A story: Of four women on a road trip in India

"If you need soda or sprite for the evening, please get it when you go to the waterfall." informed the caretaker of the homestay when we checked in. 

It was almost time for lunch. The plan was to explore Elle Neer waterfall before sunset.

The caretaker's  simple and matter of fact suggestion implied that we may be pouring a glass or two of our chosen poison at the end of the day.

So what's the big deal?

Nothing, really. No big deal.

But there's a reason why I'm sharing this here on my blog today.

Let me explain.

Almost a month ago, I read Deepa Krishnan's facebook post of 21st July 2018. Her post was about the "singular lack of multiple narratives about Indian women" vis-a-vis women's safety in India. Krishnan had shared this Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's famous TED talk video focussing on the "danger of a single story" and written, "If you keep telling one story it becomes the defining image of a people." on her post.

Something in those lines nudged me to tell my story, our story: a simple story of four ordinary Indian women travelling from Bangalore to Kudremukha for a weekend to trek, to share dreams and disappointments, to laugh out loud, to make fun of each other, to plan the next rendezvous, to enjoy delicious food, to sip fresh filter coffee in the morning and vodka tonic in the evening, to ask for spicy peanuts to go with the drinks in the evening as easily as demanding (politely, of course) bhajias with coffee. 

Some of you who've read the last para may think: so what's the big deal? Where is the story? 

And therein lies my point. There is no story to spin. Four of us: all women, travelled in a car driven by a woman, found a beautiful home-stay to spend two nights, trekked a bit, got very, very wet under a waterfall, got bitten by leeches, cackled over silly jokes and then travelled back to our homes, lives, jobs, husbands, children etc. --all in one piece without a single man bothering us in any shape or form. 

The roads were Indian and the humans who guided us to step carefully over slushy mud to see a gorgeous horizon or to bathe under a thunderous waterfall were men (yes, Indian)--gentle, kind, caring men. Indian men cooked delicious dosas and prepared hot steaming coffee on demand and served us our food with a smile. 

The humans who sat and chatted on the little porch overlooking the gorgeous green and grey of tea gardens smothered in fog were all men, too: c0-owners of the home-stay called Thengaali. They were happy to receive feedback on how to make their place even more comfortable for future guests from our group of four women. Apu pointed out that they should put extra hooks for clothes in their bathrooms. They nodded and promised they'd get that sorted.

This is the 'other' story--the one that is repeated day in and day out in streets and on roads of India but never ever gets reported. Why? Is it because it's inconsequential? Or, perhaps, it's not spicy enough to sell?

Of course, there are exceptions. There are parts of India where we're less likely to travel like we did from Bangalore to Kudremukha. Those kind of places and areas exist in every nook and city of this world--from Chicago to Birmingham to Jakarta. Common sense should be the first thing you pack when you plan a holiday whether you're a man or a woman. 

There are states in India where the caretaker will not be happy to serve you sprite or soda with vodka--whether you're a man or a woman.

There are men who'll be reading this post and wondering how my husband allows me to go off gallivanting with my girlfriends like this.

There are women who'll be reading this post and wondering the same. Perhaps there will be more women than men. I don't know.

Perceptions and prejudices are part and parcel of the human story. I'm not an expert but I'd say prejudices and perceptions are evolutionary tools that helped us get to where we are today. One perceived danger and avoided it. Over time that perception morphed into prejudice. Or perhaps it did so when we lived as tribal nomads. Thus, helping tribes to keep their own safe against perceived or actual danger from other tribes.

That was then. This is now. We have moved from tents to tower blocks, but we insist to carry those prejudices with us like second skin. 

Single narratives protect and nourish this second skin.

Everything you feel, goes through the pores of this second skin. It becomes your reality. If you don't know otherwise, what you know becomes your truth--you don't question it.

So, the whole point of this post is to present a side of India that doesn't get talked about much: the safe and unbiased side--where men are so comfortable with themselves and their place in society that they have the courage to treat women as an equal and advise them to stock up on soda and sprite before the corner shop up in the hills of western ghats shuts for the day. 

It's become fashionable to call such men feminists these days. I'm married to one such man. He seems normal to me. 

After reading Krishnan's post, I've decided to share examples of ordinary men and women in India who live a life of equality as often as I can. I want to infuse my two pennies worth into the human narrative of the country I was born in.

I'm aware that reporting and talking about men behaving badly is very, very important. I'm aware that drinking alcohol is not a measure of liberty for either men or women. I'm aware that there is a long and arduous journey ahead of us before women can feel truly equal to men--not just in India but everywhere in the world. I may be a dreamer but my feet are firmly grounded in reality. Yes, I'm aware of the stark naked unfairness so many women face every day. 

But, stories that are ordinary and mundane and not anti-men also need to be shared. Otherwise, we are in danger of painting a single 'image of a people.' 

What's your story? Please share instances of 'good' whenever you can, no matter how small or inconsequential it may look.

Leaving you with this cheerful portrait of Ms. Bano (I forget her first name: sorry) who is a Gujjar from Madhya Pradesh. She, along with her family, is hired as a tea picker to work on daily wages on this tea plantation in the Western Ghats.

Enjoy a happy and peaceful weekend.

a gathering of drops on moss in a liberal democracy

every drop

has her own point of view.
the village of clouds that raised them is a liberal democracy.

even today
when they gather together
on a mossy bench,
they share their stories
the way their rain mother showed them to:

Fearless.

Free.

Un-filtered.

a complete collective
of eclectic points of view.

It's been a long absence from blogging for me. I'd thought I'd take a couple of weeks off after the April blogging challenge and get back to my regular pace in June. But June became July and July turned to August and apart from my short shares on Insta, I haven't written much at all this summer.

It's been a summer of amazing reads and graduations and short trips to those graduations and one to a monsoon soaked western ghats (near Bangalore) where the above two pictures are from. 

I hope you've been well and happy.

Travelling opens up ones horizons, they say, but it also highlights the polarization of thoughts among people who choose to feed on news as their source of intellectual nourishment. If I had my way, I'd put this statutory warning on every news item that peddles the us and them junk: "This is injurious to your and your planet's health." 

It's been a summer of listening and absorbing so far. And if political narrow-mindedness has shocked me for I found it in the most unlikeliest of places: on the lips of an evolved dear friend, some attitudes and stories I've witnessed have made me jump with joy for their open-mindedness and acceptance, even though I found those in unlikely corners too--far away from the city, in the words of ordinary and not very educated men. More about that in my next post.

Have a super Sunday dear readers and I do hope to get back to blogging a bit more regularly and visit all of your wonderful blogs too:)

X is for Xavier's College Canteen in Kolkata #AtoZChallenge

'Your one month's tuition fee is more than what my father paid for my entire education.' my husband often points this fact out to our son who's studying for his grade 12 exams at the moment.

Our son, like our daughter who's now at university so out of her father's earshot, hears this every now and then, especially when the topic of university fees comes up.

My husband likes to point out to them that he was awarded a scholarship in high school which not only covered his tuition fee, he even had a bit left over which became his pocket money. Yes, he's not winning the most popular Dad award any time soon. He's an Indian father whose two primary concerns at this point in time are:

1) his son should work hard to get the grades he needs to go to the university of his choice.
2) his son should know that money doesn't grow on trees.

June, 2016. My husband's alma mater informed him that if he didn't collect his degree (which had been awarded to him 25 years ago but he had failed to collect it as he was not living in the country anymore) it would be sent back to the University. And anyone who knows anything about offices in universities of India will tell you that it's easier to find a needle in a haystack than a piece of document you've worked hard for.

So one hot and humid June afternoon in 2016, we found ourselves immersed in his recollections of his dear St. Xavier's. One of his college friends joined him and the two of them dipped in and out of anecdotes from their days, teachers they loved and the ones they loathed, stories of wearing two or three underpants on days of caning etc.etc.

'What's your favourite memory?' I asked

'The only really clear memory I have is the 8 o'clock break. Bhookh zor se lagee hotee thee --we would be starving so we'd run down the narrow staircase to head to the canteen to be first in line for luchee aaloo and samosas.' 

College started at 6.00 am for them! 

Despite the heat, we relished luchee aloo (fried bread and potato curry) and samosas with tea that day. There's something special about sharing someone's food memories with them. It's a slice of their childhood you can taste. I think our children saw the boy their Dad once was and forgave him for his 'scholarship' toots (at least for the time being).

Jhaal Muri : jhaal means hot and muri means puffed rice.

It's a popular street snack in Kolkata.

No day in Kolkata is complete without a helping of this delicious, mouth watering, crunchy, tangy delight.

I used to stop by at a jhaal muri stall almost every evening after work.

 St. Xavier's College has its own jhaal muri waala. I was impressed.

My husband's friend made sure we were properly impressed so he gave the guy instructions on making a dish he makes for a living!

Yes, as Indians, we do love to give advice: lots of it and it's all for free:)

In case your taste buds are tingling like mine are right now, check out this recipe video:

It's Friday today. The husband is at home and he does make a mean jhaal muri. 

I reckon we'll have a snacky lunch today:)

*****

Do you have any food memories from you school days you'd like to share?

U is for Umshiang Double-Decker Root Bridge of Meghalaya #AtoZChallenge

"We build too many walls
and not enough bridges."
Isaac Newton

(Please note that there is some ambiguity about which Newton really said those words: 

Sir Isaac Newton or Joseph Fort Newton)

I was looking for a quote (I'm still feeling quite quotish. I blame Q!) when this one caught my eye.

We're back in Meghalaya today. Back in the home of the clouds and the wise Khasi people who almost 200 years ago devised an ingenious way to cross rivers swollen with monsoon rains by planting Indian rubber trees on the banks of their rivers and training the roots of these trees through hollowed out trunks of the Areca palm to form sturdy, long-lasting natural bridges.

For a succinct and extremely well written account of the history and ecology of this unique phenomenon, click on this BBC travel story , where Neelima Vallangi's professionally taken photos will make you go wow. The extract below is from the same link:

"There are many living root bridges scattered across the dense valleys of Meghalaya’s Khasi Hills region, but the most spectacular and arguably the most famous is the Umshiang double-decker bridge, which is more than 180 years old. It is found just outside Nongriat, a small village that’s reachable only by foot, about 10km south of the town of Cherrapunji. The bridge’s two levels span the Umshiang River, and local villagers are adding a third level, hoping it will further attract tourists. (Neelima Vallangi)"

And for a wander through these dense, humid, lush forests filled with insect noises, bold butterflies, spider webs and fallen leaves, come this way...

 We have to cross a few scary bridges first.

 Almost there

 Here we are

Wave and smile:) 

They're the  best group of girls to go gallivanting with in the greens of Khasi Hills.

The next hour was spent immersed in this cool pool of water. It's a welcome relief after climbing down 3,500 steps in the sticky sub-tropicalal heat.

The first time you step in, you squeal--the water is so cold, unexpectedly so.

You settle in and then you go 'ouch' -- little fish have started feasting on your feet even before you've made yourself comfortable on the mossy rocks.

Lots of hilarity, more squeals and squeaks follow.

I followed a pair of butterflies. 

Perched on top of a rock, sitting very, very still, I clicked lots of photos and a short video which I've shared on my N post.

It was time to start the climb back. 

Yes, 3,500 steps!

So glad I packed my folding fan.

You can always stay in the forest if you like. Arrangements can be made.

But, please, please take your rubbish with you. Or better still don't bring any plastic bottles or bags that you'll feel tempted to chuck anywhere you feel like.

These are people's homes and their villages. 

The Khasi people have looked after their trees and their rivers for generations.

As a visitor, you're morally bound to leave their heaven as you found it.

******

Have you built or crossed any bridges recently?

R is for Rally for Rivers #AtoZChallenge #RallyforRivers

Everything I am is thanks to a river. 

Indus Valley Civilization.

Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati.

My grandmother's stories.

The holy dips.

The picnics.

The films and even the shows on TV.

India's national anthem has them listed.

Rivers are mothers of civilizations.

Our mothers?

Really?

You call these polluted, dirty, shrinking trickles of stinking water my mother?

Are you out of your mind?

*****

#Rally for Rivers was an initiative started in India last year to nurture and replenish the rivers who've nurtured and replenished us for ever and ever.

 Sharing pictures of plenty today, 

of the bounty of 

these mothers of human civilizations.

First stop: Umngot River, Dawki, Meghalaya

(November 2017)

You'll find far better pictures of Umngot river if you google. When the time of the year is right and the light is good and you're good at taking pictures, you can end up with:

Photo courtesy: Google Imgaes

Yes, that's how transparent the river gets.

But ooing and aahing at photos is not the point of today's post.

Are we paying attention? Is the question.

Are we?

Sungudi Sarees drying on the parched River Vaigai, Madurai

(August 2017)

So full of colour, so full of sarees and yet this scene made me sad.

Greed at all levels: corporate, individual, community and country coupled with irresponsible consumption and lack of planning is making sure more and more of these rivers are assigned to the realms of legend.

 We may talk about them, write about them, dream about them, 

wish they were flowing among us

 when we face droughts and dry spells,

 but it may be (or will be) too late by then.

I understand that the planet has its cycles like everything else. 

Yes, rivers have changed courses all through human history.

Some like the Saraswati ended up underground even before humans built factories.

And today she flows only in myths and the Mahabharatha:

River Saraswati

(Sepetember 2015, Mana Village)

But, when did the rivers of this planet ask to be turned into dumping grounds?

When did our mother ask us to defile her?

The Sun sets on the mighty Brahmaputra

(November 2017)

N is for No to News #AtoZChallenge

I said No to News

in November of 2017.

Nothing on TV or in print made sense.

The theatrics, the wars, the stupidity of important people, the rapes, the murders, the cheating giants, the lying clergy, the ungodliness of holy men and women followed by more stories of displaced humans, hungry humans, dying humans followed by lavish weddings, IPL and football scores: words in print and uttered by newspeople deadened me bit by bit.

NO More! 

Enough! I said.

NO MORE.

I say NO to news.

And turned the telly off. 

But news sneaked in sideways, silently, like a stealth bomber:
invisible and indestructible.

Disguised as chat on coffee mornings, clinking along with the cutlery.
As face-less forwards on facebook and whatsapp finding its way to family dinners.
But before I could cry out: No More!
It would spill itself out on the floor--in full view--for all to see and comment on.
No mops were dry enough to soak it all up.
Dribs of it would linger and taunt me the next morning over clicking lunch boxes and goodbye kisses.

Then the weekend of 'M' post arrived with
news from Syria and then from India.
Its sharp shards muted me.
No words. No words. No words came to me that day. None.

News silenced me.

Silence is a place I visit often:
for there
resides the light within each darkness.

Silence settles me.
It feeds me morsels of hope
to carry on 
to do what I do
to do what I must do
to do what I have to do
to do a good job of being
of being human
of being a human being.

******

I'm feeling settled now.

The churning inside is less sharp, more gentle.

The sky outside as I type out this post is full of birdsong and feathery clouds. 

A rumble of thunder rolled a few minutes ago.

Perhaps, there will be rain in these parched parts.

Perhaps, there is hope for humanity.
Hope and beauty and kindness....
Sharing a short video I shot at Nongriat Village in Meghalaya last November.

*****

What have you said 'No' to recently?

Was it easy?

Has it worked?

M is for Mawphlang: of sacred groves, monoliths and promises. #AtoZChallenge

My apologies in advance for sharing an older post (written in November of 2017)in this challenge today.

My weekend has brought with it some unexpected plans which means that the time I'd assigned for writing the M post has been reduced to just ten minutes or so.

So, instead of marking an absence, I thought I'd continue with Meghalaya and share some more magic with you:)

Here goes...

But before you enter the sacred grove,

Take off the cloak, the mask, the camouflage.
Bring in the real you--
bare and brilliant
single and sufficient
older than time
younger than the last breath
timeless
formless
no body
no mind
no iffs
no buts
no good
no bad
no likes
no dislikes
no memories
no plans
no past
no future
no family
no friends
no ties
no loose ends
no laughter
no sadness
no highs
no lows
still
calm
eternal

a drop in the ocean
an ocean within a drop

Like a ripple seeking its shore

Come ...

meet your shore

He's been waiting for you all his life too.

More than four weeks ago, I found myself in this sacred grove: 

an old and protected forest in the East Khasi Hills district of Meghalaya, 

standing guard to the village of Mawphlang--

maw means stone, maw phlang: grassy stone.

A village, like many in this region, named after monoliths.

"Our Ancestors promised the Guarding Spirits of this land that we'd never build any houses near this forest, that we'd never take anything from the forest, that this piece of land is for the Spirits to roam and live. This is the promise our Elders made and we keep."

Basha, our guide, our soft spoken Khasi guide tells us.  

"This is where everything is prepared for the coronation.

Only the King and the Elders go on to the coronation from here.

The rest of the people wait here.

If the Elders forget to take anything they need for the coronation, they can not come back to fetch it. This is the place they must prepare before they carry on."

Basha continues.

I feel like I've stepped into the world of the Round Table and any minute now, King Arthur will appear.

This is where the coronation takes plays, says Basha, our guide with soulful eyes.

He speaks so softly, I have to still my thoughts to hear his words.

His pools of honey eyes gaze upon the trees, the moss, the mushrooms, the branches and the stones

like this is the first time he's stepped inside this scared place.

Listen...

The lime tree with his regal spikes

And its fruit that the birds ate...

Basha seems to know every inch of this almost 80 hectares of forest --
a sacred place: you take NOTHING from this forest
and even when you enter, you enter with good intentions.
No trees are cut, no branches felled, no fruit is picked, nothing is taken
but somehow the forest gives and gives.

There's a presence in this grove:
Ancient and Wise--
like a portal,
He beckons you
to step into the forest
and leave the jungle behind,
move towards a stillness
and cast the mad rush aside.

Basha, like many Khasi youth, is always there to show you around the Sacred Grove.
This symbiosis of man and earth:
of promises made and kept--
protected trees
 and sacred souls--
makes me wonder
why the rest of the us can't be more like the people of Mawphlang?

Step into this reminder of what we were really meant to be,
and how far away we have wandered.
Are we lost?
Is it time to head home?
Let's take the first step.
To be home.
To be.
Have a beautiful weekend.