The Western Sentinel

Far away from the dusty, tired roads of Mumbai, is the home of the Western Sentinel. The Guardian God of the West sits on his mountainous abode, looking into the west, a fact rarely heard of in Indian Temple Architecture. Our Gods look to the east; to look at the rising sun, to welcome a new day. In Ganpatipule however, he looks to the west, looking intently at the sea, perhaps aware of the dangers that could come our way; once again.

When you land here, you can feel the world slow down around you. Even the train station has none of the urgency one can think of. Straight from an R. K. Narayan novel, the station wakes up to welcome the trains and then go back to sleep again. At Ratnagiri, you can find the last memories of a forgotten Burmese King, held by the British, never to see his homeland again. Bit by bit, over the years in exile, he tried to recreate a piece of his home but it was never the same again.

The sea is treacherous around here; but beautiful. The beaches are quiet; devoid of humans and therefore of filth. It quietly rolls over the sands and within kilometres you can see the colours change from pristine white to jet black. Time moves slowly, allowing you to embrace it and feel every moment caress your cheek as it passes you by. The sea is calm and rolls incessantly into the night, playing music that can only be heard in silence. The stars come out in the night, visible without the incessant cover of smog over Mumbai.

The mangoes are everywhere. You can feel their presence as you drive by and the price does not frighten you off. The food feels distant and different from what you would have expected but then this is how cuisines develop locally and if you can find those small restaurants where the proprietors still make the day’s serving, you know you are in good hands. The most famous place to stay is the MTDC hotel and like most Government hotels the rooms are large and spacious and there ends the story. But the view remains outstanding from every single room.

But everything revolves around him. Everything, even the name itself, reminds one of the existence of the hamlet. He is not one who has the riches of his week-long avatars of Mumbai, neither does he have the imposing architecture of the Northern and the Southern Gods. He sits patiently, listening to the bells and to the sea.

Ganpatipule is not for the movers and shakers, it’s not for the throngs of followers. It’s for those who want to pause, even if for a bit.

The Silence of the Stones

It was mid day and the sun was bright, directly throwing his warm winter light on us. We were halfway through our journey and yet it felt we had seen nothing, observed nothing. High above the mountains of Ajanta, we stood looking at some of the best examples of art in Indian history. Ajanta is magnificent. And there is no other word that better describes the rock cut temples of Aurangabad.

Often you will find people telling you that travelling to Ajanta and Ellora is a day’s journey. They could not be more wrong. Every cave temple has wonders that you can stare at for hours. The paintings that you see in front of you are one of the greatest treasures of art in India. Year after year, craftsmen made these caves come alive with the most primitive of equipment, fuelled only by their passion to create.

Start your trip with Ajanta walk up the hills, the tourist guides and guidebooks will tell you that the best displays are in the first few caves. Do not believe them, rather take the entire journey and explore every cave. Understand the frustrations of the carvers of stone as they kept making the stones come alive. Listen in to their hushed silences still trapped in the stones. Listen to their dying footsteps as the royal patronage trickled to a close forcing them to leave the caves unfinished. Hear the faint noise of the religious chants as three religions coexisted for centuries. Look for the intricacies of the carvings; the brightness of the colours still remaining and try to imagine the interlinkages between the religions. Forget the babble of tourists and feel yourself transcend into a world of quiet scholarly studies and self-imposed mendicancy of monkhood.

Next day travel to Ellora. Start at Kailasa; for nothing else matters. Imagine a giant boulder. Men and women such as us will look at it in wonder and even if an inspiration seizes us, we will start chiselling away starting from the front. But imagine cutting through the rock from above and creating the abode of Lord Shiva on earth. Kailasa tells us of our own perfection; of the grandeur we were once capable of; of human triumph in pursuit of God or ungodly vanity of kings. Look at how Shivaism and Vaishnavism coexists under the same canopy. Once you have made your peace with the feeling of insignificance make your way to the left or right. The ancient rocks will tell you untold stories of Jainism and Buddhism. Look up at the Tirthankaras and the Bodhisatwas. They will smile down upon you and show you how their facial features changed with centuries.

As you walk away, tired but fulfilled, remember to leave the places clean. You owe it to your own future generations for Ajanta and Ellora need to remind us for our triumphs and our impermanence.

The Train

I love travelling in the train. Cars make me sleepy and worried about the driver sleeping off. Planes make me feel squishy and uncomfortable and pray for a boom in the deodorant industry. Trains, on the other hand, are cool. Well yes, the bathrooms could have been better, the seats could have been more comfortable and most importantly the co passengers a little quieter but trains give me something which no other mode of transport can provide at the cost – a time to think, reflect and eat. As I write this, I am crossing a station called Gondal. I do not think Life will ever bring me again to Gondal, but the fact is today I am here, at this moment at Gondal. Maybe the last time when Gondal was mentioned so many times in an article was when the kids at the school in Gondal were asked to write an essay on Gondal. (Btw Google told me later that Gondal was once a princely state)

Now enough of Gondal. I checked already, the food at the station was nothing great to bring to the wife sleeping on the bunk above.

Our fascination with trains started in Europe, where strangely we got flight tickets at a much cheaper cost than train tickets and suddenly had a new found respect for trains. A failed attempt to board the Palace on Wheels made our resolve even stronger. And then we fell off the social ladder and from being NRIs became your average Indian, two amongst our 1.2 bn. And we Indians, we love our trains, so much so that we paint the sides of every single coach red, with our Beatle leaf stains.

After 2 years of jet setting around Europe and South East Asia, we realized that we needed slower holidays. Ones where you could stop at a countryside in Punjab and do the DDLJ pose (still pending) without worrying about missing the bus or an amused shaking of the head of a French taxi driver. Another thing cropped up during a debate on our next destination. We figured that while we have admired the Thai Buddhist monuments, neither of us have ever seen Bodhgaya. That started the “See India” movement in the family.

Thanks to the distances between Mumbai and the really off the road places that we pick to visit, one of the world’s largest rail network is often the only way to reach. Even otherwise, trains might take longer but at our stage in life, the journey is as much a part of travel as the destination itself.

Trains show me the Indian countryside. The flamboyance of greenery, the ruggedness of the dry, arid mountains, the squalor of the small towns, the prosperity of the villages, the children heading to school on their cycles, the farmer tilling his lands, everything makes me connect to an India that I want to know and yet feel far away from. And once you know where to look, you get to see the differences in the greenery, you get to read the body language of the people waiting at an unmanned crossing, you see the hope for the future of your nation, you also see the pitfalls. And you learn.

Neither of us are picky. We travel light and therefore we jump on any compartment we get our hands on, rather IRCTC allows us on. So we have sat elbowing our way in a sleeper to get a cup of tea to the first class coupe where a banquet was spread out for us. And that allows us to meet people. No research reports make you understand SECs better than travelling in a train. In my honest opinion, a 12 hour train journey can be as rewarding as an in depth qualitative research. The train journeys help me understand India better than sitting at my desk. It shows me what Indians (if such a generalized term exists) are thinking, how they are speaking, what they are eating (always) or reading (rarely these days as they are always playing a version of temple run on their phones)

We have met exciting characters. Drunk Jats who want to discuss politics, angry Tamilians abusing every specimen of North Indian food, Gujjus who have bought enough food to feed the whole train and the occasional bong who will come and speak to you as soon as he hears a syllable of his mother tongue. Honestly, this is where you can grab the pulse of the nation – something the Indian tweeteratti will never know; at least not yet.

There’s another reason I love travelling on a train. It is the food I find at the stations. The best vadapav for example is found in stations just before you enter Goa and not in Mumbai as you would imagine. The chole kulche of Kanpur and Bareilly Stations still linger on in my mouth and the veg patties at the small halt en route to Shimla in the quaintest of stations can give any bakery in a metro a run for their money. The only places where I have felt cheated are at Burdhwan in Bengal where the famous Sitabhog and Mihidana found at the station is almost always sub-par and. But then Bengali sweets are the most delicate food items after sushi. The second is Ahmedabad. I just don’t understand why Ahmedabad can’t have good food.

Anyway, I wait for Rajkot as I write. The dhoklas at the station can be quite amazing.

Because I Trust You...

Respected Dr. Singh,

It has been a tough 24 hours since the news reports started coming in; news about the arrest of an old man in the world’s largest democracy.

But this mail is not about him. This mail is for about you and for you Dr. Singh; you who I have admired since 2001. That’s actually about 10 years later than I should have, but growing up in a communist ruled state where Marxist literature was easily available, you often have an one sided view of the world outside and I really believed at that point of time that you had messed it up. Nehruvian Socialism still had its hold on me and I really believed in the Public Sector to be the commanding heights of the economy.

As I grew up, I realized what you had done, maybe you were forced to the edge and had to do the unthinkable or maybe you actually had a plan. I believed it was the later. You see Dr. Singh; you were the one responsible along with the Chankya from Andhra to create my generation – the most confused generation in India’s history since the Midnight’s Children.

We grew up without McDonalds and with Doordarshan but as we went to college and started working suddenly we saw the world around us change beyond recognition. We got opportunities which were unimaginable to our parents. We finally believed that we were given the wings to fly and yet the 70s and the 80s held us back. We were born during the “License Raj”, we grew up in a country ravaged by terrorism and yet in a nation which some liked to call “India Shining”. We feel disconnected to those born in the late nineties; we are shunned by the ones born in the early seventies. We want to take on the world and yet we are afraid; we want free market economy where industry and merit will win over nepotism and yet we actively search for someone with a “connection”.

We are the ones forever indebted to you. And that is why, we believe in you.

You have the most unenviable job in this world and thus when you spoke little I thanked my stars that in a world full of “Argumentative Indians” here was my Prime Minister who did more than he spoke. Yours was the first government that was returned to power since Mr. Nehru in 1962. That’s how much we trusted you.

I respect Mr. Hazare. He has taken on the system almost single handed. But I respect my nation more. It gave him the opportunity to voice his dissent – till the arrest. And that’s when for the first time since 2001, my faith in you faltered a bit. “Life is never free of contradictions”. You had said it yourself. And this was so contradictory to my image of you.

Today, middle class India is baying for your blood. My belief is that they are less bothered about Lokpal or Jan Lokpal (though I must admit the bill presented to Parliament is not enough to control rampant corruption) but they are frustrated with the degree of corruption at every level of society and government and they want it to end. And they want you to end it, at least try to end it. But all they see is an old man taking on your government and asking you for an answer which seldom comes. And they rally behind him.

I do not today believe that the Lokpal can control corruption in office. If the CVC, CAG, CBI and an independent judiciary has been rendered ineffective by our system, there is little chance that another body will succeed. But I do hope that you take note of the sentiment and work towards strengthening the institutions that we already have. The 4 pillars of democracy - legislature, judiciary, executive and a free press – today are under siege because we have lost faith in the legislature and the executive, we are tired waiting for the judiciary to give its verdict and the press is slowly getting caught up in the race for TRPs. How can one trust the parliament if no one trusts their own elected parliamentarians? And we are ourselves to blame for this. We get what we choose based on who we choose.

Even after multiple allegations against your government, I have always believed that you have preferred to work in the background trying to work for us, the people, instead of wasting time and energy in answering every allegation.

Today I hope I was right in assessing you. I do hope you still are the right man to lead us. I do hope Dr. Singh you will remember your promise to us – “My top most priority is to deal with India's massive social and economic problems, so that chronic poverty, ignorance and disease can be conquered in a reasonably short period of time.”

In today’s world trust is an important currency Dr. Singh and I have put my entire life’s savings on you.

It’s not much but it’s all I have.

Yours sincerely,

Madhurjya Banerjee

(written by a very disturbed me after the entire country seemed confused over what was happening. Searched for the email address and mailed Dr. Singh the above letter. Not sure if it will ever go to him though)

Rage

Yesterday night I was angry, really really angry. Given the fact that few things ever perturb me to the point of anger, even I was surprised. But I had every right to be. My country was afraid yesterday night, afraid of fanaticism, afraid of the enemy within, afraid of a verdict that was necessary.

The city that taught me my trade refused me entry because the Government was unsure if it can protect its citizens. My own government spent its time and energy to ensure that the nation remained at peace with itself and did not tear itself apart. I was stuck in Mumbai keeping my work aside as the country had decided to stay in.

I felt impotent. I felt helpless. I felt naked. Everyone was afraid around me.

Way Way back in the second year of the decade when India slowly started on its journey towards economic decentralization, a young boy in Calcutta was deeply upset as his school decided to shut down for a week in the last month of that year. He could not understand why he was not being allowed to go to school. His politically literate family was also at a loss. Nobody knew why the country was in a state of confusion and shock. And he did the only thing he has known to do whenever he has faced a question. He read.

Sometimes questions have no one answer. He realized answers evolve as time passes by. And the same answer presents itself in different forms.

Hope the greatest intoxicant known to Man - As two young students in a lonely room in Vishwakarma Hostel believed with Samwise the Brave, “There’s something good in this world and it is worth fighting for.”

Panchaali

“Of all the women in Aryavat, in all of the times, you had to walk into mine when I had resigned to the fact I would never find one like you.”

During my days of obsession with Casablanca I had written this about the daughter of Drupad. But that was another time, innocence was not yet lost and heroes and villains were still in black and white. These days the mind was uneasy, the heart overcast with the shadow of lawlessness, the life was Godless.

The Mahabharata and I have had a love hate relationship since my childhood. It was too vast for me to comprehend and my loyalties kept shifting between the warring brothers and the master flutist. But whenever my mind asked questions The Mahabharata had an answer for them. But then even my liberal household had no answer for one most important question of Mahabharata – the one that Gandhari asks Krishna – “You could have stopped this bloodshed, yet you did not.”

They mumbled, saying the will of the Gods were difficult to comprehend, that the answer lay in the words of The Bhagvad Gita, “Yada Yada hi Dharmasya” but I was never satisfied.

The childlike questioning slowly gave way to an adult resignation. Sometimes you do not find answers for the will of the Gods and the minds of Mean cannot cross the deep chasms between them. Yet I forgot one thing. The answers come when you ask the right questions and when the time is right.

The answers draw them to you. But you never realize. Slowly, time covers up the memories that haunted your previous births where the same questions had manifested itself, where while dying under the Agnibaan of Arjun, you had sworn revenge, you, a small insignificant foot soldier under the banner of the mighty Duryodhan.

Suddenly Andha Yug was being performed at Prithvi and it blew away the dust of ages from the question – “Why did you not stop the bloodshed O Krishna?”

The play asked the right questions and yet gave the standard answers – the end of the Third Age of Man (with which had begun the final cycle of earth towards the Ultimate Destruction and the Promised Reawakening) had to begin with the 18 long days of battle. Dharma, Maryada, Veerta, all would be sacrificed and in the end would remain the cursed Ashwathama, carrying the sores of his ill doings, a constant reminder to those who remembered the decadence which had set in the Third Age of Man.

I loved the play, G did not. But then, the lady from Anga Desh told me to read a new book, “Palace of Illusions.” – Mahabharata through Drapadi’s eyes. I was not sure. In all my pompousness I thought how could someone tell me more about her. Wasn’t she the topic of hot debates between my sister and grandmother? Wasn’t she the one for whom bards had composed the powerful play “Nathbati Anathbat” (which I wasn’t allowed to see as I was too young)?

Somewhere someone smiled as if to mock me, to remind me that all my life I had never failed to find answers if only I had read, read and read some more.

Krishnaa – the beloved friend of the Cowherd, the greatest cook in the whole of history, the strongest woman from Indian Philosophy, the cause of the Great War and yet unlike Helen of Troy just not a cause but an active participant. In this land obsessed with fair skins, she was the first to show that the colour of Skin mattered little. Krishna the God, Krishnaa the cause.

Yet Indians never built a temple for her, neither revered her. The heroes of Mahabharata barring the Flutist would never be prayed to as they embodied all the failings of the Human Mind. In fact, in the sense of true Indian Justice, even He would not be revered for his role as a charioteer but as the simple cowherd who had spread the word of love.

But they were Men and Women as they should be. Plotting, conniving and yet resplendent in their glory of their deeds. We won’t pray to Karna ever and yet when we remember generosity we respect the deserted child who tore away the only shield from his cursed existence. We would hate Duryodhana and yet we know in our heart, he died like a true Warrior. We would honour Yudhistir for his truthfulness and yet shudder at what it led him to – a lone human amongst Gods.

The book was beautiful, perhaps a tad agitating for my Grandmother who still loved Karna and would not believe in what she called “the fictional account of his love for Panchaali”. Yes, it did not add to my knowledge of the scriptures but somehow it brought back to memory the more important stories.

And as I read the last few pages, pieces of the Jigsaw fell into place. “In this great battle, it is I who have died, again and again.” He needed the Great War to put an end to the wars. He needed on throne a just king who would rule the start of the Last Age of Man. He needed to give his flock one last chance of redemption.

The age of Parikshit is long gone. The world of men as we know it is on the verge of extinction and yet no body understands the answer of Yudhistir to the Yaksha, “Every day so many die and yet the rest go on as if they were immortal.”

But the promise remains, “If you ever need me, I will be there.”

And that was what Panchaali needed to know.

The Role is Filled

When S left for a new life, I was shattered. I didn’t know what to do. It was as if a part of my life had ended. Where else would I get to know about the latest in the Indian television? How would I know the complexities of Indian family drama that is shown regularly between 8:00 pm -10:00 pm? After all, there were not many friends who would agree openly that they saw these shows as often as their mothers.

The transition that people face when they graduate out of college is absolutely fascinating. From watching Scrubs throughout the night to watching Uttaran every day at a specific time is a huge jump. And most of the people I know become closet watchers. I remember a period of time in my life when watching “A Clockwork Orange” meant that something was achieved on that day. I was coming closer to what the masters were portraying on screen.

But then slowly Kubrik began to make lesser and lesser sense as I went about trying to comprehend the minds of the Indian housewife. And since then I have whistled along with the crowd at the premier show of Wanted on the single screens. That’s where my work is. That’s where I breathe life into my work. But few people understand this. Often, it’s completely incomprehensible for them to appreciate why the masses will still fill up the front rows for seeing Veer in the small towns across India. But then that’s how elitist societal norms operate. I don’t oppose it, I don’t give in to it and I look at it as a stage of my life that has passed since then. This is my back to the basics :)

Anyway, if there was anyone as prudish as I once was, it must have been H. So as I was cribbing to her about the loss of S in my life, she suddenly said, “Oh… which show? I would probably know.” I was stunned for exactly 22 secs. After that I remembered I still am not on per sec billing plan on my cell and I asked in a trembling voice, “Are you sure?”

She rattled away and it felt as if the church gongs were reverberating in the Valley of Hope. She would know, she would know and even if she might be amongst my friends who demand the maximum amount of “Bhao” it is worth giving it to her. She knows that Ammaji is not actually dead. And one of Dadisa’s sons is not her son!!!

She said she had a TV on her desk and typically watched all these shows. And I loved it. Paapi pet ke liye kya kya karma parta hain. Here I laugh the evil laugh. Now she cannot turn her nose up on hearing my desires to watch Veer :) and she can save me in the absence of S.

In an aside, why are people being mean to Sania Mirza? She has every right to call of her engagement. Everyone has and should have.

Btw what’s the exact English expression for Bhao?

The Rise of the Tier IIs

In marketing, when we do a geo-demographical segmentation of the Indian Market, we always speak of Tier II Indian towns. None of us have understood them; to be frank we are afraid of them. We do not know which way they will turn. We do not know what they will choose that will confound the most brilliant amongst us. My travels have taken me to quite a few of the Tier II and Tier III towns of India and what I have seen there amazes me. Here are a few of them and about the food I found in them.

Gaya – Gaya is old, decaying and just like any other Indian city has little care or concern for its sewage and garbage removal systems. The streets are narrow with vehicles and men jostling each other for space. In any other Indian city I might not have even noticed it but a pace near Gaya stood in stark contrast. Bodh Gaya is the classic example of the paradox of India. A 30 minute journey from Gaya, one would wonder how the difference between two cities can be so great. Tourism, it does work wonders for the economy of a region. While one would be afraid to venture out of Gaya at night for fear of a naxal abduction, Bodh Gaya is extremely serene and peaceful and serves the most amazing variety of momos. I haven’t had such great momos since I left Calcutta.

Darbhanga – One of the cities I want to go back to again. I had a very short time there but the grandeur of the palace and the broader than normal city roads made me immensely like the city. The palace grounds define the skyline of the city and for a moment you do get transferred to a time when India was an amalgamation of Princely states.

Jhansi – The land of Rani Laxmibai and yet she’s remembered only in the folk songs far away from the city. The only place of prominence where a statue of her was proudly displayed was in the cantonment area, away from civilian domains. In Jhansi, however I got to eat Bandh Makkhan; a really nice tasting bread with oodles of butter flowing out of it.

Bareilley – I did not find the Jhumkas in Bareilley which Nanda had dropped years ago. But I did find Dinanath Ki special lassi. It’s heavenly and pure and above all much healthier than the carbonated options around me. Bareilley also is pretty fashion conscious. It is a town where the fashion closely follows the latest trends without any show of skin of course. The old value systems are still there. Good or bad? Who am I to decide? But if a city can serve amazing Kababs, who’s complaining? And yes, it has its own Oberoi where I stayed. It’s just that it’s spelt a little differently.

Agra & Mathura – Apart from the Taj and Fatehpur Sikri, Agra would not count for much. In fact, its housing complexes and roads pretty much resemble those of any upcoming Noida locality. The other thing Agra should be famous for is its shoes. The quality is just astounding. Agra is good to you for foods. If anyone is eyeing good Rajasthani Thali at a Marwari Basha, Agra has quite a few of them. Of course, you should never forget the Pethas. Mathura on the other hand is almost a fortified city with the army and police guarding the Krishna Janmabhumi. But luckily they are not after the parathas. So if you want to have absolutely brilliant Aloo Parathas, please visit Asli Pappu Di Dhaba on the Agra Mathura Highway.

And mark my words… the Buntys and Bablis will continue rule India for the years to come.

My India

Sis never fails to surprise me. Be it a sudden phone call, be it her memory and attention to the most minute of details, she is always one step ahead of the smartest people I have met in my life. But yesterday she surprised me by sending in this picture.

They say pictures speak a thousand words. This picture perhaps sums up all that I have tried to say in my blog about the floods in Bihar all this while.

There are some people in this world who have the ability to laugh at anything life throws at them. And in these parts of India I have found such people aplenty. There are problems I admit, but then very few things in this world are perfect. We can opt to crib about what we do not have or fruitlessly blame the system or we can take a cue from people who are fighters to the very end. I have seen similar tales of grit and determination over the last few months. I have seen the same smile on the faces of people forced to abandon their homes.

At least the gentleman in the picture saved his last precious possession. I have seen Gandak destroy everything and everyone along its banks.

The Bus Journey

I love long rides on state highways in a bus.

When I was a small kid, I was exposed to one of the greatest cons of transportation. On one of our trips, dad eager to show his son a beautiful sunrise and also eager to see his son rise early, had lured an innocent me with the idea of a video coach. A small TV just behind the driver’s head is all you can expect at any video coach service. Like all disappointed kids I vowed to take a seat near the driver in any video coach I travelled by…ever. As I have travelled across the length and breadth of India on buses, I have figured out two empirical truths.

First, in every bus you’ll get a spurious cold drink seller and a chana/ chole masala seller and NEVER EVER will you watch a complete movie in a bus. Typically a movie starts as soon as the driver is in his seat and you’d miss half the movie by the time you get in. And the movie that starts after it, will never be completed by the time you get down. And just in case, you are lucky enough to be able to stay the entire time of the movie, you’ll fall asleep halfway for some reason or the other.

Though it’s fun to watch movies anywhere, it’s amazing to hear the comments getting passed as the movie progresses in a bus madly rushing on the highways across Bihar. People here ACTUALLY watch the movies being played and kids from behind come across and sit on your lap or squeeze into your seat.

Bus journeys also make you stand face to face with one inevitable truth. Most of us consider these journeys as a necessary evil and we wish for the time when we would be able to hire a car and would book it in advance. A little bit of observation near the door will make you realize that a sizeable population of our country are yet to achieve the affluence to be able to buy even this bus ticket and are forced to travel on rooftops.

The humiliation in their eyes on being refused admission by the driver makes you feel small, really small.