after that is a vignette of moments that I will never forget. Like suddenly finding myself in the middle of a school of bright blue and yellow fish on my second dive, hundreds of them all around, above me, below me, beside me. Or shivering together in a huddle as the sunny sky slowly turned grey after our dive, and the boat crawled across an ocean that heaved and shook in rain that fell like heavy sheets. Till the clouds, suddenly exhausted, withdrew to let the sun back out, and two perfectly symetric rainbows made the day bright again. And then the most spectacular moment of them all – the ocean at night -- a completely transformed landscape full of bobbing, sleeping fish, and giant crabs skittering across the ocean floor. Holding the torch close to my chest to make the darkness total and then waving my hands in front of me so that the water came alive in a hundred thousand pin points of lights that swirled all around me (plankton baby, the fireflies of the sea).

But don’t take my word for it. Go see for yourself.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on Spetember 19.

Photos courtesy Andrea Blasco

on the waves

On a small boat in the middle of the sea, tossing about on the waves, salt dries on lips and the sun chars skin. There are no comforts here, but there’s a reverence for the wind that fills the sails and carries us homewards. Our little vessel is part of a grand old tradition, when men met the elements directly, without walls and cocoons to shield them. Their blood and sweat seeped into wooden hulls, becoming part of the lore of the vessels and the seas they sailed.

Despite being a product of the age of airplanes and cars, I felt the sea beckon and decided to make the most of my one chance at becoming a part of sailing lore. And so, even before I stepped on board the Mhadei, I vowed I'd prove to be a good sailor. No medicines to prevent sea-sickness for me, and treat me like part of the crew, I told the captain. He, a veteran of salt spray and changeful winds, accepted the extra pair of hands, though novice, willingly.

At the start of a journey

The monsoon was petering off, but it drizzled on the morning we were to start our 250 nautical mile journey from Goa to Mumbai. The day started early, with loading fresh supplies and luggage on board. As we cast off, Captain kept me busy, hauling in fenders and cajoling open stubborn sailors' knots. Then it was off to hoist our sail, assisting the first mate, himself a bit of a novice. We huffed and puffed, pushed and pulled with our might; Captain shouting out his encouragement, telling us to put our hearts into it.

By the time the sail was up, the shore was an indistinct haze, and the 56-feet-yacht was bouncing up and down in the metre-and-a-half swell. Caught up in my chores I'd had neither the time to notice the shore fade away nor the opportunity to feel sick. The wind filled the sails, tilting the boat 30-degrees, and our little vessel shot along, up the Western coast. The inevitable bout of seasickness struck and I upchucked my breakfast off the side of the boat; careful to make sure I did it downwind. Many a sailor has thrown up on the wrong side, only to have the wind hurl his stomach’s content right back at him.

Being sick is the easy part

Throwing up isn’t as bad as it sounds. You feel nauseated, you puke, and then you feel better. The key is to keep drinking water and eating, so that you keep up your energy. Take along plenty of fruits on your first long sailing trip; they’re really the only things you’ll feel like eating. Avoid going below deck; the fresh air and the sight of the horizon helps you feel much better. In fact, once I realised this, I took it to an extreme – refusing to move even to get my sunscreen. Consequently I burnt crisp, and let me tell you, that isn’t pretty. Don’t take the sun lightly: the combination of the boat’s pitching movement and the sun overhead has the effect of sapping your will. It also lulls you to sleep, just staying awake takes a lot of energy but it’s worth the effort.

No land in sight

Forty hours on a small boat sounds like a long time. But being in the middle of the sea is an amazing thing: by plucking you out of the context of land that always describes you, it also takes you out of time. It is easy to spend hour after hour just gazing at the waves with not a thought cluttering your head. At night too, I chose to sleep above deck, where I could see the sky overhead, and hear the waves lap the side of the boat.
The sky was an ever-changing canvas. Every time I opened my eyes, it reflected a different mood – mischievously dark, romantically moonlit, and even downright sombre and menacing.

Like a good sailor, I took on a night watch, and it was hard work, I’ll have you know. Though the monsoon is yet not officially over, fishing trawlers were out in full force. The boats themselves are easy to spot -- with their red, green and yellow lights -- but they travel in clusters, and it’s the nets strung between them, marked by tiny buoys, that you have to keep your eyes peeled out for. You don’t want to go over a net and risk having it entangled in your propeller or rudder.

Watch the wind

Morning dawned and the clouds hiding the sun were a godsend. Without the sun sapping all our energy, we felt like singing, taking photographs, and even considered cooked food. The sea was calmer and the wind steady, speeding us on our way. But out on the sea things can change very fast. As we sailed under a dark cloud, the temperature dropped suddenly and a powerful gust of wind slammed into our sail, angrily knocking it about. The boat tilted further, nearly 40 degrees to the right, and Captain rushed to the sail, reefing it in quickly. The boom swung in the wind, making the sail snap out a groan each time, and we sat anxious and quiet as Captain steered us to safer waters. The swell rose, and nearby trawlers seemed to disappear underwater each time a large wave came by. Then just as suddenly, the wind eased off and our boat righted herself.

Fairs winds were ours again and we sped homewards, dreaming of warm showers and hot meals. The wind seemed to caress us, and the water sparkled in the light of the gentler evening sun.

But never take the wind for granted, I learnt. As the shore of Mumbai came into sight and we saw the lighthouse marking the city’s southern-most point, the wind suddenly dropped completely. With home so close, the wind’s betrayal was a stiff blow to the heart. Amused by our downcast faces, Captain asked: “So sailors, you want to wait it out, or shall I turn on the engine?”
What do you think we chose?

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times

Photo courtesy INS Bitra

Lights in the sky

When you encounter a riverfront like the Shanghai Bund, it’s easy to see why the earliest cities were always built by the banks of a river — it becomes a lively hub of activity. Shanghai’s historical administrative buildings line one side of the Bund along the Huangpu, creating a regal line-up of sedate, impressive buildings.


On the other side is the new Pudong district, the forever-twinkling downtown area, with its office buildings and the riverside restaurants. It’s also where the iconic Orient Pearl TV tower, the third tallest in the world, looms on the skyline like a glittering jewel.

On the slightly overcast Shanghai evening, the Bund seems like the very place to go for a relaxing stroll after a shopping spree at the adjoining Nanjing Street. There are skateboarders and kite flyers, kids with their grandparents, lovers and families out for a walk. Roaming peddlers sell sticks of barbecued meat that sizzle in the cool evening temptingly. And the irresistible river ferries, strung up with fairy lights, seem to be beckoning us. We hop on to one for a dinner cruise. For the next couple of hours, Shanghai glitters and sparkles past the railing, as we sit back and enjoy the breeze and a slow meal.

a version of this will be published in the hindustan times tomorrow

The Chinese eat early and they eat long. Dinner normally starts at 6 pm and lasts until just past eight. When they eat out, which is often (when I went there, just before the Olympics last year, China was booming and everyone had a lot of money), they order one dish of every kind.
All the food is placed on a rotating glass top at the centre of the table and everybody gets a set of chopsticks. As the glass top is rotated slowly, you can reach in and pluck out of a bowl whatever you want. Only if the dish absolutely demands it do you serve food in a plate of your own. Otherwise the glass top keeps rotating and you keep picking.
At the end of the meal you always realised that too much was ordered. So do you pack the food and take it home or to give it away to someone? Don’t you suggest it; except among the younger crowd, that suggestion is frowned upon.
I wonder if the recession has made the Chinese more prudent at the dinner table.

Ever so healthy
For all the excess, food habits of the Chinese are rather healthy. Apart from the obvious benefits of an early dinner, there was the fact that almost all their preparations were sautés that used minimal oil and subtle spices or were grilled and roasted. I don’t think I had a single fried dish during the trip. The vegetarian dishes were especially good. Now before you raise an eyebrow – yes, I too have heard vegetarians complain about the lack of food options they face in China; but I think they just didn’t look in the right places. I came back particularly impressed with the Chinese preparations of a variety of greens, right from spinach and asparagus to rape and many types of beans, all cooked in a way that retained their original flavour and crunchiness.

When in Rome…
I’m a great believer in local food. I think it is one of the best ways to experience a place and in keeping with that, I avoided the KFCs and the Pizza Huts like the plague. (Except on one memorable occasion, when I wondered into a hot pot joint unknowingly. The menu was completely in Chinese, so the waitress and I decided via an extensive dumb charades that I should be taken to the kitchen to point at the foods I want to eat. When I got there, I discovered that there was no cooking stove there. The so-called kitchen was only a space where raw foods were cleaned and cut and put in bowls that were served at tables along with a personal pot of boiling water. I beat a hasty retreat and found my way to the nearest Pizza Hut).
The range of street food available was mind-boggling. For one there were the many types of dim sums, from the famous rice cakes of Xian (thick doughy creations) to the towers of dim sum steamed in bamboo containers that I found outside Yu Yuan garden in Shanghai.
At places like Beijing’s Wangfujing Street, there were the candy sticks of meat, like kebab skewers, some a little too bizarre for even me to experiment with. Starting from marinated bits of meat, to live scorpions and even a sea horse (which I almost tried, except it was too cute). For vegetarians, there were candied grapes and cherries, which were delicious.

Facing my nemesis
If I thought I was done with the hotpot though, I was wrong. The culmination of my Chinese food trail was my second encounter with that stove of boiling water. Tickled silly by my dad’s recounting of my experience at the hotpot joint, a friend of his decided I should get a guided tour. So he took us to his favourite joint in Jiangyin, about two hours outside of Shanghai, and sat us down to a table of raw food. I made the mistake of mentioning my fondness for seafood, so a lot of the raw food on the table came from the ocean’s depths and a fair amount of it was still alive. (If you don’t believe me, go see the video.)
Brown shrimps jumped in their jug, making water splash out on my arm. On a bed of ice, there was a clam-like thing, shell on one side and sinuously-moving mass of flesh on the other. My voice was several octaves higher as I asked our host, “I’m, ulpp, supposed to eat this?”
As he replied in the affirmative, I chose from a tray the ganishings that would go into my stove of boiling water – some garlic flakes, coriander, and chilli, a few dried prawns and a pinch of salt. I decided to take things slow, so first to go into my pot were a bunch of leafy greens that turned out tasting incredible. Emboldened by this early success, the shrimps went in next, jumping and dancing their way into the stove where they were covered and allowed to cook. (Can bubbling in a bowl of hot water with some salt and garlic for a minute be called cooking?) They turned a bright orange and actually tasted quite delightful.
The big hurdle was still to come though. The unnamed clam thing went into the pot next. It gurgled and bubbled loudly, and I jumped with each sound. In less than a minute, it wound up in my plate, and I heard myself asking plaintively, “Are you sure it’s cooked?”
Yes, yes. My fears were dismissed and the object was cut and served. Suffice it to say that it was chewy and tasted like an entire glass of water (which I gulped down with it). With that the ice was broken, and I could begin to enjoy the meal. There was sliced fish, oyster and chicken, and I have to admit that the food was very delicious and super healthy (no fears of too much oil, or overcooking and losing all the minerals eh?).

Parting words
If reading this has convinced you that local food is the way to go, then my work’s done. But before we part, as a cautionary tale, here’s the recipe for a dish that was really popular in China a few years back and I didn’t try.

Drunken Prawns

Put a dozen live prawns in a pitcher of vodka.
Leave covered for a couple of hours.
Use tongs to pick out a prawn, place deep inside mouth and then, with a backward jerk of your head, swallow.

Clearly, not all local foods should be tried.

Food on a stick: candied fruits above, and scorpions and sea horses below.

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Seafood. The cooked varied above and the raw type below.

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Hot pot fodder. Before (below) and after (above) the one minute of boiling in water that passes for cooking.

* A version of this will be printed in the Hindustan Times tomorrow

Right, so...

I'm writing a travel blog on the HT website. Here.
And this is part of the job, so you might actually get regular posts. Go check it out, I have a couple of pics up from Andaman and Nicobar.

dreams of grandeur

This is about Xian, China.

The hall is huge. Very wide, and twice as long. The ceiling, so high that even though there are over two hundred people inside here at the moment it just swallows up their words, dimming them to a dull murmur, like a distant waterfall.
Everybody is looking at the men in the pits. Terracotta men. Warriors whose weapons — spears, swords, bows and arrows — are no longer in their hands. Some of them are whole but most wear signs of their battle with time, missing bits of nose, ear, chest, leg; leftover smudges of once-bright colour.
They’re tall men, of noble bearing. You know it just by the expressions on their faces — chins up, looking squarely at whatever the future might bring. They stand in neat rows, protecting the tomb of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, who became the ruler of China in 246 BC.
Emperor Qin is credited with building a unified law-abiding nation — he defeated six kingdoms and built the first version of the Great Wall of China. He survived three attempts on his life and perhaps, as a result of them, became obsessed with the idea of death.
Some say that he died looking for Peng Lai, a mythical land of immortality, inhabited by the undying. He started the construction of his mausoleum and the Terracotta Army that was to accompany him in his battles in the afterlife, several years before his death.
The army was discovered fairly recently, in 1947, when a farmer digging a well in his field found pieces of terracotta arms and legs.

Imagining the possibilities
Inside Pit 1, listening to the guide’s story, it’s easy to let the imagination wing its way on a flight of fancy.
After the first few thousand warriors were excavated, the uncovering of the remainder was halted until a way could be found to continue the process without submitting them to the ravages that occur when they come in contact with air.
Looking at the row of warriors peter into a bank of soil, covered with tarpaulin, it’s easy to picture hundreds, nay, thousands of sombre-faced warriors standing in the dark, dank underground all the way to the tomb, about a kilometre away.
The imagined picture lends greater grandeur to what I actually see before me.

Old world charm
The Terracotta warriors maybe the reason why Xian figures on almost every tourist itinerary to China, but it’s not all there is to this city. Xian was once the starting point of the Silk Road, known as Chang’an in those days. Traders from along the route, Persia, Afghanistan, the Middle Eastern countries, came to live here, giving rise to the city’s Muslim Quarter, a tight knit group that exists even today, lending Xian its distinctive character.
Head here in the last of the evening light, so you can see the lights come on. Everyday is a festival here, with music and lights and dancing. Stalls that sell all kinds of foods, and nuts and souvenirs. Each step of the way you find something that catches your eye. Clay flutes that look like little pots. Crickets in tiny cane cages, like keychains — in Xian, the sound of the cricket is considered musical and brings luck. Don’t miss the ‘jing gao’, the rice cakes, and ‘shi zi bing’, the city’s famous parsemon cakes. Xian is also home to its distinctive dumplings — little doughy bundles of full of delicious meat and veggies, each bite soaked with flavour.
A tiny lane off Muslim Street leads to the local mosque. Here, the stalls come closer together and the bargaining is fiercer. Chinese kaftans and cheap cotton t-shirts compete for attention with antique silver and stone jewellery that is a unique mix of Chinese and Muslim designs. Narrow streets crisscross and run into one another, turning in on themselves in to a maze of bylanes.


A time for celebration
Walking out of Muslim Street, it feels like you’ve left behind a older century and entered a new one. Xian has the wide streets and well-behaved traffic that is typical of most Chinese cities. Broad sidewalks and boulevards encourage aimless strolls past the Drum tower and Bell tower at the city’s centre. Each inch of the monuments is lit with tiny yellow lights, looming in the night as the backdrop to so many Chinese kites snaking skywards through the evening breeze.
In the square between the two Xian landmarks, a boisterous celebration is on, celebrating the launch of a new energy drink. There’s music and contests and ice sculptures, and streams of melt water at our feet. I like the lemon flavour more than the orange, and as I nod my approval, I get offered a second; ‘Welcome to China’ says the beaming face attached to the hand extending it to me.
Suddenly the music changes to a more steady, urgent beat, and tall beautiful models walk on to the improvised ramp, their heels clicking in time with the music.

A slice of life
Xian’s two main streets cut the city into four quarters, like an orange, The Bell and Drum tower like the pits in the centre. Heading east down Main Street, I walk past the more modern shops, the McDonalds and the KFCs, the international brands that are booming in a China where suddenly everybody has more money to spend on clothes and eating out. And then all of a sudden are the souk-like bylanes. Offshoots from the streets full of designer labels that meander into no where — displaying women’s knick knacks like hair clips and cosmetics on one side, and fresh meat and seafood and nuts on the other — and beckon to you in with the friendly babble that your can hear from far away.
It’s these little surprises that make Xian the sort of place where you want to finish off the main sightseeing spots on your agenda quickly, so you can spend the rest of your time walking around, exploring. It tempts you to stop and watch the kites soaring in the sky, to listen to the haggling at the shops, watch the musician’s fingers fly over the holes in his clay pot flute, to sip a beer sitting at the park benches and take a late night walk on the lit ramparts of the city walls.
It also makes you wish you were in the city on a Wednesday, so you could find out for yourself if the rumours you heard of boisterous noisy cricket fights held during the weekly market in the Muslim Quarter that could put the cock fights of old to shame are true.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on December 6

ascending to the clouds

Chinese cities are a lot like Indian ones. Always bustling and full of people. When you’re in a good mood, they seem vibrant and full of infectious energy, but when you’re tired, they’re noisy and exhausting and all you want to do is get away. It was on one such formidably sunny day in Shanghai that we slipped away to Wuxi for an overnight trip.
Wuxi is the home of the Lingshan Grand Buddha — an 88-metre-high bronze statue of Sakyamuni Buddha — the largest Buddha statue anywhere in the world. It was built only in 1996, but is already very popular not just among Buddhists, but other tourists as well. So you’re likely to encounter crowds here as well. But don’t worry, the serene and large grounds some how just swallow them up.
I couldn’t have asked for better weather when I visited. The sun hid behind the clouds and a light drizzle made the surrounding hillside cool and green. Standing beside the Maji mountain, facing the Taihu lake, the statue made for a majestic sight. But the best part was that it wasn’t the only thing there that caught my eye. At every step right from the entry to the 216 steps that lead up to the statue, there was yet another glimpse from the life of Buddha.
Like the massive bronze pillar, topped with a lotus bud, that you see, as soon as you enter. Four times a day, this opens up to the accompaniment of specially-composed music and a fountain show, to tell the story of Buddha’s birth. Or the statue of the laughing Buddha — if you manage to toss a coin into his mouth, you can be sure of good luck for the rest of the year.
There are engraved scenes from Buddha’s years of meditation in the forest, a temple for the faithful, and a 12-metre-high hand, an exact replica of the one on the statue, that you can pat and walk around for blessings.
But while the sights were fascinating, the best part was the secular nature of the place. It was both a pilgrimage for Buddhists and a sightseeing spot for tourists. There were people posing for photos and buying souvenirs. And there were those who knelt, shut their eyes and prayed. And still others, who came to sightsee, but stayed a little longer to light a few candles.

The long flight of stairs (216 steps) leading to the giant statue is called the ‘Ascending to the Clouds Route’.

The Lingshan Giant Buddha is 88 metres or 250 feet tall, which makes it about a 100 feet taller than the Statue of Liberty; Rubbing the toes of the statue brings good luck.

Turning a cylinder once is the equivalent to reciting the scriptures once. You can walk around the Sutra-turning corridor and turn the 108 cylinders to earn blessings.

The fountain show called the ‘Bathing by Nine Dragons’ takes place four times a day. While the rest of the pillar is bronze, the baby Buddha statue placed inside the lotus is gold-plated.

The statue of the plump Maitreya Buddha and the babies tickling him are a traditional expression of people’s wishes for a happy and prosperous future. Managing to toss a coin into his mouth brings luck.

An engraving that shows how Buddha meditated under a Bodhi tree for seven days and nights, suppressing the inner devils.

During the construction, when the hand was left sitting at the site for a while, people began burning incense to the hand and rubbing it to show their devotion. Seeing its popularity, the administrators left the palm there and a cast a new one for the statue.
A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on September 28.

the boatman's song

As a 12-year-old, Venice had made a great impression on me. The stone foundations loomed straight out of the water, music pervaded the canals, and there were arched bridges everywhere. I liked nothing better than standing on a bridge, head hanging down, watching the boats go under and out of my vision, listening to the songs of the gondoliers.

Earlier this month, I revisited that memory. Standing atop a bridge, looking at the reflection complete the arch and make a circle in the water. And the line of boats floating through that circle, making the reflection ripple. But the music was different. A Chinese boatman’s song, its cadence like a heartbeat, falling and rising with a reassuring regularity.

That weeping willow-lined canal, and the old houses beside it, is part of the Venice of the East. The name belongs to the city of Suzhou and the small townships around, that are well known as the few remaining water townships in China. But development and progress have taken the water out of Suzhou, leaving behind only the ancient private gardens and tall, modern buildings.

It is only in smaller townships like Zhou Zhuang and Tong Li that fragments of an old way of living have been lovingly preserved. Though often you wonder if the preservation has come at a harsh cost — the houses along the canals have become shops, selling painted likenesses of the town, flutes, jewellery, tea sets, and the locally grown Grandma’s Tea. There are new houses being built along the canal, but they’re mostly vacation condos, part-time homes for the rich of Shanghai.

But, then again, if you look around carefully, you’ll find that under the veneer of commercialisation, life does continue in the old way. In the way the lady at the teashop scurries to her house in a back alley to fetch fresh snacks; in the older, nuder boats that you spot in side canals, so different from the ones ferrying tourists up and down. And long after you’ve left, the boatman’s melody will replay in your head, and you’ll know that it’s rising and falling cadence has always been that way.

A version of this will be published in the Hindustan Times tomorrow

the Fellowship of the Wall

When we set out there were four. But one by one, my companions dropped behind, daunted by the seeming endlessness of our path, the steepness of the hurdles, the unflagging manner in which they just kept coming in our way.
One was lost in the very beginning. Daunted by the harsh sun beating down on the unprotected mountaintop. Another dropped out just past the halfway mark; spirit unflagging, but the body demanding rest. My third companion gave me company for long. But at last, she too fell by the way, gasping out her parting words, “So. Many. Big. Steps.”

So many big steps
That statement from Rainy, my friend in Beijing, who came with me to the Great Wall, had to be the understatement of the trip. “So many big steps” could not even begin to describe our attempt to walk the Great Wall (though why the act of going up and down the stairs that make up the Wall is called walking, I don’t know).
Surely, there would have been bits where the Wall dipped before climbing again, where the steps must have led down, instead of up. But I don’t remember these bits. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t climbing, my eyes set at the last tower that I’d promised myself I would reach. A time when I wasn’t surprised when the baby steps that I was climbing three at a time, suddenly changed into an enormous boulder (a big step in Rainy’s lexicon) that I had to clamber over.

In the beginning, it’s always easy
As is usual with these things, at first I had no idea just what exactly I’d let myself in for. And there were absolutely no hints.
There are four access points to the Great Wall around Beijing that are open to the public. The most popular is Badaling, two hours from the city, well conserved and in some ways the newest, since it’s constantly being made safer and more comfortable for tourists. But I wanted old stone, really old stone. So I went to Mutianyu, a less popular and hence less developed, and so for me more fascinating, section of the Wall. The drive itself, through beautiful countryside and mountain views, convinced me that I’d made the right choice.
We stopped on the way to buy the biggest, juiciest peaches I’ve ever seen, the colour of winter sunsets. And fresh nuts of all kinds — macadamia and hazelnut; chestnuts and walnuts of three kinds — roasted to crisp perfection. There were several little roadside restaurants, the Chinese equivalents of highway dhabas I imagine, with little fishponds where you could catch your own meal, and I pre-picked the one where we would stop for lunch on the way back.
At Mutianyu, a ropeway took us to the entry point into the Great Wall. Without breaking into the slightest sweat, or straining my little-used muscles at all, I was atop one of the greatest wonders of the world, the Great Wall. So excuse me for thinking that the rest would be just as easy.

Knowing when to stop
Just being on top of the Wall isn’t enough, one has to ‘walk’ it. Since the five people who came before us had started walking to the left, I obviously chose to go right. As we made our way to the first tower, it seemed as though the sun had decided to concentrate all its power into a single beam focused right on us. Taking cover in the tower, my companions pressed for a break, but I egged them on. It didn’t help that a cheery little lady selling chilled beer, juice and water, sat under an umbrella by the tower, looking calm and not-sweaty. I blame her completely for the first dropout from our fellowship; she swayed my mother with the promise of shade and cold juice.

Depleted, but not beat, the three who were left pressed on. Another tower came and went; and another. A boarded-up guard’s hut. And pretty Luna from France, leaning against the wooden wall, reading. The Moroccan man and his pregnant Belgian wife, slowly climbing the stairs, resting in the tower.
The towers were tiny oases of shade, community spots where you didn’t need to speak a common language to get along; just that feeling of “so many big steps” writ large in the wan smiles you exchanged was enough to build a sense of camaraderie, the sense of a shared experience.

Reaching the top
I kept climbing mechanically, my hand trailing along the wall, as though touching the surface could give me a sense of the years it had stood. The more I concentrated on the details, the lesser I noticed the fact that I was still climbing, or that I was now alone. I marvelled at how green the moss was, growing in the gaps between the large stones of the wall. The way the stone steps seemed to change colour depending on the angle at which the sunlight hit them.
When I finally did reach the top, with the sign stopping visitors from going any further, I’d somehow forgotten that I’d been climbing. But only until I turned around and saw the wall undulate on the mountainside behind me. Then there was nothing for it but to find a shaded spot and marvel at the distance I’d come, and how little it was compared to the length I could see stretch out before me in the distance.

Not everything that goes up, comes down
The return should have been all downhill. After all, what goes up, must come down, right? Not with the Great Wall. I can’t quite explain the physics of it, but I swear on the beautiful linen skirt I bought on discount in Shanghai (for about one fourth what it costs here), at the Great Wall, you climb up to go down.
Even so, going back didn’t take as much time, gathering my fallen comrades along the way, telling other sweaty climbers that yes, that climb was definitely worth it. But if you thought the adventure was over, think again. To go back down from the mountain, you have several options. The cable car or the ropeway. Or the one that we took, tobogganing down a long slide that snakes through the mountainside right to the bottom. Just plant your bottom on the tiny rubber cart, grab on to the lever that is both your brake and accelerator, and remember to lean into the turns!

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on August 14.

Decked up

From the moment I get into a taxi and pull out of the Beijing Airport, all the signs are there. From the red flags fluttering on poles along the expressway, welcoming participating teams, to the five rings painted on the main lane, restricting it for Olympic vehicles only. Beijing is clearly a city gearing up to host the 2008 Olympic Games.

Olympic flags line the streets

The main lane is retricted for Olympic cars only.
Most people follow the rule

All construction in this fast-growing city is at a standstill for the Games, the sites cordoned off with neat facades. Like a soldier dressed in a new uniform, the creases neatly in place, the city too is decked up – manicured lawns line the roads, hedges are pruned just so. Fully-grown trees have been transplanted from nurseries to the sides of roads, propped up by tripod-like supports. And it seems like all the flowers in Beijing have conspired to bloom just now, to wow the crowd of visitors here for the Games.

What size tree you want?

Tasteful flowers everywhere

There’s no sign of the dreaded traffic I’ve heard about. On even dates, only cars with even number plates ply on the roads, odd numbers on odd dates. The off days of working people across the city have been staggered across the week, so that on any given day, there are fewer people on the roads. And in offices across the city, employees have been encouraged to take their annual vacations during the Games. A couple I met at the airport, practising Buddhists, were on their way to India, on a pilgrimage to Varanasi and Bodh Gaya. They could stay a week or a month; their office was okay with both.

Posing with the Fuwa

The Fuwa, the five cheery mascots of the Games, are everywhere. In the foyers of malls and shopping centres, with little children posing next to life sized figures. And on keychains and bags and scarves and any kind of souvenir that you could possibly want at the many Olympic Flagship Stores in the city. There are even miniature working models of the Torch to be had, but they cost a pretty penny. Looking for a bargain, I wander off a branch of the bustling Wangfujing Walk Street and find myself a Fuwa t-shirt for just 20 RMB.

The sheer variety of Olympic souvenirs is overwhelming

At Tiananmen Square, last minute preparations are still on. I watch wonderstruck as a large crane gingerly lifts a single flowerpot at a time, placing it in its rightful place in the Olympic logo taking shape right before my eyes. Next to it is a replica of the Nest, the impressive Olympic Stadium.

I was impressed by the precision of the exercise

the nestplica!

As I look around, a policeman walks up to me, warning me to hold my bag closer in the crowded Square. He points out the police booth, where I can go if I need assistance. And he’s not the only one willing to help out. There are volunteers everywhere; only some speak English, but all are ready to engage in a game of dumb charades and lend a hand if they can.

When the sun sets, the faint smog hanging over the city glows lightly orange. The lights come on, and I spot the clock outside the National Museum, counting down the hours to the 2008 Olympic Games in bright yellow numbers.


A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times today.

One night in Kathmandu

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on Saturday, November 10.

Urban Gypsy - Kathmandu

What struck me first was the number of children in the waiting crowd. While I was trying to psyche myself into bravado, they were running around fearlessly. Playing catch and almost tripping over the priest, while I found it hard to look away from the buffalo waiting to be sacrificed. Oblivious to the children’s antics and the flutterings in my stomach, the priest was meticulously laying out the ingredients of a familiar ritual.
There was going to be a full moon in Kathmandu that night…



Heart of the old city
We’d rolled into Kathmandu late the previous evening. Tired, but hungry, we headed out in search of dinner. But walking through the tourist district of Thamel, it felt as though we’d been plunged into some postmodernist dystopia of neon lights, loud music, drug pushers and American convenience stores.
In the brightness of the next morning, Kathmandu seemed friendlier. Ready to make the most of our only day in the Nepali capital, we headed to Durbar Square. The complex comprises the Royal Palace that was the home of the Nepali rulers till recently and about 50 temples. Closed to cars, it’s perfect for a long mid-afternoon stroll, weaving your way among the temples. The lack of traffic means it’s a convenient hangout for local teens and couples, as well, sitting comfortably on the large stone steps. Exploring the temples took us a couple of hours, but the one that really caught my attention was the Kumari Che– the temple to the Living Goddess. The young girl looking down at us from the balcony had been selected as a reincarnation of Goddess Taleju at the age of four. According to tradition, she would stay at the post till she reached adolescence. I wondered what life for her would be like after that.
The only way to know was to speak to a former Kumari. We found out from a priest that a former living goddess, Rashmila Shakya, lived close by and decided to track her down.
But before that, we had another appointment.



As the moon looks on
At one corner of the Durbar Square is a temple of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati. We’d been told that every full moon, a goat and buffalo are sacrificed to them and their idols washed in the warm blood. Animal sacrifices in a crowded square in the capital city? This I had to see.
The sacrifice began as the sun started to dip below the horizon. Two men rapidly trussed up the goat and slit its throat before the altar; warning onlookers to step away. A collective gasp went through the crowd as the goat’s life drained out of its body, one plaintive bleat silenced even before it was over. Finally, the severed head was placed before the idols. I willed myself to look, thinking that if I could eat meat, I should be able to watch or be called a hypocrite.
The buffalo was trussed up next; its mouth roped shut, legs tied together. Unlike the goat, which could be lifted to the altar, the buffalo posed a problem for the men. To ensure that the blood reached the idols, its throat was skinned, a vein identified and slit; and a foot planted on buffalo’s stomach to apply pressure and pump the blood out. It was gory, yet not one person, including all the children, looked away. We were all held in place by morbid fascination.



In search of a goddess
Walking through the narrow streets of old Kathmandu, we tried to shake off the impact of what we’d seen and look for the Kumari. Once we found her locality, it was easy to get directions to Rashmila Shakya’s house; goddesses are well-known. And though we turned up unannounced, she agreed to meet us.
One would think that the transition from divinity to mortality would not be an easy one. But Rashmila Shakya seemed to have managed it with relative ease. There was dignity in her shyness, and even her ‘flaws’ had a touch of the divine. She doesn’t speak fluent English because conventional education was thought unnecessary for a goddess. And she has two balding spots on either side of her head, the result of having her hair constantly pulled back in the hairdo of a Kumari.
She was once at the head of processions that thousands participated in; today she is an IT engineer, applying for jobs like any other 24-year-old. Yet, she doesn’t think that her two realities are incompatible. “The way I think of it,” she said, “I’m luckier than other people because I have had a chance to live two different kinds of lives. I miss feeling that importance sometimes, but here I am among my family, and they make me feel an important part of their lives.”
She talked to us about growing up in the Kumari temple, its rituals, about returning home to family life, and being the only Kumari who is a graduate. As we said our goodbyes, I managed to get her to recommend her favourite Nepali dishes.

That knockout Roxy
The first thing we did after leaving her house was to write postcards to our families, “A goddess recommended my dinner menu!” The second thing was to go to a restaurant in Thamel and order those dishes. Kathmandu’s coup de grace in a day of sensory overloads was a mud tumbler full of ‘Roxy’, a local brew that came with the food. She’s a knockout, that one.


The brilliant photos were taken by Akshay, who learnt something about himself that day; that when he's behind the camera, he can take just about everything.