Paddy Homestay is my kind of paradise.

"People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless."

says Mitch Albom in his book:

the five people you meet in Heaven

Swinging in a hammock which is tied to two tall and curvy coconut trees, under the canopy of dappled sunshine and lush green palm leaves, I re-read the last line. Something about solace strikes a chord. I underline it and read it again. Dipping in and out of slumber and wakefulness to the rhythm of the hammock and the balmy breeze, I ponder on the line with my eyes closed. The book rests on my belly; its covers closing slowly, almost in slow motion over the pink pencil I had used to underline solace, like heavy eyelids, simultaneously open and shut, awake and asleep, rising and falling, keeping pace with my breathing.

I am in paradise. Paddy paradise. Imagine a  place where:

A lush green field of paddy stretches as far as the eye can see. Fresh coffee is made with milk that is milked on site, by hand, in a bucket, by the farm hand while the happy cow munches on fodder in an open spot outside the kitchen. Warm fluffy rice is served with hot sambhar and vegetables. Yes, the rice is from the paddy field I'm currently in and the raw banana subzi I've asked a second helping of has come from the banana tree I was taking pictures of just this morning.

The banana that became subzi.

This is Heaven. But is it because I've found my solace or has the scenery around me put me in this state?

I guess it's like night and day, like light and shadow, this business of solace and scenery. One is needed to notice the other. A beautiful scene has no meaning if one's drowning in one's inner turmoil. A hungry belly needs food, not scenery. I get it.

But, is solace possible without scenery?

Can a peaceful mind find its paradise in a noisy, busy, dirty place? I'm sure some people who've found their zen can. But I'm not there yet. I need peace and quiet before I can sit and meditate or do yoga or read a book or cook or even do the dishes. I often listen to music while doing the chores. Even the walls of the house seem to relax when the notes start to float. Am I escaping the reality of dirty dishes in Sufi-land or am I orchestrating the notes of my scenery to arrange my solace?

Is this a form of escapism? Or is it a simple act of marrying the mundane with music so that if in the middle of the washing, one spots a rainbow, one dips into it first and then carries on with what needs to be done. To me, it's being in the moment, every moment: noticing it, accepting it, living it. If a few notes sung by Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan make the soap suds in my kitchen sink sparkle with colour, then why not?

Moments are the atoms memories are made up of.

And memories are the cells that make up life. Some parts of us remember love, our mother's cooking, the feel of that first kiss. Other parts remember the road back home, the bills that need to be paid. And then there's the part (the heart or the soul or whatever you want to call it) that remembers that this is a journey, that we are all finding our way--inching towards the destination that is our origin.

A simple act of making the bed in the morning or stepping out into the garden, or even looking out of the kitchen window and watching a bird flit from one branch to another, can make a big difference.

"Beauty surrounds us; but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it."

~Rumi~

Maybe, one day, while tending my plants I will dig into Rumi's words and loose all that I think I am. Maybe then I won't need to walk on green grass. But until then, I will continue to listen to music, stare at flowers for too long, hug my friends and kiss my family and cuddle in bed with a delicious book and create my own pool of paradise. And every now and then, I shall travel and seek out scenery that soothes for the world is beautiful and bountiful and I have finite number of days on this planet.

I open my eyes, hold the edge of the hammock to hoist myself up, swing my legs down to get up. The pink pencil escapes the book and drops softly on the red earth below. I pick it up and make my way to our room at Paddy Homestay--a slice of paradise in fields of paddy, cocooned in a grove of coconut palm trees.

Paddy Homestay came up on my screen when I was googling for a 'place to stay in Tanjavore'.  I clicked the link to its website. One look and a few review readings later,  I knew I'd found something special. 

What Ambika and I experienced while we stayed there was beyond any holiday experience. It was like visiting family (a loving and caring family). Thiru, Arul and their beautiful family made our three days in Tanjavore a precious memory to hold and to cherish. Their hospitality is that rare mix of efficiency, homeliness and love for their land that when you return home, you want to make plans to visit them again--soon.

One of the highlights of the stay was a bullock cart ride from the homestay to a village of potters and a popular temple nearby. 

Are you ready for some scenery? For a bumpy ride down a beautiful road in Tamil Nadu?

The sun is on its way to set.

Come on then. Climb up, hold on to the side rails--careful there!

All set? Let's go.

Children coming back from school and some going for evening classes.

The pots get a knocking with a wooden spoon to beat them into shape.

Patterns and prints are added with carved wooden bits.

The potter's children had come from school and were about to settle down to do their homework.

The two pots the smiley potter is holding came all the way with me to Doha:)

"You ride." says the bullock cart rider to me.
I obey.
I'm absolutely thrilled that he's offering me to take over and absolutely petrified when I do take over and feel the power of the animals travel from them to me via the reins I'm holding gingerly.
The bulls don't look too impressed, right?
Photo courtesy: Ambika

We park at the temple.
My legs are shaking a tiny bit but I'm grinning like a teenager who's just had his first taste of driving a car!

Setting sun. Stretching shadows.

Thank you Thiru and Arul for everything:)

*********

Looking at all the pictures above, you may think that such a place exists only in the lens of a camera held by a photographer who chooses to see what pleases the eye and ignores the 'reality' of life. Yes, I'd agree with you. 

There are serious problems that the farmers and potters of this region face. Almost all of their problems (economic and ecological) are the direct result of indiscriminate exploitation of land for farming, deforestation and ignorance of the people who make policies or even the ones who don't but who despite getting an education, prefer to ignore how big an impact big and small decisions made by individuals and governments have on the day to day lives of rural Indians.

"Oh! how sad that they've started using plastic here." I comment perched on my green urban high horse.

"Chinese stuff!" adds Ambika.

"Why?" she asks the potters.

"The wells nearby have dried up. We have to travel six to ten kilometers to fetch water. Plastic is lighter. It's easier." comes the matter-of-fact reply.

Our city- dwelling -preaching -green- to- the -farmers selves nod our understanding.

Plastic vessels have replaced traditional brass and terracotta ones because the villagers have to travel longer distances to fetch water. Pipes are being drilled deeper and deeper every year to try and reach the depleting water levels.

Men continue to beat their wives and scavenge off them to feed their alcoholism. And women continue to work as labourers on fields and construction sites to feed and educate their children. Ambika and I came across such stories in the three days we were there. 

Yes, I choose to capture the light, for the dark was, is and will continue to exist along side the light.

Solace is personal. Scenery is public. Scenery is our responsibility, a debt we owe our planet, a promise we must keep for our children and their children.

Can there be solace without scenery?

Commenting on the idea of heaven, Sadhguru, in one of his videos, asked, "How do you know you're not in Heaven already and you're spoiling it?"

This trip to rural Tamil Nadu couldn't have come at a better time. #RallyforRivers is the wake up call we all need to remind ourselves that if we want our children and their children to listen to birdsong, swing in hammocks in coconut groves or drink coffee made with fresh milk or simply eat fresh food and drink clean water, then we must do what needs to be done--NOW!

Back in Doha, I unpack the tangible memories I've brought home with me. The terracotta pot I'd so lovingly carried as cabin baggage has succumbed to the stresses of air travel. A hole gapes back at me from the bottom when I unwrap it.

"Where there's a will, there's a way." my mother used to say:)

It's been given a new role. We may not store water in it (as was planned when I bought it) but its earthy fragrance (saundhi khushboo) will remind me of the beautiful people of Tanjavore and their warmth whenever I water the plant that sits in it.

Have a lovely weekend.

And please support the farmers who feed us.

Theodora Sofronia: I saw the goddess in her.

Unplanned and unprepared, I stood besotted in her dark workshop, facing her demure frame. Yes, I saw the goddess in her.

It was our last day in Cyprus. The flight back to Doha was late in the evening. I woke up early and poured myself a cup of black coffee prepared with hot water and a single Nescafe sachet. We hadn't bothered to buy any milk. Beams of sun were already bursting through the green slatted shutters and landing warmly on the round dining table in the tiny kitchen of our apartment, where I sat peering through my reading glasses at the map. I get greedy on last days of holidays (long and short). I like to see a new place or explore a new corner before boarding the home bound  train, bus or plane.  And that is why, I prefer late evening departures back home.

Cross-referencing the map with the local guidebook, I realised that we could drive through a village called Foini after breakfast and still have ample time to drive back to Larnaca airport.

The narrow streets of Foini were deserted when we drove through around mid-day.

This sign  bribed me. It held promise of an unexplored gem. Not altogether thrilled at the prospect of stopping so soon after leaving Omodos, the husband stopped the car and parked it under a lemon tree.  None of the other occupants of the car budged.  It was agreed, silently, that I'd do the exploring alone. So, I stepped out or rather, bundled out with my bag, camera, map, hat and sunglasses.

The further I walked in the direction of the 'woman potter', the less promising the prospect of finding 'her' seemed. Large tin sheets that looked like a shack of some sort covered up a corner. It wore a deserted look--like someone had forgotten to open shop for many years. I was tempted to turn back, but I held my faith in the sign I'd spotted at the bottom of the hill and continued clambering.

Another sign.

'Let's go for it.' I goaded myself. The sun shone sharply.

Just like that, the path purged into stone steps that led up to a garden flanked by green pumpkin vines on the left and luscious grape vines on the right.

The promise unfolded, step by step.

'Hello...' I called out, sounding parched and hoarse.

'Hello! Is anyone there?'

Siesta silence filled the stillness around me.

Passing through an old door next to this kiln, I hesitated before stepping into a dark room. My eyes took time to adjust to the coolness inside. The room was large and felt like it had been used to create pieces of pottery for a very long time.

Chucking hesitant hellos into the workshop that was developing around me like a photograph from a negative, I ventured further in. I could make out shelves and corners and beautiful hand crafted pieces on display, some lay drying on the floor.

I clicked and almost as soon as I had, I felt like an intruder.

I left.

The steps back to the path were heavy with regret and what ifs:

What if I'd come in a bit early?

What if the rest of the family had come with me? I wouldn't be in a rush to head back now.

I'd reached the end of the steps when I heard a faint sound like a metal pan hitting a stove or a hob-- a metallic, everyday kitchen sound that announces tea/coffee/lunch/dinner is being prepared.

A soft whimper of a dog (or was it a cat) followed.

I turned to check.

No one.

Almost at the end of the deserted path, I turned round. And decided to clamber back up the hill.

I may never come back to Foini or find this sign pointing to a 'woman potter' again. I had to try one more time.

The husband and the children will have to wait.

*******

A small figure draped in blue appears from the door to the right of the workshop as I make it to the last step. She looks up and smiles.

'Is this your work?' I speak slowly and use my hands like I'm  acting out a nursery rhyme. I'm not sure if she understands English.

'Yes, this is my work.' she states clearly and steps inside. Before my eyes have had time to readjust to the darkness, she has reached the end of the room and is flicking old fashioned light switches on. The room reveals itself like a temple and I stand facing the woman potter.

Ma Saraswati.

I see the goddess in her, in her hands, in the way she says how 'special' the piece I'm looking at is because she's put flowers on it.

I'm awestruck.

She talks.

I listen.

'Can I take a picture?' I ask.

She straightens her shoulders and poses next to the completed pieces.

I see the goddess in her.

And want to buy more than the two pieces I've chosen, but airline luggage limitations have to be respected and I'm planning to take my treasures in my handbag.

We get stuck on numbers.

The how-much- do-I-pay creates a total breakdown  in communication.

I have no idea if she's saying five or fifty or fifteen.

Clueless, I face her stretched palm and five fingers and nod obediently.

Suddenly, the idea to use the calculator on my phone strikes me and I dig it out of my bag to show her.

She's already busy wrapping the pots in wads of old newspaper when I look up. The phone and I watch her engrossed.
I can stand here all day and just be in her presence, witness her sculpt those pots, those flowers, those embellishments -- the way her grandmother and her mother had done before her--all by hand;

Yes, the primitive way.

I extend fifty euros.

She empties out her pouch and counts out fifteen euros in change.

I'm gobsmacked at the bargain price.

On the table lies a laminated photograph of hers with an article. I click a few quick shots on my way out and thank her.

She smiles.
I've got my prasad.

I feel blessed.

This reads:"She works as her mother and grandmother did on the vine shadowed porch of her home."

Sadly, I didn't make a note of the author's name.

The vines, heavy with ripe fruit cast a cooling shadow as I look back from the hot deserted street, making my way halfheartedly towards the parked car.

If only they'd come with me.

If only my phone was working, I'd call and say I'll take longer.

If only we weren't leaving tonight, I'd come back and 

absorb this primitive practice of pottery making.

Back in Doha, every now and again, I turn the pot upside down to get a glimpse of the goddess I'd seen in Cyprus.

Feeling forever grateful to the very special 'ordinary' moment of my life when I met 

Theodora Sofronia.

A day in Delft with Johannes Vermeer and Anne

I know I'd promised Van Gogh but as I sat down to write about him, I realised this would take time. The potent decoction of his art, his letters and his way of looking at things needs time to simmer inside me a bit longer. 

Instead, my friends, we will be visiting Johannes Vermeer. But before we start, here are a few lines that are ready to be shared... 

Stormy Saturday smeared me 

against the scaffolding.

Delft became the canvas.

Wind splattered us 

like pigments

at the end of Van Gogh's brush.

I felt his passion,

his urgency,

 his strokes of genius.

Helpless,

I let him

bleed me

on paper 

for generations to come after he's gone

and admire his madness.

Code Red.

CODE Red!

CODE RED!

Yowled the beast.

Delft Blue.

***

Flea markets and old book shops pull me like a magnet. I buy junk which I love when I pick it up and then question my sanity when I bring it home. Age is teaching me to be less impulsive but I still manage to pack pieces of future regrets when I'm travelling: like this beautiful green lamp I bought in Tbilisi. It's so old the electric bits that can make it work are impossible to source in Doha! So, it spends as much time in my car (while I look for another electrical shop) as it does in front of our living room window- I love the way sunlight refracts through its green glass.

A trip to Tbilisi

No surprise then that when we landed in Amsterdam, I picked Saturday (flea market day) to visit Delft. My husband had checked the weather the previous night- it was supposed to rain after midday.

On 25th July 2015, we packed our rain gear and boarded the train from Amsterdam Central early enough to reach Delft before midday. Everything I had read about Delft promised a grand day of vintage Dutch charm. The thought of browsing through the flea market kept bursting rainbows inside me like the skittles commercial or as my mum would say: 'laddoo phoot rahe the dil mein!'

"You'll love it." proclaimed a fellow passenger on the train. She was Dutch. 

Rain and Wind had arrived before us. Delft greeted us with wet streets and soaking stalls. Wind bent us like capital Cs- heads down, arched backs, struggling to keep the raincoat hoods on our heads. Maybe, I should have worn my shoes and not these extremely comfortable sandals.

'It'll clear up soon enough', I thought.

We plunged into the town centre; thrusting our concave bodies against the wet wind.

A cup of coffee and some pie later, we made our way towards the canals where I'd spotted a few stalls being set up.

NO! They were not setting up. They were packing up at 11am!

A little ceramic bowl sitting next to a heap of old newspapers caught my eye. Before the stall owner could wrap and box it, I asked, "How much?"

"Hopefully, the sun will come out." my husband tried to break the ice with the stall owner.

"Yes, above the clouds." her stern face slowly melted into a lopsided, sarcastic grin. "Today," she looked heavenwards, "NO chance!"

The stall owners weren't happy. I was devastated.

My darling husband tried to reason with me. He hates rain and I love it- even the stormy kind.

"Let's just wait and see." I used my half- pleading, half -'threatening-to-dive- into-my-silent-mood' tone with him. It worked.

Dripping little pools of rain water around our feet, we stood inside the Information Centre for the second time that day; safe from the whipping winds for a few minutes at least. The lady at the counter mentioned a Vermeer exhibition just around the corner. It wasn't on my list. But it was indoors; anything to keep him dry and relatively happy.

Vermeer Centrum Delft brings Vermeer's life and work to life. None of his original paintings are on display here, but life size reproductions, commentaries and recordings take you back into 17th century Delft. You get to know the man, the painter, the husband, the father and (probably) the henpecked son-in-law (his rich Catholic mother-in-law supported him all his life). I would recommend a visit, even if it's a bright sunny day and the flea market is heaving with activity.

My favourite room was his studio and the exhibits on this floor. His techniques, methods and genius can be appreciated here. The Master of Light- Johannes Vermeer - painted household scenes and women with such insight that when you look at his art, you feel like you are in the room, intruding upon the painter and his subject. That's how I felt, and I wasn't even looking at the originals!

Strike a pose...

When in Rome....when in Delft... I tried a bit of paint effect on this picture...

and  water effect here...
Einstien said, "Creativity is contagious. Pass it on." I'm feeling it, even if the results are silly!

The storm was getting serious and raging a ruckus by now and the torrential downpour outside meant we were in no hurry to leave. 

I have to thank my friend Nisha, whose rain soaked pictures of Kolkatta traffic inspired me to look outside the box or in this case, out of the third floor window of the Centre. 

I clicked while we waited for the rain to take a break.

 View of the street...

The Church

The rain stopped for a bit. But my husband had had enough. So he decided to sit in this sunny spot while I went exploring close by.

If your appetite has been whipped for works of Vermeer,
Check out : Artsy

"Artsy's mission is to make all the world's art accessible to anyone with an Internet connection."

Destination: De Candelaer

The door to this shop was jammed. I pushed once.
Twice.
'I'll give it one more push and then go back', I thought.
It was probably closed.

 Just as I decided to turn back, the door was yanked open by a lady in a dark top.

Are you closed?

"No.No. The door keeps banging so hard. I had to lock it.
I was about to close up. It's almost 2 in the afternoon and only 2 people have come through."
the lady walked and talked and I followed her to step inside the shop.

Are you the potter?

No. I'm the painter. The potter is on vacation.

Is it okay if I look around?

Oh! sure, sure...

Dripping another tiny puddle around my feet, I used my hair band as a bandanna to keep my wet hair off my face and stepped right in- inside the factory at the back of the shop.

The door kept hurtling open, howling regular updates of the storm outside.

Meet Anne, the painter, at De Candelaer, Delft.

When did you decide to become a painter?

"Even since I was very little, my only ambition ever was to become a potter. I didn't become a potter, but I sit next to one." Anne smiled.

She trained at the Royal Delft for six years before she was allowed to paint independently. She worked there for 20 years- training new generations of painters.

Then at 42, I became too old and expensive for them, so they fired me.

The rattling windows and the loud wind kept up the drama outside.

Can I take a picture?

In that case, I'll sit here and show that I'm painting.

Where do you get your inspiration from?

It's all the time... I get ideas in my dreams. Ideas are everywhere. 
I like being able to paint my own designs now.

She showed me a few of her newly painted pieces- they were waiting for the potter to return from his vacation to be fired in the kiln.

I went around the shop looking for a smallish thing to pick up. She carried on talking about how she's trying to use the traditional brush strokes to create new designs, about how the younger Dutch population don't really buy traditional Delftware. I stopped looking and went back to carry on our conversation.

I'll look for something small.

Oh! I won't disturb you again...you can look.

If I had come to Delft alone, I would've carried on chatting. But I was aware of my husband,who was waiting, so I resisted the urge.

Expensive china is not my cup of tea. I found a tiny tooth-pick holder and brought it to her. A few seconds later, I spotted a tiny milk jug and as it was within my small budget, I swapped.

"I painted that." Anne smiled, pointing to the milk jug.

You should've told me!

"You should get what you like." she looked up to give me a smile while putting the tape on my packet. 

"I'll put this in a tulip bag for you."

Thank you.

I felt Delft; its charm and warmth in Anne's matter-of-fact gentleness and humility.

An arm touch, a happy nod and goodbye.

As I was leaving, a couple of drenched tourists walked in.

'Red Alert!' glared my husband when I hopped back into his dry haven after almost an hour. This was serious.

Code Red.

CODE Red!

CODE RED!

Yowled the beast.

Delft Blue.

We made our way back to the train station. 

Announcements in Dutch were being made. Train times on the display board blinked but no trains came. I asked a group sitting next to me.

"There're no trains to Amsterdam. The tracks are not clear."

How long will it take?

The shoulder shrug -- so common in Europe-- said it all. 

"Take the tram to the Hague." suggested one of them. 

The tram driver, when we reached the tram, informed us that she too couldn't go all the way to the station as there were problems on the tracks.

At last, we managed to board a bus to the Hague and then took a train from there to Amsterdam. The bus offered an opportunity to chat with our fellow passengers. One of them was getting late for work and was hopeful her boss would understand.

And the other, sitting opposite me, looked at my open toe sandals and asked, 'First time in Europe?'.

I don't blame her. The top half of my body was nicely wrapped up in a red bandanna and rain jacket. My pale toes peeping through the sandals must have seemed odd. 

She turned out to be a super helpful soul, a traveller herself (she had travelled through India and Iran over a period of six months, thirteen years ago). She pointed us in the direction of the train station when we got off the bus in the middle of Den Hague.

In case you end up in Delft, here is a useful link:
http://www.delft.nl/delften/Tourists/Discover_Delft/To_see/Vermeer/Vermeer_Centrum_Delft

Curious about Vermeer? Check out:
 http://www.essentialvermeer.com/

The storm had spent itself by the time we stepped out of Amsterdam Central Station. Fallen trees on the sidewalks were the only evidence of the gale-force winds that had hit the region earlier. No one was hurt and that was a relief.

Our travel plans had to be changed. We ended up with an extra day in Amsterdam to enjoy another stunning sunset.