Showing posts with label travel photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel photography. Show all posts

Monday, 26 April 2021

V is for Vittels of morels, ferns and rose stems #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the last week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

Number 6 in the list of rules listed in the epilogue of  The Book of Ichigo Ichie is:

Apply mindfulness to your five senses: Train yourself in the art of listening, watching, touching, tasting and smelling to give each moment the richness of human perception.


You may recall my first post, Alex and the Bees, of this year's A to Z Challenge. It described a moment in May 2019 when Alex, Apu and I were sitting in Pradhanji's house in Maunda, the last village of Uttarakhand.

I mentioned in that post that we had been exploring the village and its surrounding forests before we stopped for tea at Pradhanji's house that day.

I was looking for a suitable V to use in the title of this post: verdant, vegetarian, very tasty, when 'vittels' showed up. It's a nonstandard variant of the word 'victuals' meaning food or provisions for human beings. Perfect, I thought and plucked the word out of its archaic, nonstandard usage to use it as the title today.

May 2019: 

As soon as we joined the small group of village-guides on the dirt road outside Guruji's house, our education began. Not a single tree, shrub, leaf, bird, insect we spotted on our walk that morning was left un-named or un-explored.

Wild roses were heavy with pale, pink blooms. Their rebellious vines had carpeted everything in their way. We stopped. Picked a thorny stem. Learnt about the parts that are bitter and the ones that are sweet.   
And then we ate:
Having tasted success and rose sweetness on the first day out, our food foraging plans grew bolder. Alex mentioned morels and wondered if May would be a good time to go morel hunting.

"Of Course!" everyone said. "No harm trying...if weather permits."

So, the next day, fortified with pahadi (mountain) picnic food, Pradhanji, Guruji and Veeru led us deeper and higher in the forests and hills surrounding the village.  Our volunteer guides walked in slippers while the three of us laced up our trekking shoes and tucked our walking sticks in our bag packs. The morning was clear and crisp, not a cloud was visible in the sky.
 
Our first find was fiddle-head ferns or lingda (local name). It's also called German asparagus. It is delicious. 

Recipe: Wash the young stalks, take out the stringy sides, chop them into half inch pieces. Heat some butter/ghee, stir in the lingda for a minute or two. Add salt and eat. Yummy!
The climb up the mountain, covered with deodars and oaks and a thick undergrowth wasn't easy. But, every now and then, food would be spotted, picked, explained and  recipes discussed. Those stops were enough to recharge our lungs.

Pradhanji and Guruji scampered ahead like deer.

Veeru stayed with us: guiding our city feet through forest floors. 'Walk this way, avoid that,' he'd pepper his chatter with helpful instructions. He told us about his dream of making a living as an artist based in the mountains. He  remembered his childhood aloud in the forest--recalling a time when foraging was a way of life, not like today when it was being done to show the visitors a side of their lives they themselves were on the verge of forgetting. 

Pradhanji called from up ahead. We joined him, He showed us the gold he'd gathered. Forest oyster mushrooms are called chhatri or the squeaky sounding chyanoon by the locals.
After this point, I had to tuck my camera under my arm to use both my hands to scramble up the slippery slope where the men were sure they'd find morels. They'd seen some last year, they said, in this part of the slope. It amazes me how their eyes can spot so easily and their memories recall so clearly without maps or a GPS! While someone I live with (not taking any names) can't spot salt in the kitchen cupboard! 

"Aa jao...yahan hain." (Come over, spotted some) called out Pradhanji.
They'll  find better ones growing near this one. And I'll try to use my camera, not the phone.
This was the hardest photo to click. My foot kept slipping. I wouldn't go too far down if  I slipped but getting hurt, twisting an ankle or scraping a knee, would've made the climb down and the trek back to the village pretty onerous.
Notice how all three of us are holding on to branches...photo courtesy: Veeru.
After another half an hour or so, we reached the top. Twigs and dried leaves were collected to roast the steamed cakes (called Sidku) that Julie and her helpful neighbour had prepared and packed for our planned picnic in the forest.

The dough for sidku is prepared with flour mixed with boiled potatoes. Doughnut size dough balls are steamed. They're quite dense. One piece and you don't need to be fed for the rest of the day. Easy food to carry when one is travelling through forests and mountains. We were told these can be filled with poppy seeds, too. Soft sniggers, wicked winks and general hilarity accompanied that piece of extra information. Julie told us that just one of those poopy seed buns was enough to knock you off into happy land for many hours.

The ones we ate that day were prepared simply with potatoes and salt. Sidku was roasted in the fire and eaten with chillies under the shade of tall and wide deodars. Birds were busy singing. Ants were busy working. The six of us munched and absorbed the mountain in silence.

After enough time had passed, we got up and carried our forest loot back to the village. 

Sadly, in their enthusiasm to impress us with their culinary skills, the men used too many spices in the morel dish. Alex, Apu and I would've preferred a simpler preparation. But we thanked them for their hospitality and discussed the 'what if' among the three of us afterwards.

The fiddle head fern or lingda, however, was cooked to perfection: simply and quickly, using ghee, garlic, salt and pepper.

We polished it off with gusto.

You may recall from J is for Julie post that when we had visited the village in October of 2018, Julie had told us she didn't like to cook. It was good to see her feminist ways had found her helpers in the kitchen by the time we went back in May 2019. 

Pradhanji and Julie's  brother-in-law, Kishen, prepared dinner that night.
The fact that this post has more short clips or V for videos makes me smile:) 

Have you ever foraged for food in the wild or outdoors?
Do morels grow where you live?
What's you favourite spring-time vegetable? 

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Friday, 23 April 2021

T is for Trees Hussain draws #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fourth week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti
*****
One of the Eight Zen Lessons for an Ichigo Ichie Life listed in the The Book of Ichigo Ichie is:

Just sit and see what happens: Our spiritual short-sightedness often causes us to look far away: in space and time -- for what's really right in front of us. 

Zen teaches us to simply sit and embrace the moment, 
with no further ambitions than this. 
If we are with people, we celebrate their company as a gift. 
He is Hussain.

In the summer of 2018, I was roaming the streets of Barcelona alone. 

The husband had work to attend to and I had no agenda tying me down. I did what I love. I walked without a map, without a plan, turning corners that enticed me and exploring lanes that caught my eye. My camera and I, we were grateful for such unencumbered pastures of time to frolic in to our heart's content.

In a lane, I met Hussain.

He was working with tin cans.

We got talking. He told me he hails from Pakistan.

I mentioned my grandfather to him. I told him I used to call him Papaji.
That Papaji had to leave his home in Shinkiari, in the North West Frontier
of what used to be one country
but now lies in his Pakistan.

He looked up from the tree he'd drawn
in an open tin can
and said,
"I can't take money from you then.
tum to humaree beti hui."
(you are like a daughter to me.)

I've written about Hussain before, on my Instagram post. And like that time, even today, when I type and his face emerges before my eyes, all these years later, I can feel the warmth of the love ocean coursing through his generous heart.

We chatted 
for a long time. 
I had no plans, nowhere to go. 
I slipped 
into a squat next to him. 
I remember a ledge that I rested on. It felt good 
after walking all day long. 
He kept creating 
his art treasures from recycled cans: painting 
trees of life, or knowledge or love perhaps.

I asked him if I could click his photos while he worked. He nodded and smiled and pointed to capital letters on white card that read 
'PHOTO FREE'.

He let me capture 
this meeting of our souls with lenses, senses.

With almost all his possessions lying 
next to him in a bag, looking 
into an uncertain future as his paperwork was still being processed, Hussain sat 
by the roadside like a King: kind, radiant, generous and smiling.

I picked a few of his art pieces and thought I'd give them to friends in Doha as remembrances
of the city
I found him in.

The art pieces sit on top of my chest of drawers--stacked 
like dishes--because every time I've taken one out to give, 
I've felt reluctant to part with it.

What is it that makes me so attached 
to art made by a stranger sitting in a busy Barcelona lane who seemed so detached from it all; so content; so at peace with himself? I wonder.

The next day, I went back to the same lane looking for Hussain but he was nowhere to be seen. I walked around for a few hours in the hope that I might see him. 

But I didn't.

He must be lighting up whichever corner of the world he's in.

Yes, he is truly Hussain. 

Hussain, I hope you're well and healthy.



Hussain in Urdu means good, beautiful, handsome.

Do you strike up conversations with strangers? Have you met any Hussains on your travels?
You know I'd love to hear, If you'd like to share.

Last year, I shared this song sung by our daughter, Arshia: Toxic Weather

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Thursday, 22 April 2021

S is for Salt and Chillies #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fourth week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti.
"A good mood, helped along by pleasant company, 
is an essential ingredient for enjoying our food."

Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie       
*****

You've all met Julie on 'J' day. But, if you missed out, you can meet her today : Julie

We go back to October 2018 for today's post, back to Julie and Guruji's house in Maunda, the last village of Uttarakhand.

The night was cold. The sky was an ocean of stars twinkling in inky waters. Our group of seven was sitting around an electric heater in Guruji's sitting room on thin carpets layered with thick, warm woollen rugs, cocooned in our thermals and down jackets. 

Whenever anyone entered or left the room (mostly to bring tea or water) he/she was told to shut the door securely.

Julie came in holding a steel thali and a katori (plate and bowl).

"Eat this. You'll love it. Eat with the chutney--majja aayega." crisp like the cold October night, Julie issued her instructions, handed the thali and katori to Rajat and left the room.

Roughly chopped wedges of apple, some big, some small, crowded the thali. 

"These are from our baag (orchard)." Guruji announced proudly.

I'd spotted one or two pink and white blossoms on the apple trees circling their house when we had arrived. Late bloomers. We were told the apple harvest had suffered because of unseasonal rains that year. The apples, although delicious, had become marked and were therefore not good enough to be sold in the mandi (market).

"Take the chutney." reminded Pradhanji, who was also sitting with us. 

I took a slice of apple, dipped it in the bowl, picked a tiny blob of coarse green chutney and took my first bite. 

A crescendo of lip-smacking, ooing, aahing and omging and wondering what could've made this chutney so damn tasty rose around the heater. 

Then Julie came back with more apple slices and chutney.

"You liked it." she announced her question with the surety of someone who knows how good their wares are.

"What was in it?" Rajat, the hotelier, asked.

"Salt and chillies."

"Must be Himalayan salt, pink salt?" offered Siddharth, another trekker who owns a successful restaurant.

"Na..na...arre, it's that packet one from the shop." Julie dismissed his suggestion with a smile.

"Must be the sillbatta (pestle and mortar) then. This taste--has to come from hand grinding chillies." Vani added.

"Arre, na...na...I can't handle sillbatta. I'm too old. I made it in the mixie (mixer-grinder)." Julie thwarted every suggestion skilfully.

"Are you sure there's nothing other than salt and chillies in the chutney?" Rajat tried again.

"Of course not! Just those chillies growing outside and saada namak (simple salt)." Julie's eyes were shining with tears of mirth at our expense while we sat around the heater, enamoured by her everyday, ordinary chutney.

It had to be the chillies. It had to be the good, nutritious soil of Julie's garden. It had to be her love. It had to be the fact that she grows them herself. We sat there that night listing all the ingredients Julie took for granted and therefore forgot to mention to us when we asked her for her chutney recipe.

The next morning, we left for the trek. We met her on the way. She was walking back home after collecting fresh grass for Lali, her cow.

"As long as I can walk, I'll feed her fresh grass." Julie had told us once.


The one thing I was looking forward to the most (second only to a shower) when we reached Maunda after our arduous trek was apple wedged dipped in Julie's home made chutney.

Do you have a simple 2/3 ingredient recipe that you'd like to share?
Is there a spice, condiment, chutney you cannot do without?
You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.


I wrote about serendipity in 2017. I didn't know about the concept of Ichigo Ichie then, but this post is a perfect fit : Silver Serendipity

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Wednesday, 21 April 2021

R is for Rainbows on Table Mountain #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fourth week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti
*****
The last two days have been hard to sit and write and post and participate because of the dark and dismal news of Covid deaths and distress coming from India. There's been a deluge of  outpourings of grief and bewilderment. As if that wasn't enough, news of the fire on the slopes of Table Mountain erupted on the screen while the husband was watching cricket on Sunday.

Should I post? Should I carry on? Questions pop up.

The answer sits in front of me, spread out on my keyboard, waiting behind the sleeping screen. I see my own reflection in it as I sit and stare. Then the practice takes over. Fingers click and the screen flickers to life. I start typing and pour out my feelings. 

This  is the only anchor that's tethering me to my peace. Otherwise, I'd be fretting over things I can do nothing about. 

Like last year, the discipline of A to Z is helping me to carve out a routine that makes the sun and the moon and the stars rise and set in skies above me and in their rhythm, I see hope.
 
"If you cry because the sun has gone out of your life, 
your tears will prevent you from seeing the stars."
Rabindranath Tagore's words guide me towards this post.
I look at the draft I'd prepared a few days ago, and decide to post. 

"Beauty is simply reality seen with the eyes of love."
Without further ado, let's be led by Tagore's words and see the beauty of Table Mountain as we saw it in June 2019.
*****
Visiting Table Mountain is on everyone's agenda when they travel to Cape Town for the first time. I'd hoped for it too. The husband had travelled  to Cape Town for work a couple of times before and every time, weather gods had decreed that he would not get to the top of Table Mountain.

If you read the C post: A Cypriot honeymoon and other coastal curiosities, you may recall that our first day of holiday in Cape Town was a washout.  I hadn't put my hopes up. I was going to enjoy each day as it unfolded and that was that.

So, When the concierge at the hotel informed us after breakfast on Day 2 that a window of blue skies had opened up to let let in visitors to the Mountain, I was ecstatic.

But first, a roadblock.


There were two rainbows 
but the camera captured only one.
"The more one lives alone on the river or in the open country, the clearer it becomes that nothing is more beautiful or great than to perform the ordinary duties of one's daily life simply and naturally." Rabindranath Tagore


Listen and you will hear...
Clouds appeared out of nowhere. 
Within minutes, sky canvas drew dramatic art pieces one after another...

Yellow Margaret
sways atop Table Mountain
so clouds will bring rain
(a Haiku to highlight the water shortage in Cape Town)
The sky was blue within the hour.
For visitors like us, it was great.
But for the city, the clouds and the rain they bring would've been better.

"Let us not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless when facing them."

-Rabindranath Tagore

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com
 
All the quotes above have come from this link: Rabindranath Tagore

Thursday, 15 April 2021

M is for Mudras in Modhera #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the third week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I'm exploring the 'Enemies of Ichigo Ichie' this week. Yesterday, it was 'projections'. Today's focus is on 'analysis' and 'impatience.'

Let's step into a day in January of 2017 in Gujarat for today's post.

Thank you.

Arti
*****
                             "There is a common saying that goes, 'If you want to be happy, don't analyse everything.' 
The joy of the moment can't be defined, dissected, understood; it can only be lived."

"Ichigo Ichie demands that we give ourselves over to what we experience without any kind of expectation."
Quotes borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie                
January, 2017.
By the time our group of six had paid for the entrance ticket at the Sun Temple in Modhera (an 11th century Chaulakya Dynasty temple), the mid-day sun was high in the sky. It was January but the bright heat was threatening to dampen our exploration. 
As is usual for me, after deciding on a time when we'd head back, I broke away from the group to explore the temple with my camera. 
Something caught my eye:
red. green and graceful.
From across the pond, with limited zoom,
a scene was born.
They didn't look like casual tourists.
They must be dancers, I thought.
I'd seen banners and posters at the entrance announcing the dance festival.
First two, then six and then seven.
I spotted others clicking them.
My heart skipped a beat.
Stumbling into a dream,
I clicked
dancers breathing life
into stones and relics.
They took their time to adjust, 
change, agree, disagree and finally settle to strike their dancers' pose.
I was lost 
in their sequence, of course.
What synchronicity!
such luck...
to witness ancient carvings come unstuck
from pages of history 
to float ethereally
like an open mystery.

Every moment I absorbed patiently,
mudra* magic unravelled right in front of me.

'Kshanabhangur'
lost in a breath, in a split second
the bubble burst as soon as I heard
the outside world.
I hope you enjoyed these magical moments in Modhera as much as I did back when travelling was easy.

Patience pays and analysis doesn't. Had I rushed ahead to tick all the must-see boxes of the Sun temple, or asked around to find out what was going on, why those people were allowed inside the 'out of bounds' area, I would've missed it all.

We ended up buying tickets for the dance festival. And we came back later that night with great expectations only to be bitterly disappointed. 

In my opinion, the artificial and garish lights cast an ugly glow on this ancient temple and the gazillions of speeches and garlands to thank all the 'important' people to kick start the festival made us very, very impatient for the dancers to come on stage. 

But when they did, the loud speakers washed away their delicate movements. It was such a cacophony of sound and light that it felt more like a mockery of our ancient culture than a celebration. I may sound harsh but sometimes, actually most times, less is better when it comes to showcasing that which is already so beautiful--classical dances, poetry, architecture. We should be preserving it, not distorting it with 'newness'.
The dancers I clicked would perform Odissi dance which  is considered to be the oldest (traced back to 2nd century BC) and the most graceful of all Indian classical dance forms, at the festival. 
Their mudras and poses from the afternoon would outperform their evening presentations in my view. 
According to Deepam Odissi Academy Muscat's website, "A Mudra* is a symbolic hand gesture used in Hindu and Buddhist iconography, performing arts, and spiritual practice, including yoga, dance, drama and tantra.
There are a total of 28 mudras in the Abhinaya Darpan or the The Mirror of Gesture."

I'm sharing this translation of a prayer that appears in The Mirror of Gestures and according to this site and others I came across while researching, it is taught to Indian classical dancers.

Translation

Where the hands are, the eyes follow

Where the eyes are, the mind follows

Where the mind goes, there is expression

Where this is expression, mood is evoked

Doesn't the prayer sound  like Ichigo Ichie to you? It's all about paying attention.

Leaving you with a short Odissi dance piece performed in Venice. It's beautiful. Enjoy.


Coincidentally, I came across a blog post on 'G' day which explores the famous poet, Jayadeva's Gita Govindam which is an integral part of Odissi dance and music. You can read more here: Gita Govindam - the ultimate romance

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Wednesday, 14 April 2021

L is for Lessons learnt in Brihadiswara Temple #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the third week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I'm exploring the 'Enemies of Ichigo Ichie' this week. Yesterday, it was 'distraction'. Today's focus is on 'projections'. 

Let's step into a day in August 2017 for today's post.

Thank you.

Arti
*****
"...when our mind travels into the past, where pain and resentment reside, or the future, a place of fear and worries, we are pulled away from the present moment."

Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie
Vast was the temple where I stood.
Its name suggested big
and big it was--it was huge,
colossal and ancient and intact to explore.

One morning in Doha in 2017,
Ambika mentioned she'd be travelling
for work to Chennai.
Can I tag along?
I asked.
She agreed.

Temples, food and sarees 
were all entered in the itinerary.

Tanjavore after Chennai and then Madurai.

The day of Brihadiswara dawned warm and bright.
We entered the temple together. 
A couple of hours later, Ambika left to deliver 
her lectures.
I stayed on to explore 
the vast temple 
to capture it with my camera and my phone.
A group of ladies
rural folk from Andhra
spotted me and demanded I make their photo.

I was ecstatic 
an opportunity such as this!

That's when it froze.
My phone.

I switched it off and carried on clicking
with my camera instead.
Smile, but look natural--I implored the colourful lot.
Ignore me. Think I'm not here.
None of the tricks to get a candid worked.
They were all eager to pose and beam and be rather alert
to my click, click, shoot effort.

The phone didn't come back on.
I left it alone --tucked it in my camera bag and wandered
the entire afternoon,
stepping back in time 
when Gods were carved in stone.
Some had been chiselled by workmen from the far East
to sing the Chola King's glory.
I could be in Japan or China, I thought
as I admired the statue's carved out story.
Moon appeared
Shadows grew deeper.

Soon, the sun began to set.
I had no clue how to get
back to the homestay 
for all the phone numbers, addresses and details were imprisoned inside 
the silent phone that day.

Ambika was supposed to pick me up after work.
How will she find me and where?
The temple was vast 
and there were people everywhere.
Can you look at this? Can you help me? I asked around.
No one could un-freeze the phone's stubborn screen.

"Do you need help?" a voice called out to me.
I turned around to see 
kind eyes 
peeping through glasses sitting on dark, round cheeks.
"Hum achcha aadmi hun." I'm a good man, he said in Tamil sounding Hindi.

He offered me a chair inside the tourist booth where he worked,
at the temple entrance.
"Don't worry, we'll find a way." he assured.

My evolutionary instincts had already kicked in:
Fright, flight kept swapping places
inside my fearful heart.
Murder, rape, lost forever, 
doubts and doubters
rose up flaunting their 'we told you so' banners  in my panic stricken state.

Someone brought me a bottle of water. 

I took a few sips.
Paddy Homestay? I asked hopefully.
No one had heard of it.
Plus, it was too far away 
way beyond city limits--
in the middle of lush paddy fields.

'Maybe, you can find me a reliable driver?' I asked the gentle-eyed, soft spoken, guide/saviour.
'Someone you trust.'

He went out to find someone he knew. 

"I wish I'd jotted down the homestay's number. 
The owner's called Thiru." 
I mumbled more to myself than to another.

'Thiru?' I heard another guide turn towards me in the booth.

"Yes." I replied.

"I have a friend who's called that 
 he used to drive a taxi but I've heard he's changed tact. 
But, let me call him anyway."

He called his friend. And guess what? He was the Thiru.

What are the chances?

Phones buzzed across the city and I was told Ambika would pick me up presently.

At last, I spotted her car in the dark. 
She'd been driving around (in panic) looking for me, 
she told me as I got in.

All is well that ends well, she said as I poured out the panic I had felt.

We were headed for the  homestay,
but we stopped at a phone repair shop on the way.

" This can't ne fixed." they pronounced the phone dead at the shop.

We reached the paddy fields 
and told them all that had happened in Brihadiswara, 
unnecessarily.
For they knew it all from before --
Word travels fast in open fields.

Next time, keep a diary 
and jot down all the numbers before--
a valuable lesson learnt for sure.

Hot rice, sambhar and pickle later, I muttered:
Technology is helpful as long as it works.

'Let me have a look' said Ambika.

Lo and behold! 
the phone switched off and came back to life.
Just like that!

*****
Although I had the most wonderful time in the temple that day, the minute I stared panicking, only negative thoughts came to me. My mind was conjuring up all the images I had seen on TV, read in the papers, of what could go wrong and then jumping straight into the fearful future. 

I didn't have the presence of mind to even find the name of the gentleman guide who helped me. 

Of course, I had options like staying in a hotel for the night in the city but panic clouds clarity.

Although those panic stricken moments weren't pleasant, they taught me a few valuable lessons.

Those kind men. God Bless them.

If you'd like to stay on for a bit and explore the wonderful homestay, you can click on:

P.S.  I was reminded of this day after reading this post written by Srivalli earlier on in the challenge: Amore Natura
*****

Have you found yourself let down by your phone recently? 
Have strangers helped you out of a tricky situation?

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com