To click or not to click in Mana - India's last village.

"No photographs, please." pleaded the priest. The priest at this temple shattered all my prejudices about priests in Hindu temples. Not only was he kind, but he was so patient that for a moment I wasn't sure if he was really a priest. Such humility is rare to see in people who consider themselves keepers of God and religion- rare and beautiful.

"Why not? What's wrong with taking a picture of our God? Why are all the temples so fussy? We come from such far off places..." grumbled the old gentleman, his voice becoming shriller as he went on. His hands jutted forth, shaking with anger and trying to make his point for him.

"Please do the darshan with your eyes and imprint it where you can see his image all the time, anytime." gestured the priest, raising and resting his fingers on the vermilion tilak on his forehead, in between his eyebrows. He closed his eyes. A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of his salt and pepper mustache. When he opened his eyes, they sparkled.

I was putting my shoes back on when this exchange happened. The temple is tiny, so I could witness the scene without intruding. 

The angry gentleman muttered his annoyance to his group in his native language, looked up and caught my eye. I smiled. 

"Was I wrong, wanting to click a picture? You know how difficult it is to come here at my age? Why are these priests so fussy?" he presented his arguments to me, in the hope that I'd side with him. 

I had smiled. I must be on his side. The angry gentleman turned towards me to boost his army. I must have looked like an ally because my camera was lying next to me. 

"Isn't it?" he continued in a much calmer voice as I pushed the bulgy ankle of the woollen socks I was wearing into my trainers.

He stationed himself opposite me. I had to engage. There was no escape. 

I straightened up and said, "I don't know. I love taking pictures, too. Panditji isn't wrong though, is he? I don't recall taking a picture of my daughter when she was born, but I can see every detail of her the first time I saw her. Maybe, sometimes we don't need the camera to take a picture."

I have no idea why I said that. It must be Ganesha's wisdom emanating from the cave and affecting me. I'm the last person on Earth to say that because I love to click. Ask my family how frustrating it gets for them to venture out with me.

Maybe it was the fact that the now-not-at-all-angry gentleman's group was threatening to leave him (or so I assume for they were talking in a language I couldn't identify) or maybe my smile had worked or maybe he was a softie who just got a bit irritated because he knew he wouldn't be able to come on  this journey again. He looked like he was in his mid or late seventies. Whatever the reason may have been, by the time I had tied my shoe laces, he and I were exchanging details of what we'd seen so far and just how beautiful this place was.

When I started writing this story, the kind priest's words came back to me. I tried to recall my most precious moments. Eureka! Not a single special moment of mine is a photo. None. But I can still recall each detail with complete clarity.

Those moments are so perfect that I never had the need to capture them artificially. What an odd thing to say as I sit here today cobbling together the photos I've taken of the last Indian village.

But, that's how I feel. My clicks are of moments I like to capture to look back at or to share with friends- beautiful, stunning moments.

But the perfect ones, like my first crush in grade 7, or the second one in grade 9, or the one in college. Or my secret one-sided love affair with the guy who used to flip rumali rotis in that dhaba I used to pass by in my school bus every afternoon. Throughout grade 10, I sat on the left side (window seat) of the bus for a chance to spot him. He was gorgeous. I was 15. It didn't matter that he didn't know I existed. Hindi films coursed through my veins passionately. I rest my case. Or my first kiss. Or the moment when my children were born. These perfect moments don't need any cameras. It's all here, like Wordsworth's Daffodils:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

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

The priest's words stay with me. I may keep my perfect moments for myself, but the beautiful ones need to be shared. Hop on board for the last leg of our journey on this mother-daughter trek in September 2015.

We had gathered at Gobind Ghat to squeeze into a mini bus which would take us to Badrinath. This 25 km drive is breathtaking and scary. I would've preferred to walk, I think. We drove over melting glaciers! Yes, the glacier is packed down with grit to make it easy for vehicular traffic, but when you see water dripping from the piece of ice block your bus is on, you do feel a bit jittery.

Badrinath was silent when we drove in just after mid-day. We were informed that the temple wouldn't open for darshan till 3pm. So the group was led to a restaurant to eat lunch and that's where I devoured this thali. It's a mini miracle that I got this shot...I was soooooooooooooo hungry!

Chillies, anyone?

3 kilometers from Badrinath is the last Indian village, Mana. It's about 24 kilometers from the Indo/Tibetan-China border. We went exploring...

Imprints of the Mahabaratha and its legends are visible all over this tiny village inhabited by the Bhotias (a Mongol tribe). It feels like walking onto a film set of the Mahabaratha. There are two caves here: Vyas Guha and Ganesh Guha, the place where it is believed that Ved Vyas dictated the epic to Ganesha. This is where I met the wise priest.

According to the priest, Ved Vyas needed a scribe when he was ready to dictate the Mahabaratha. Ganesh agreed to be his scribe on one condition -- Ved Vyas should recite the entire epic non- stop. He agreed but put a counter condition for Ganesh-- that Ganesh should only write the verses he understood. This way, while Ganesh was figuring out a verse's meaning, Vyas would compose the next verse and so on. Also, when Vyas needed the loo or a nap, he would recite a tricky verse. So while Ganesh took his time to decipher and understand, Vyas would be done with his bodily functions. Cool story.

Like the priest, the villagers were anti-photographs. I wasn't sure why. The women working in their garden patches, selling woollen hats and woven mats, grinding herbs for tea or tadka for daal, washing wool in the streams all protested aggressively against being clicked.

I asked a lady whose integrity impressed my daughter. She was selling tea leaves. I bought a few packets. She didn't have change. I gestured for her to keep the change.

She promptly gave me another packet and settled the transaction, " Zyada paisa nahin chahiye." (I don't need the extra money) and smiled.

"Aap log photo le kar kya karega? Yeh to humara roz ka kaam hai." What will you do with our photos? This is our daily life. She answered my question with a question.

The Bhotias are hardworking, honest and proud.

I began to understand why they don't like being clicked. I would protest aggressively if you came to my door and started clicking me while I was fixing my morning cuppa. Intrusion is never welcome.

There are those among us who travel like hunters- hunting for photo opportunities. Not a bad thing to click, I agree...but can we show some etiquette please?

As a rule, please ask for permission when you are clicking photos of humans or their property.

Would you be comfortable being clicked by a complete stranger? I know, I wouldn't.

The hunter-gatherer traveller who forces locals to pose with them needs to think how he/she would feel if the roles were reversed.

Clicking photos is not the focus when we meet people on our travels. The people are. The people and their stories enrich my travel experience. I click people I've met, with their consent, to look back and reminisce. Usually, it's after a short/long chat that I ask for their permission. You know instinctively when someone would like to be clicked. I hate being photographed. In my mind, I'm so much more beautiful than what the camera captures. Don't laugh...that's how I feel. The camera doesn't lie, you say...in my case it does, trust me.

So I know how uncomfortable it must get for people who live in places where tourists flock and force them to pose. Tourism brings revenue, so it's not always easy to refuse. But as travellers, let's not forget basic human courtesy.

Before I get all carried away with my rant, let's get back to Mana...

As you get to the end of the village, your ears pick out the gush of roaring water and your eyes are drawn to these huge boulders. They look like two boulders to me, but it's a single rock. This is called Bhim Pul. Legend has it that Bhim made this bridge to help Draupadi cross the gushing river Saraswati when the Pandavas were on their way to heaven.

This pul (bridge)reminds me of Gustav Klimt's Kiss.

The crashing cacophony of the water fills your ears and thoughts. Legend has it that Maharishi Ved Vyas requested the noisy Saraswati to flow quietly so that he could dictate the Mahabharatha to Ganesh without the noise in the background. Saraswati didn't oblige and like a true evolved soul, Ved Vyas banished her to the underground. Yes, this most sacred Hindu river, the Saraswati, plunges underground somewhere near Mana and then reappears (mythical) near Allahabad in  Prayag.

If you'd like to read more about the latest on Saraswati, check this site out:

http://www.downtoearth.org.in/coverage/saraswati-underground-15455

On our way back from the pul (bridge), we saw this sadhu. He didn't say anything. I asked if I could click. He seemed extremely ready. He posed. I clicked. I made an offering at the altar. Transaction complete.

It was time to pose and get clicked.

The mini bus drove us back to Badrinath temple. I took some photos on the way and a few before entering the temple. My mother-in-law had warned me of the heaving crowds inside the temple. I wasn't looking forward to jostling my way to God! I'm sure he'd understand.

As luck would have it, our group of seven were the only people inside the temple that afternoon. We sat down and did our own thing -  chanted/meditated/stared/counted our blessings/ thanked the universe. I hopped between reciting the Gayatri mantra, patting my back for being so lucky to be there minus the crowds and admiring the beautiful antique chandelier hanging above me. It was made of silver which had become more beautiful with time. The grayish patina lit up like a faded moon peeping through feathery clouds; alluring in its evanescence. The glass lamps were milky white, soft and welcoming like the froth on top of a tall glass of lassi. It's the most beautiful chandelier I've ever seen. God seemed happy, too.

Parikrama around the temple followed by dipping our feet in the hot spring at the bottom of the temple completed our trip to Badrinath.

It was time to head back. A short walk through the bazaar and we were back in our mini-bus: 

home bound. 

  He may not show it, but he agreed to be clicked:)

"Kuchh de kar jaana." (Give us something), they said.

"Then I can take a picture?"

"Kyun nahin?" (why not?)

I'm all for sensible commerce.

Commerce with courtesy...I like the ring to this phrase.

"...Yadaan aayeean...

Lokee punj wele

Sanu har wele

yadaan ayeean..."

These lines are from a sufi song I listen to often and it translates as:

...memories and thoughts ...

people think of you five times a day

you are with me all the time

memories and thoughts...

Have a lovely day and hope to see you soon. 

Home Sweet Home.

When does a house become a home? Do we work hard all our lives to build houses or make homes? Living in a country where our primary goal is to save for a secure future (funny, how confidently we disregard the one truth of life--its end) so that one day we can settle in a place of our choice without worrying too much about bills etc., forces me to accost this question often. Too many options pop up as prospective places to settle down when we retire in a couple of decades. The choices are too many- it's not fair!

My grandparents didn't have to make that choice- history did it for them. All they had to do was leave their land of ancestors, their houses, their businesses, their farms and friends and even some members of their families behind in 1947. They were forced to move to a new country. They travelled with their memories and a determination to start afresh. Their Punjabi spirit and gumption translated the burden of this obligatory choice into an opportunity. They made India their home and embraced it unquestionably-- visiting their old homes (now in Pakistan) in stories laid open in front of their grandchildren huddled around a kangri; its embers igniting and fading like their memories, on cold winter evenings in Dehradun.

My parents' generation had it really easy. They were either born in free India or brought to it as babies or toddlers. They grew up there, found jobs, got married, raised children, built houses and turned them into homes. The question, 'where shall we live when we retire?' never surfaced. There was no need for it. You live with your family around you and you die the same way, right?

Then came my generation of yuppies working for MNCs. With our fancy trips abroad, paid by the companies we worked for, we started looking at the World as our home. With the right qualifications and pay packets, we were able to buy houses in any developed nation of our choice. We travelled back to India once a year to have chaat and gol gappe and reminisce about college days. Our children's delicate tummies faced defeat at the hands of Delhi belly, so we cut down our annual trips to once in two years-- choosing instead to explore the rest of the (developed) world. Global Economic Migrants (GEMs) that we are --we live where we find the best pay cheque to secure a future (we may or may not see).

We then spend a fair amount of this money to escape to a tropical paradise or go back home for gol gappe. We come back refreshed and pleased with ourselves. We share stories of how filthy Indian roads are and how delicious the chaat was at that roadside thela. Sounds confused, does it? That we are. Don't blame us. It's all these ruddy choices we've been inundated with:

Where to send our children to school, university, summer camp?
Where to eat lunch/dinner/brunch?
Where to shop for clothes/bags/more clothes/ more bags/ even more clothes....?
Where to go for a short break/a medium break/ a long break?
Where to buy to let?
Where to buy to live?
Where to buy to retire- seaside or mountain top?
What to wear?
What not to eat?

Choices. Ruddy Choices.

We meet other yuppies and share our travel stories. Somehow we end up discussing how awful our choices are-- forced to live this life of comfort in a place we can't call home.

Yes, our parents had it easy...they knew their homes were in the houses they had built in the country their parents had fought to set free.

We've  lived so long in foreign lands that we've forgotten our way home. Only kasore ki chai and spicy gol gappe ka paani remind us of our homeland.

Homeland...hometown...childhood home? Is it real? We go back and realise that it exists for the first couple of hours after we arrive and forever after we come back --in the romantic recesses of our brains- where the idea of what it was like when we were little lives and breeds. This part of our brain connects to our heart strings and makes us pine for a time which only exists in nostalgia. Yuppies who stayed on in India are as helpless as we are when it comes to locating this hometown of our memories. India has changed. It is changing  and poor sods like us sit with our glasses of wine or single malt in a beautifully done up sitting room and reminisce.

Out of the blue, an email from a dear friend in London opens with, " Merry Christmas darling. When are you coming home? I miss you. You've been gone long enough."

We've harvested a rich crop of dear, darling friends over these twenty vagabond years in many cities and countries.  I miss them, too.

Home is where the heart is, they say-- but the problem is this restless heart-- it always notices the grass is just a tad greener on the other side.

Sometimes, I wish I were a snail or a tortoise- at home, no matter where I go. But, most times, I get excited about pieces of art or pottery or a set of fluffy towels and I want to get them to take them home. Yes, that tortoise notion isn't going to work in this lifetime, but I do feel it sometimes-- especially when the cleaning chores pile up!

As a kid, home was the aroma of my mother's cooking. When I went to University, home was my grandfather's kiss on my head and his sideways hug when I visited him. These days, home is the nook of my husband's shoulder where I rest my head at the end of a day. Yes, that's how small and big a home is for me. That's all.

Houses, on the other hand, are hard work. They have to be cleaned and kept in order.

The tug-o-war between my Martha Stewart brain and Homer Simpson brain goes on forever--most days, Homer wins. Unless, of course, friends are coming over; then it's Martha Stewart on steroids!

Choices can be corrupting. They suck you into a vortex of consumerism and keeping-up -with -the Jonses. Luckily, we don't know any Jonses. So we keep up with ourselves.  And every time I feel trapped in this gilded cage, I remind myself of the day when I was not yet twenty and I got caught travelling without a ticket in a DTC bus because the choice I had that day was between buying a bus ticket or a hot cup of tea. I chose chai on that cold, foggy, January Delhi morning. The tut-tutting of the ticket checker's head wrapped in a thick woollen scarf, when he said, "shakal se to achhe ghar ki lagtee ho' (you look like you come from a decent family) snaps me back into reality.

The reality of plenty. GRATITUDE for the food on my table, a house to make my home in, a family to turn to and friends to talk to surges forth. We can't always choose freely; some choices may be unpleasant but essential. So, while I embark upon this free period of my life after quitting my job, I look to my husband with admiration and respect for choosing to support us- his wife and his children. Who doesn't want a life of gardening and reading? Luckily for me, I made my home with someone who lives in the real world-- he works hard without ever complaining and lets me live my days dreaming with my eyes open.

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

In September 2015, we stayed at Auli base camp for a night. Next to this camp was the most stunning house I've seen in a while. I don't know what this style of architecture is called, so if you do, please tell me.

I wish I had enough time to knock on their door and seek permission to admire the interiors as well. I didn't, so I had to make do with exploring the grounds around the house.

Feast your eyes on the treasures I discovered...

The view from the verandah.

The verandah--beside the beautiful house.

The beautiful house

and its doorway....chaukhat/ dehleej

When nature inspires man--

notice the colour combination in the following shots...

The choice is ours-

to be grateful, 

to smile,

to live

and 

let live.

p.s. This is a kangri- this photo is from google images.

My grandfather used to hold this close to him, wrap us all in his big scratchy blanket, while we sat on his lap or next to him--looking up at his pink cheeks, floating like little soft islands in a sea of deep wrinkles. Wrinkles- he had earned working in his farm and his beloved garden for hours, tending his roses and radishes.
I miss those warm chilly nights.

Choose wisely and laugh foolishly:)

Have a peaceful and healthy 2016. Hope to see you soon. xx