What has made you happy thus far in the New Year?

7 a.m. January 10th 2022

Holding a glass of warm water in my left hand, I open the front door with my right and step out onto the porch.

Winter wafts in like a friend who knows me well. Even before the door fully opens, a faint smell of wood fire, mixed with the sharp, soft rays of the morning sun, rushes in to embrace me. Winter's nippy kisses tingle my skin--clad in a cotton kurta and yoga pants. I'd slept in those last night. I shudder with delight. Winter is rare in Doha. I want to inhale it to my core. The bulbul mimics my joy and frolics noisily on the neem tree.

6 a.m. January 10th 2022

I turn off the alarm and promise to be up in 10 minutes. 

10 p.m. January 9th 2022

I set the alarm for 5 a.m. and then change it to 6 a.m. to be reasonable. I've just finished reading 'Kafka on the Shore' by Murakami; my first Murakami. Even though it took me four months to read the book, I've loved reading it. So, naturally, as soon as I put the book down, I  google Murakami's  'writing process'.  My phone screen informs me that when he's writing, this famous and successful author's day looks like this:

• Wake up at 4 a.m.
• Write for 5 to 6 hours.
• Run a 10 K or swim 1,500 meters in the afternoon.
• Read and listen to music.
• Be in bed by 9 p.m.

He attributes his writing success to the 'routine' he follows. 

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Dear Readers,

It feels so good to be back here: writing and sharing after a gap of 4 months! As you may have gathered by now, I've been an absentee blogger and to some extent an absentee writer. Apart from a few Instagram posts and a couple of poems in Hindi, the last four months have been dedicated to dealing with surprises LIFE springs on us rather than documenting it in prose and paragraphs.

Last night, when I read about Murakami's routine, I thought I'd give it a try. 

'Sadhana' in Hindi means 'dedicated practice or learning'. Whether it's yoga, music, or passing an exams in school or college, a dedicated practice births results. I know that but when one falls off the wagon of one's practice, it can be a struggle to get a foot hold back on. At times like these, it's sensible to look to the masters and follow in their footsteps. 

I don't know what 2022 has in store for me but I do plan to visit my writing desk every morning. Why am I telling you this? Because, writing a promise down makes it real. And sharing it with you makes me accountable to myself. 

Adriene of Yoga with Adriene who I follow when I'm unable to join my yoga class, always says: "the hardest part is to arrive on the mat." And I agree.

Irrespective of lost time, the uncertainties and turmoil of the last quarter of 2021, I'm happy to be present at my writing desk today, typing out my first post of the year. 

Thus far, 2022 has been joyous in many ways:

The food, friends brought from their travels and shared with me, made me relive my childhood without the need to time travel! Thank you Vini for the rusks from Sunrise bakery of Dehradun and Anshu for the delicious gajak from Moradabad. Another dear friend sent home -made makki ki roti and sarson ka saag so I could enjoy Punjab in Doha this winter.

Long walks on sandy beaches, sunsets, one lone sunrise, reading 'The boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse' and finishing 'Kafka on the shore' have made me happy despite the pounds that I've piled on -- thanks mainly to binging on Downton Abbey and Ozark on Netflix and NOT moving much.

I have a long way to go before I can discipline my day as perfectly as Murakami but I've made a start.

I wish you all a very Happy and Healthy 2022.

I'd love to know what has made you happy, joyful, smile in the last 10 days of this brand new year?

Till we meet again, take good care of yourself.

Warmly,

Arti

How to save a Story when lightning strikes the laptop it's stored in -- a book review for #BlogchatterEbookCarnival

A great guide to life and writing.

Title: The story of Story

Author: Ravish Mani

Format: PDF E-book

When I read Tomichan's review of this book, the fact that the author's original submission was lost because of a lightning strike, struck me. Coincidence? Fiction? I had to find out. So, I downloaded the book.

"Ravish Mani is a life adviser and story consultant." reads his Bio on Blogchatter. It goes on to say, "People in writing community say that he has an acumen for reading in between the lines."

After reading Ravish's bio, my resolve to carve out time to read the book strengthened even more on two accounts: Firstly, as a poet, I tend to stare at the spaces in between the lines as much as I stare at the words. So, perhaps here was a kindred sprit who did the same. And secondly, because this was the first time I had come face to face, page to page, with a bona fide story consultant. 

The five star reviews at the beginning of the book pushed me to grab my notebook and pen to  be ready to take notes. For those who know me, know about my wish to write that elusive story I've always imagined I'd write one day, the one that will make me famous! Yes, that one. This book may be the ticket for me, I thought and settled down like a student settles down in a classroom; alert and with a resolve.

But, the very next page stumped me.

I put my pen down. And read more closely. A large, kind heart and two giving arms sprawled out on my laptop screen like a vast field of mustard, sarson ke khet, inviting me to run through them, to frolic and pick anything I wish to pick because the author tells the reader that he believes 'in the Law of Giving, which says that the return is directly proportional to the giving when it is unconditional and straight from the heart.' 

He also mentions that this work of his is 'uncopyrighted.' Urban vegetable gardens  in inner cities come to mind. Imagine walking through an inner city street in New York or London and you spot a patch of green with a sign on it that says, 'take what you can.' You can't believe your eyes but you go ahead and pick a few beans, a couple of juicy tomatoes and put them in the cloth bag you have hanging on your shoulder and walk back home filled with positivity and a renewed belief in humanity. That's how you'll feel by the time you come to the end of this book.

"As I see, morality cannot be forced. It comes from within. For being moral, introspection is needed. No law can make you morally right. It can only instil fear of punishment in you. The day this fear vanishes, you will go beyond."

Yes, lightning did strike. It took out the author's laptop and other electrical appliances but left his phone and resolve intact. He started writing this particular book on his phone two days before submission deadline. The author asks the reader to forgive the book for any omissions and editorial glitches. When I read that I thought how courageous. 

"Ravish believes you don’t read a book, you read a mind."

To be able to put a book up for public scrutiny on such short notice when one's job entails editing, shows that this author is comfortable in his space. He's brave and not too hung up on perceptions. That is a sign of a secure writer.

I have a long way to go still.

"Good judgment is the result of experience, and experience is often the result of bad judgment. He continues to fail & learn until he learns to close the gap between his perceived reality & the actual reality."

As I continued to read, Raj and Simran emerged from the mustard fields, carrying a bunch of reasons of why people read. I smiled at the synchronicity of our thoughts. The mustard field analogy had been scribbled on my notebook much before I came to the DDLJ part. The reasons why people read listed in the book made me reflect upon why I write.

The analysis of story is done well. The story structure and all the elements that make a story worthy of a reader's time are explained with the right amount of detail so that if anyone wants to use this book as a starter guide or as a quick brush up on the art of story writing, it is available.

A few months ago, I had received a rather heart-breaking  review of a story I'd written.  The reviewer had mentioned that my story lacked an arc, a tension in the plot. My memoir based story was very dear to me. The review stung and I ended up shelving that story. When I came to the 'story template' section of this book, I decided to plot my 'discarded' story in a flow chart, using the author's  suggestions.

His tips on motives and needs like "the one that wants the desire to be fulfilled and the other that opposes the fulfilment of the desire." as well as technical aspects like character sketches, "True character of a person is revealed through his choices & actions at crucial moments. His daily activities may present a wrong image of the person. " made me look at my story through an analytical lens. It helped. I'm eager to put the tips into practice and give this story of mine a re-write. We shall see.

"The words 'history' & 'story' both are derived from the Latin word 'historia' which means 'to learn' or 'to inquire.' On looking further, it appears that they are derived from the Proto-Indo-European root 'weyd' whose meaning is 'to see.' The Sanskrit words 'Veda' & 'Vidya' share the same root."

The book will make you see the world in a kinder light. How many people are ready to share their ideas for free? And if, like me, you're new to plotting stories on arcs and need to add tension to your plot lines so that literary magazines or publishers will take notice of your work, read this book. It'll help.

The title of this post is a question: How do you save a story that you think you've lost? Well, you see it first and then, well, then you do what you must to show (and tell) it to the world because "Stories are recognizable patterns, and in those patterns we find meaning."

This book was a meaningful read indeed. I'll recommend it to anyone who's ever felt intrigued about stories to check it out.

The book is FREE to download here: The Story of Story

PS. This book is part of #BlogChatteEbook carnival in which my book, And all the Seasons in between is also a part.

A bucket full of blue skies: Chainsheel Trek (Part 2) #traveloguesofArtiJain

Day 3 (contd...)

You may recall "Part 1" of this trek from last month's post. Part 2 follows:

We left Mandi Thatch after word of our moody mules reached us. The late start will catch up with us but for now we were enjoying the unbroken blue skies and Ranaji's transistor. 

Incidentally, I wrote and recited a Hindi poem about this tiny transistor and its owner, Ranaji, who peppered our trek with Hindi film music whenever the mighty Himalayas let radio waves reach us. I'll share the link at the end of this post.

Blue: the colour of Shiva, of Krishna, of skies, of oceans, of lakes and of a plastic pale, however, kept us company throughout. Sometimes, silver-grey clouds played hide and seek with the blue but no matter.

Pradhanji (the village leader of Maunda) would stop every now and then to draw our attention to the things growing around. In the picture below, he's holding a tuft of moss growing under this massive rock that is used for its medicinal properties.

Of course, any opportunity to admire Mother Nature's abundance gives weary knees the much needed rest and break.

The trail on day 3 was unique because for the majority of  the 11 km stretch, the mountains and peaks were visible which is rare. In fact, for a long time, while traversing the ridge, we had a panoramic view of snow capped peaks on our left and  and right.  And time enough to pose with them:)

We ate lunch languishing on a log that had once been the trunk of an upright oak. Lunch was veg pulao that day -- deliciously abundant with potatoes, peas, carrots and capsicum. I must've been famished for there are no photos!

Post lunch progress is always tedious as filled tummies slow the legs down, or perhaps weary legs blame the tummy to hide behind an excuse. 

Snow flurries hit us late afternoon. Suddenly, dark grey clouds engulfed the clear blue skies and before we could zip up our rain covers, first fat raindrops and then soft snowflakes tumbled down from the heavens. Distant thunder carried threat of drenching.  There was no shelter in sight. It was freezing. The thought of being wet and cold in the mountains is not too appealing.

The threat receded as soon as it had appeared. All was well again. I'd burrowed my camera inside multiple layers so it didn't emerge till the changing light reminded me of the golden hour: that precious time when the setting sun bathes the world in golden light. It is a photographer's delight.

By the time the sun was rushing to kiss the horizon, we could spot the tents.  We had made it just in the nick of time--another hour late, and we would've missed this bliss.

How they managed it, I don't know, but almost as soon as we reached our tents, the team of Outdoor Monks offered us hot water to drink. Apparently, sipping hot water works on two levels: it not only hydrate the body but keeps it warm too. We will need all the warmth in the world that night. Two rounds of fabulous tea followed the hot water. 

If there's a God, he's tea on a cold mountain top--believe me.

Will we? Won't we? Step out of our tents? The twilight hour was fast receding into darkness. The temperature was well below minus 8 degrees Celsius. We were cocooned inside our tents wearing all the layers we could possibly wear and still it felt cold. 

I'm not fond of closed spaces so the tent is only used when it's absolutely essential: i.e. to sleep at night. I wasn't too pleased about the prospect of waiting inside the tent from sunset to sunrise.

This will be long night, I thought.

Will they? Won't they? Light a bonfire tonight? 
But, how could they?
We were far above the tree line. There were no trees, hence no wood. 

Pradhanji's booming voice mixed with sounds of scurrying activity pierced our tent. I laboured with my cold and heavy boots and stepped outside.

What do I see but a crackling fire and hunched silhouettes of people sitting around it. 

How?

Rhododendron (known as Buransh  locally) can be burnt for fuel even when its wood is green. It grows above treeline and provides the perfect fuel for shepherds on nights such as these.

Nature is truly abundant.

The picture above and below are the best I could do with my camera to capture the miracle I was witnessing sitting around a warm fire, a steaming cup of soup warming my heart and hands.

Sleep was being rather elusive that night. I was ready to step outside before the first rays of sun touched down. 

Day 4 arrived dressed in orange, gold and the promise of warmth.

Sunrise of Day 4:

Someone, we don't know who as no one owned up to it, had left a sock on the rock near the previous night's camp fire. The solidified sock created an anecdotal distraction while we waited for chai soon after sunrise. It sat there on the rock thawing--perhaps waiting for its owner to own it again, once it had shed its icy facade. 

You will know when you see these photos just how rewarding Day 4 was. This, yes, this, we told each other is why we wriggle our toes into frozen socks and sleep like mummies --entombed but wide awake.

Can you spot the ice on the water? We'll come across frozen streams and puddles later on today. The blue of sky is misleading. It was cccccccold!

 Blue so bright -- it hurt the eyes.
But don't be fooled by the sky.
Our bones were chilled
and that is why
as soon as we reached the treeline
Bharat gathered some twigs, wood and twine
And lit a fire so divine.
Thawed--
we felt fine.

 Rest breaks are the best

 Meet the star chef: Surinder

Just how tricky is

tumbling down a hill

Why! 

Ask 

Jack and/or Jill

They'll tell you

Down and Crown

don't belong together

like 

Humility and Pride

The latter half of our tumble aka trek down the mountainside was a tad tricky. Layers kept coming off our backs and getting stuffed into our bags. 

Congratulating ourselves and each other on surviving the cold, we meandered our way through forests of oak and deodar, trying not to look at the reminders of our advanced years, such as this young lad who carried this blue bucket throughout the trek and was dressed in these clothes even on the night of minus 8 degrees Celcius! They refer to us as 'elderly' in these parts. They're not wrong but it hurts. 

"What is blue? The sky is blue.

Where the clouds float through."

wrote Chritina Rossetti.

She was born in 1830.

Poetry never fails to inspire me...

Of the trek, there's more to come

We're not yet done.

There's a night and a day still:

One more bonfire to be lit

One last night in a tent

Under those stars that shine like suns

when the sun 

goes to pay his rent

to the Almighty.

You see--

He's supposed to pay it daily

for he occupies prime property

in the blue sky

up high

where clouds sometimes fly.

***************

Wishing you all a safe and healthy Tuesday.

May you and your loved ones enjoy the bliss of noon, night and day

Here's the link I'd promised of my poetry recital in Hindi:

Thank you for being here.

Much love 

Arti 

xx

D is for Dewdrops on daisies in forests of deodar #AtoZChallenge

Every once in a while you come across someone who says something to you which makes you stop and ponder.

Last year in May, I met Alex in Dehradun.

Aparna and I had been on a trek to Chainsheel Lake in October 2018 and Maunda, a village nestled in the Himalayas on the border of Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh, was our base camp. We stayed in the village for two nights; once on the way up and then again on our return from Chainsheel. Something about the village and its people enchanted us so much that we decided to visit again. 

Alex joined us and in May of 2019 the three of us climbed into a comfortable white Innova in Dehradun: destination--Muanda, estimated travel time--nine to ten hours. 

Where the tarmacked road ends, Maunda begins. It is the last village reachable by motorable roads in Uttarakhand.

May turned out to be even more magical than October. Spring was still lingering on in late apple blossoms while summer had started fattening lingda fronds (wild fiddlehead fern).

This tiny village of deodars and chestnuts, a cow called Laali and a matriarch named Julie left a deep impression on me. My pahadi (of the mountains) soul felt at home among its roadside sea of stinging nettles and tricky to reach truffles. Often, during our stay, a bird or a fragrance or just the way dew drops glinted in the morning sun would unravel a longing within and I'd break into a reverie of fond childhood memories about Papaji and his garden.

Alex and Aparna would listen and watch me revel in the details of my own narrative .

"You should write about it. You are a daughter of the mountains, you should." said Alex one day as we sat sipping our drinks of choice, chai for us and coffee for him, looking over a field of daisies carpeting every inch of visible land under the shade of the ancient deodars. 

Alex's dark eyes shone a little more brightly as I looked at him and nodded. 

His words sowed a seed.

I have fantasised about writing a book for as long as I can remember. But, other than jerky starts and fanciful wishing, I have not given this dream any solid ground to take root.

Papaji used to spend hours tilling his kyarian (flowerbeds) and vegetable patch: raking the soil, mulching the ground, adding cow dung and tea leaves and composted heaps to nourish the plot -- to make it fertile and ready before dropping the seeds.

How will the seed flourish if the soil is not turned? How will ideas germinate if the learning hasn't churned into unlearning? How will words spout without practice? How will the pen write if the journey within hasn't begun in earnest? 

No matter the weather, no matter the time, if his garden jobs had to be done, Papaji did them without excuses. His garden was scared to him. The love with which he looked after it demanded a discipline that he was always willing to give. Did he ever feel lazy, I wonder. Did resistance ever make him doubt his skills as a grower of beautiful things?

"Let resistance do his work. You do yours." a quote by B.K.S. Iyengar helps me when I falter in my practice of yoga or writing.

Alex's words have been planted carefully into my days. I find the time to nurture them with regular writing. A sentence, a para or a page: it doesn't matter. I'm doing my work. 

Resistance is the shadow that follows me everywhere. She turns on the latest Netflix series and slips down rabbit holes of pretending-to-be-research-based google searches every now and then. I let her. I do my work. I toil the soil of what's sacred to me everyday so that when the sun of inspiration shines, I'll be ready.

*********

Have you hugged a tree recently? What did you see when you looked up?

I've cobbled together a few photos I shot in May 2019, in Chakrata, Uttarakhand to create this video:

And have used Ustad Vilayat Khan's music to accompany the daisies and the deodars.

A lone, late apple blossom will make his debut too:)
Enjoy.

**********
Have any words uttered by a friend, acquaintance or a stranger made you take stock of your dreams ?
**********
If, by chance, you have lingda growing around where you live, try this Pahadi recipe:
Pahadi lingda with garlic and herb pasta
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Wishing you all a safe and healthy weekend.