A Chennai full of stories.

Can you recall the first stories you were told? Did they come from books or from hearts? Were you tucked in bed or sat on a lap? Was it on cold winter nights or on warm summer days?

All of my first stories sprung from my grandparents: Beji and Papaji and a couple from my father.

A veritable mismatched pitara (treasure trove) of Krishna's antics, Rama's principles, the horrors of 1947 partition, the sweetness of the fruit that grew in their garden in Shinkiari in North West Frontier (now in Pakistan) mixed with faint memories of Beji-- of when as a little girl, she visited the tall Buddhas of Bamiyan (which are no more). She couldn't remember if someone in her family took her with them or told her stories of the tall Buddhas but she spoke as if she'd been there herself. Maybe she'd travelled in the descriptions she'd heard.

Stories hold that power: the power to transport you in time and space, in memory and in sense, in smell and in taste, in touch and and in feelings. Stories are like the threads of a tassel that bind us together as a family, a community, a country, a people, a history, a nation, a race and humanity. Stories trickle down traditions, read across pages of epics and race down memories. They escape lips and sound out that which we know has always existed within us as carriers of this cosmos, but love to be reminded of our place, our destinies, our heritage and our aspirations anyhow.

The distance between birth and death is as long as a story.

But don't be fooled into thinking that your story is separate from mine or that each one of us can package our own individual story in a neat little box and tuck it away. No, sir. Our stories are all tangled together, entwined and connected. We may be bouncing in our own private orbits and we may think that what we see and experience is unique to us and doesn't effect others, or vice versa, but in the end the trampoline of cosmos we're bouncing on is the same for all of us. Our actions send out ripples that go on and on--so it is important that we pay close attention to how we conduct our lives.

I digress. Sorry. So to Chennai...

Last month, on an early morning walk in Doha, Ambika mentioned that she'd be travelling to Chennai for work. 

She's a friend and a surgeon and she'd been asked to lecture/conduct workshops etc. at Chennai, Madurai and Tanjavore.

"Can I tag along?" I asked shamelessly. The cities she had just mentioned have been on my ever growing bucket list and I couldn't resist this opportunity.

"Of course."

The flights looked okay. That was that. I plunged into research to ensure my Tamil Nadu adventure would be a fruitful one.

Friends who live locally were contacted. Google was put in top gear.

I kept Dr. A informed of  the itinerary that was taking shape. She's a busy surgeon with just enough time to sleep at night. I'm a self professed traveller living off of my husband's salary, who can even take afternoon naps. 

"This adventure is beginning to  sound like Thelma and Loiuse." texted Ambika one day after I'd found a great home-stay off the beaten track.

"I like Ambika and Arti better." I texted back.

"Besides, I'm not planning to end like Thelma and Louise--not done with my travelling yet." I thought to myself. I didn't type that.

Instead, smiley emojis were exchanged. Bags were packed, flight boarded and we were off.

Thanks to a recommendation sent by Shefalii of Photoconcierge, we started our Chennai adventure with a walking tour conducted by Akila Raman of Story Trails. 

Trust me, you've got to experience it to know how amazing it is. We started at four in the evening  and ended at seven.  I can honestly say that those were the best three hours of story-magic I've ever experienced. 

Akila's passion for the place, her knowledge and her melodious voice all came together to take us on a journey that started on a hot July afternoon is bustling Mylapore in 2017 and after meandering through stories of Shiva, Parvati and their two sons and the one about the treaty signed by the Muslim kings who own the land on which sits the temple tank as well as the one about the pink saree that Mother Mary is adorned with at Mylapore Church, it ended with a strong cup of filter coffee and dosa. If I ever have a chance to visit Chennai again, any tour by Akila will be the first thing I'll add to my itinerary.

Akila told us so many wonderful stories and with such skill that I didn't feel like an audience. I was that little girl again-- the one who'd sit next to Beji on her clean kitchen floor and listen. And Beji would  open the portal of time and space and I'd watch Kanha steal butter. As if by magic, I'd become a character in Beji's stories. That's exactly how I felt that evening in Chennai. Thank you Akila and thank you Shefalii.

Spiritual pondering inside Kapaleeshwara temple:

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To enter the temple.

 Preparing for a festival. Story telling through dance and drama and all the colourful props.

Shakti worships Shiva. Yes, she's the peacock...it all links back to ancient texts and legends--stories as old as humanity.

Parvati and Shiva temples are adorned with red and white stripes. 

Perhaps, like the lingams, the colours hint at  the feminine and masculine energies of the universe.

Why do people whisper in Nandi's ear? 

Because he has the power to reach Shiva even if the latter is in the deepest meditative state.

And I thought secretaries are a modern invention!

Legends and beliefs aside, I whispered a little prayer of my own. 

If and when it comes true, I will let you know.

Akila with her audience:)

By the time we stepped out of the temple, the hot sun had decided to descend. 

The temple tank

The setting sun lights up the houses opposite the tank.

We had the privilege of entering the temple priest's house with Akila.

The shots that follow are from inside his home.
9 yards of silk and brocade hangs in the courtyard:

Earth can yield--lamps, bricks, pillars and slabs--same source but such different lives.

 Street food: served with love.

 The beautiful church in Mylapore.
It was built on the tomb of Saint Thomas and is known as San Thome Basilica.
It is a Roman Catholic minor basilica

Mary in pink.

I saw this rose on the floor of the temple priest's house and wondered how it got there?
Was it in a garland?
Was a woman wearing it in her hair?
Did someone leave it there on purpose?
And just like that, a story started taking shape.
That's how easy they are--these stories of our lives.

But remember this: we are the authors of our stories--no one else. It's only us. Always us.
And if we choose to play the victim, then it's our choice.
For my part, I choose to be the hero of my story--every time--
no matter what drama is unfolding around me.

What about you?
What's your story looking like this morning?

Holi springs colour

Photo Courtesy: Google Images

Flowers of Jungle flame aka Tesu ke phool

I love colour. Therefore, I love Holi. It's my favourite festival. As a child, drenched in the innocence of small town India, I played Holi with abandon, gulaal (colour) and dhamaal (utter madness).

Gujjia (stuffed and sweet pastry) and pichkaaris (water pistols) and Tesu ke phool (flowers of Jungle flame) occupied my thoughts and senses for days leading  up to Holi.

My sister, brother and I, along with half a dozen kids from our neighbourhood, would fill water balloons -- their rubbery necks stretched around the spout of a tap attached to a tank or any tap that was free to use. It didn't matter whose house we were in. Almost organically, a band of bandits would form. I remember, as a seven year old, I would hang out with teenagers and toddlers and our jhund (band) of mismatched heights and ages would behave like one organism, safe in numbers, with only one goal in mind: to play Holi. Angry aunties whose water supply would be in serious danger of running dry couldn't dampen our enthusiastic balloon filling quest one bit. The entire mohalla (neighbourhood) tuned into a giant aangan (courtyard) filled with multi-coloured faces, white kurta pyjamas and shrieking kids.

70's turned into 80's in Dehradun. Economic progress came wrapped up in plastic. Metal pichkaaris which worked perfectly well were replaced by plastic ones which looked better than they worked. The effect was never the same. The plastic water pistols squirted a frustratingly feeble trickle compared to the roaring jet of the metal ones. The shiny plastic button that one had to press hard to release the jet of water would break within the first hour of purchase. We would then use the fiddly things as mere holders of coloured water and unscrew the top or the bottom to tip the water over friends/foes to play Holi.

The novelty of these toys would wear out quite quickly and in the excitement of all the colour that had yet to be smothered, the poor plastic pistols would lie orphaned and abandoned in some neighbour's garden or worse, in a naali (open drain) somewhere. Until, of course, the mothers and fathers yelled at the children to go look for such an expensive purchase. They would, sometimes softly and often hysterically loudly, explain to you in front of the entire mohalla (neighbourhood) that it was your fault this cheap contraption had been bought in the first place and that it was you who had pestered them to get it by saying your Holi would be incomplete without it. Before long, the neighbourhood would split into us (the children) and them (the parents). Long after we, the children, had forgotten the yelling, heads of parents would be seen shaking to each other to the tune of, "Yeh aajkal ke bachhe...paise ki kadra nahin jaante." Kids these days don't know the value of money.

Collective and public telling off would be followed by 'discipline' in the privacy of homes, after dinner and before bedtime, when the probability of a neighbour dropping in unannounced was almost zero: a bit of ear twisting or a serious sounding threat to never buy you another toy for as long as you live or a stinging slap or anything that was seen as appropriate punishment by the respective parent. It all depended on how strict or kind your parents were.

Don't worry, neither the children nor the parents will remember this next year and the entire episode described above will get repeated, only the plastic pistols will change as those would've been bought new, you see.

Back to the actual Holi -- so when all the blubbery balloon missiles had been used up and almost all the powder colour lay plastered on us or the streets, and none of the pichkaaris co-operated anymore, we'd  resort to the 'balti ka paani'...the murky water in the communal bucket where everyone and their khandaan (extended family) had mixed their colour to fill up their pichkaaris and gubbare (water balloons).

We knew instinctively that once this 'balti ka paani' was over, our mothers would call us  back in to get cleaned up and become human again. In other words, Holi would be shown its 'THE END' slide as soon as the 'balti ka paani'  finished. Magically, the bucket never emptied.

"Bunty, enough! Come in NOW!" some neighbour would call out to her son/daughter.

"Abhi balti ka paani khatam nahin hua Mummy!" The bucket is not yet empty Mum!

Dehradun lost its innocence almost as soon as I turned twelve. Suddenly. Holi came with its own instruction manual. Do this, Don't do this. Go there, but not there. Don't mix with those people. Avoid boys at all costs if they were not from your family or neighbourhood.

For the first time, I was warned to look beyond the vibrant haze of Holi ke rang (colours) and take notice of the filth that may linger in the minds of humans dressed in pure white kurta pyjamas wearing colourful smiles.

Words like chhedd-chhadd (eve- teasing) and sexual harassment cropped up like weeds and took root, deep and damaging.

Back then, the burden of growing up was gifted exclusively to girls, innocently wrapped up in tameez (etiquette) and sanskaar (values)

 "Girls should play Holi sensibly beta... Mundya da ki hai (What of boys?)"

This rhetorical question bothered me! What of boys? Why were they never asked to be careful when they turned twelve? What made them different?

Hormones, tameez (etiquette) and riwaaz (traditions) muted the colours of Holi and for a good many years I played the censored version, called insanon wali Holi (the way humans play Holi). It wasn't bad but the rebel in me would look at all the gangs of boys hanging out on the chaurahas (intersections) without any curfews or restrictions and wonder why?

When I got married, my license to play 'jhallon wali Holi' (mad aka fun Holi) was renewed. My husband became my bodyguard and I'd go and play with abandon and dance like Amitabh Bachchan till my feet hurt and still carry on. My husband would hold his glass of thandai or beer and stand near me, not too close but close enough (he's not so keen on dancing). This way I'd be able to have my fun and not get hassled by eager or drunk revelers! Perfect!

The fact that I need a man (my husband) to feel safe among other men when playing Holi says a lot about this land of  Shakti and Kali and Rani Laxmibai and Sita and Meera and Durga.

Although I miss my bhachpan ki (childhood) Holi, to tell you the truth, these days I don't need balloons or colour or pichkaari or thandai to feel its abundant joy. Grateful to be alive, I like to relish the gift of a new day when I open my eyes in the morning to witness another day unfold, another flower bloom, another blade of grass kiss drops of dew, listen to birds sing a new tune or even an old one, watch the sky fold its cover of day and spread the sheets of night, speckled with stars. Everyday is a celebration of colour.

Every now and then, I do get sidetracked by the mundane busyness of the day to day ('functioning as a human' as my yoga teacher calls it) and then some unknown force makes me click on Sadhguru's video and I hear him say how one must smile when one gets up in the morning for it's a precious gift, this life we live.

"Notice the things that you are drawn to." says Anusha when we, her students, look up to her in wide eyed wonderment and some sprinkling of doubt on our quest to find who the real 'us' is.

I pay closer attention to my day. Paying attention brings up even more to be grateful for and even more to be joyful about. Holi no longer comes in a plastic packet of synthetic colour.

Spring sprinkles his colours and shows me the way. I follow with a smile.

Come and feast your eyes on the colours that a patch of green has yielded this spring. It doesn't get more blissful than this:)

Group shot:Onion, neem, cabbage, cualiflower, spinach, fenugreek, mulberry, basil and papaya

Ripe mulberry (almost ready to eat) Shehtoot

 Waiting their turn...the young ones.

Baingan ka phool aka Eggplant Flower

This shiny gem was made into a yummy baingan aaloo ki sabzi by my mother-in-law today.

Velvet and butter...the pretty pansies.

Blooming onion

Tomato flower

and tomatoes

Problem in paradise!

These two are not on talking terms: each waiting for the other to say 'sorry' first!

Yup..they're a couple.

I'm not sure what these flowers are called. I've always referred to them as local larkspurs.

 Zinnia

Lantana

I bought this sapling from a local nursery because I like the shape and colour of the leaves. 

Please enlighten me with its name, if you know this shrub.

Wabi Sabi

 Newly born neem leaves tickling the fluffy sky. 

Purple Basil in fragrant bloom

 Aparajita or Butterfly pea

Lit up and lighting up -- I love sunflowers:)

May I know how to nourish the seeds of joy in myself every day. May I be able to live fresh, solid, and free. May I be free from attachment and aversion, but not be indifferent.

— Thich Nhat Hanh

Thank you Archana for posting this beautiful quote.

One LAST offering: A ghazal written by Faiz 

sung by Tanya Wells.

Enjoy:)

Thanks Anu for sharing this gem.

Kagaz aur Kalam ( Pen on Paper: a poem in Hindi)

अरसे बाद आज काग़ज़ पर कलम आ रही है ।
विषृाम लगाया है आज बड़े बरसों के बाद ।
मुद्दतें बीतीं हिंदी लिखे --
माताृऐं मुशकिल में डाल रही हैं ।
जानती हूं खिचड़ीनुमा है शब्दकोष मेरा,

पर  Pilot  की नोक पन्ने पर यूं इतरा रही है

अरसे बाद आज काग़ज़ पर कलम आ रही है ।

याद आ रहे हैं वो fountain pen,
वो Waterman की शीशी, Royal Blue वाली...
और वो ink eraser जो उन दिनों rubber कहलाया करता था...
दाग़ कम, पन्ना ज़्यादा मिटाया करता था
शायद कुछ आजकल की राजनीति की तरह !
पर  Pilot  की nib पन्ने पर यूं इतरा रही है
चूंकि अरसे बाद आज काग़ज़ पर कलम आ रही है ।

याद हैं तुम्हें वो ink spots?
और वो blotting paper के चौकौर टुकड़े?
कितनी आसानी से छोटे-बड़े दाग़ मिटा देते थे वो ...
हमारी नादान ग़लतियों का विष चुपचाप पी जाते थे वो ।
 Keyboards की इस दुनिया में,
कहां से लाइगा ऐसे नीलकण्ठी blotting paper?
जो दिलों में भभकती इस intolerance की स्याही फो भस्म कर दें ।
Us और them की दूरियों में उलझ कर हताश हो रही है Pilot की nib,
क्यूंकि अरसे बाद उठी ये कलम, काग़ज़ पर आने से घबरा रही है शायद॥