Across Boundaries

The Moorish Mosque in Kapurthala, Punjab
Built by French architect Monsieur M Manteauxis, it is a replica of the Qutabiya Mosque of Marakesh, Morocco. Commissioned by Maharaja Jagatjit Singh, the last ruler of Kapurthala, the mosque took 13 years to complete (1917 to 1930).



The photo here shows the main prayer hall that has arched doorways, a subtle splash of colour and geometrical pattern relief on walls


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http://www.betterinteriors.in/storydetails.php?storyid=431


Published Better Interiors

Surya Namaskar

The Kanyakumari Express chugged into the station dot 9.30 am, perfectly late by three hours. Dashing all my hopes of spending arrival hours cavorting in the trinity of the waters hugging India’s tip. The sun now had a typical coastal blaze. I trudged off the platform only to be accosted by milling cabbies offering services dime a dozen. A colleague had scribbled the contact of a lodge near the station and the cabbie was all set to charge a “reasonable” Rs 100 for the “distance”. In a 1.5 sq km town how far could far be, I thought, and preferred checking out options on foot. The moment I got out of the station compound, bang opposite was the lodge! True wheeler-dealers, them cabbies. That was the first and last instance I spent time striking a deal for local transport during my 30 hours at Land’s End.

In Kanyakumari, once called Cape Comrin, there’s nothing called ‘peak season’. The tourist, pilgrim, traveller is always here, though tour operators suggest April as being the pick of the months, when on its full moon day, in a unique occurrence both sunset and moonrise can be seen simultaneously on the horizon. As far as its climatic seasons go, yes, it does have two: this summer and that summer. So make your choice! A two-day break midst an assignment in Chennai had me seizing my opportunity for this overnight getaway.

Sunset-moonrise-sunrise. Regular occurrence, taken for granted. But here it’s been raised to the level of a performing art form, with show timing on display at every corner. Any one of the elements from this celestial triptych, in combination with the azure confluence—Indian Ocean, Arabian Sea, Bay of Bengal—is the town’s pivotal attraction. Yes, there’s also the Kumari Amman or Devi Kanya temple dedicated to the deity who as usual fought the demons single handed, the Portuguese church, the Vivekananda rock memorial, the Thiruvalluvar rock memorial, the Gandhi memorial and sundry other tributes on rock, sand, earth, ether, but none can match the prowess of Lord Surya, the sun god, who steals the limelight. Were it not for His radiance, Kanyakumari, I can assure you, would not give any of those marvelous picture perfect shots.

But you see, like most eminent performers, Lord Surya is classy but wont to tantrums. The spectacular morning and evening aside, he is known to rage and blaze, and I just happened to land during one of those sessions. Kanyakumari has this languorous air about it though the heat can play havoc with you. The oceanic waters were tempting and I saw myself queuing up for a ferry ticket to the rock memorials. The lines are long but quite organised. I was snaking along when all of a sudden a surge of Black surrounded me. Why in the world are these men wearing black in such heat, I wondered. They were pilgrims who had descended from Sabriamala; the shores of Kanyakumari being the culmination of their pilgrimage. They were all Shiva worshippers and black is his colour. God bless them.

The ferry ride was quick and I was a tad disappointed. I wouldn’t have minded an arrival delay this time. The Indian Ocean is so immense, so ceaseless, so powerful, yet its waves that are a tsunami one day, can gently caress you on another occasion. The way they were when I was in the ferry. It was blissful.

That bliss got carried forward in some measure to Vivekananda memorial, built on the rock the Swami meditated and gained enlightenment. It’s a soothing structure and a number of visitors who meditate here narrate of a serenity they experience. The place definitely has calming vibes. In contrast is the colossus 133-feet memorial statue of Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar a few nautical miles away on another rock. The mendicant bard seems reduced, or heightened, to Gulliver in stone. As if that’s not overpowering enough, the ocean breeze—gale would be more appropriate—adds its own dimensions. It gives a flight to everything. Hair flies, sarees become air balloons, dupattas take wing. Holding on is a task. Beware if you are a lightweight… you might find yourself blown to South Africa. Phew! Such is the wind force. Remember it’s capable of harnessing energy. Its sheer magnitude dwarfs us to Lilliputian levels.

Back on shore I walked the streets. There are two main roads cutting across town. One goes north to the railway station, and the other goes west to the bus station. Shops and accommodation is mainly found near the junction of these two roads. The ones near the coastline consider themselves more premium, though all places offer about the same average kind of facilities and food.

The quaint cobbled market on Sannathi Street near the temple held more attraction for me and I pottered around a bit. It has the usual on sale: she sells seashells, seashell necklaces, curtains and dolls; he sells coconut tableware, masks and bags; and they all sell strips of sand in patent seven colours of the Kanyakumari coast, ritualistic regalia of Devi Kanya temple etc. There are lots of saree shops, and one particular board that interested me was Tamil Nadu Weaver’s Corporative Society. Did they have looms here, I asked. “Most definitely, madam.” Would I be able to visit? “Most definitely, madam” Weaving fascinates me, so there I was with my 12-year-old guide Kuppuswamy, heading towards the cooperative office. On reaching there I was told Madurai was the saree-weaving center, though there were a few looms 20 km from here at Nagercoil. I had been misdirected to a dealer’s residence. It was a communication gap. Disappointed, I began walking back when the gentleman hailed and asked if I would like to see a loom. His friend, a weaver, had set up a small one at home which he used occasionally. “You could even try your hand at it,” he suggested. I was hooked.

The friend was called Anna (brother) by all and welcomed me in. He was obviously a passionate teacher and soon I was under tutelage of the master weaver. The act of weaving is considered metaphorically powerful in India, with textile lexicon often being used to express a philosophical thought. For instance, sutra originating from the word sut (thread) means stringing together a guru’s teaching. Tantra is from tant (warp) and denotes that which can go beyond limits. Yantra (loom) is creation of a form for meditation. And so on. All those similes took shape as I sat by the loom binding warp and weft, giving form to some loose threads. It looks easy and effortless. It’s not.

My lessons were in Tamil, and all I know is the word begins with T. Language proved no barrier and at the end of three hours I had managed to weave a two-inch strip for a South-cotton maroon saree. Who cares it was sans design and just a plain band. I did it. And someone at Anna’s home will be wearing a saree I had a hand in making. The experience had been elevating.

I was still busy at the loom, when suddenly I heard an urgent voice saying “sunset time”. It was an out-of-breath Kuppuswamy sticking to his promise of taking me to the best spot to see the spectacle. We sprinted, wriggling past the numbers to reach atop a rock. I stood captivated at the edge of the endless blue ocean domed by an orange-red sky. As the big fiery ball mellowed, myriad colours filled the cosmic canvas. Breeze wafted. If divinity had a form this was it. It humbled. The moments were truly breathtaking. Lord Surya’s performance had been masterful. Cameras and thousands of voices buzzed around me. I turned to give Kuppuswamy a thumbs up. He smiled.

If sunset is divine, the sunrise matches it in aura. At all places of stay, be it the lodges or the star-grade hotels, the wake up password is “sunrise”. Frenetic activity can immediately be heard in corridors. I tumbled out of bed and checked my watch. It was 4.05 am. Granny should be pleased. For once in my lifetime I had woken up at “holy time”. Even the chemistry exam and its millions formulae couldn’t get me out of slumber that early. Kanyakumari did. It was worthy. Yes, dawn exudes a certain unmatchable peace.

The Kanya temple opens doors early and I stood in queue once again. Temple interiors are dark and dingy but faith knows no obstacles and fan following continues to be serpentine. Morning chants resonated inside. Ceiling high brass diyas being lit with ghee filled the space with its distinct aroma. It’s legends, which add that touch of supernatural charm at places of worship. One such is about the supremacy of the presiding devi. The deity Kanya wears a brilliant diamond nose ring that is supposed to emit a powerful ray that supposedly makes ships crash against rocks near the shore. Thus the temple’s sea-facing eastern gate is opened only on particular occasions.

I still had 12 hours in hand. After tucking into a breakfast of half-dozen deliciously fluffy idlis at a princely price of Rs 7 (someone teach urban restaurants this economics), I was on my way to do the touristy circuit of Suchindaram, Nagercoil—where sand is given as parsadam at the Nagaraj temple, Padmanabhapuram, Kovalam and Thiruvananthapuram. It’s a 180-km/7 hours round trip, which is all about lush Kerala countryside, a temple overdose, an over-hyped beach, but an exquisite 400-year-old palace. The seat of power of the Travancore rulers dating back to the 17-18^th century, the Padmanabhapuram Palace is considered an epitome of Kerala architecture. Built in local granite and teakwood that has amazingly stood the test of time. It is immaculately maintained and a guided tour through its labyrinth of 108 rooms is striking.

Back to base well before time to board the 5.15 pm train, I gave the ocean one last look. Boundless, blue and beautiful. The sky was beginning to adorn colours from the palette. Today I wont see the spectacle. I had to go. Land’s End, do they say? Kanyakumari seems eternal.

Factfile

AIR: Nearest airport is at Thiruvananthapuram, 86 km from here.

TRAIN: 2633 Kanyakumari Express leaves Chennai (Egmore station) at 1730 to get here by 0630

When to go

Round the year, though November to January and April, especially on its full moon day, are preferred.

Timeline: Lots to do in two days

Family: Perfect destination

Food: Average Indian. Stick to traditional fare. Breakfast at market restaurants is good and cheap.

Stay options: Ample choice for all budgets. Rooms are usually rented out for 24 hours.

* Kanyakumari-Thiruvananthapuram round trip costs Rs 250 by mini coach (minimum 5 pax) or Rs 1,200 by private cab.

Tour Operators approved by TTDC:

Triveni Tours & Travels -- 04652-246184

Sabaree Travels -- 246157

* In case you want to meditate, Vivekananda Memorial is open daily except Tuesdays. Admission fee Rs 10. Carry a pair of cotton socks if it’s a hot day as shoes have to be taken off here and the stone floor can scorch.

Published India Today Travel Plus

Edging on Sentiment

Khushwant Singh’s novel acts as a point of reference to undertake a trip to search and seek ‘roots’


"The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in India that year. It was hotter than usual, and drier and dustier. And the summer was longer. No one could remember when the monsoon had been so late. For weeks, sparse clouds cast only shadows. There was no rain..." (Train to Pakistan, Khushwant Singh)
It is the summer of 2007 and as I’m driving towards Wagah, in the distance grey clouds are swelling. An early monsoon has been predicted. Much though I enjoy the rain, the prospect of the skies opening up during my short visit to the international border isn’t such a welcoming idea. On the flip side I wryly think this might deter some among the hundreds who arrive here daily to witness the lowering of the flags ceremony.
I couldn’t have been more mistaken. By the time I reached, the stands were packed to capacity, the evening retreat yet a while away. Smart soldiers of the BSF, tall and lean, strictly manned the area. I took my place among the jostling crowd. From my position I could view the Pakistan territory clearly. People were filling in there too to watch the ceremony. While driving to Wagah, in Punjab’s Amritsar district, tales of trauma and tribulation heard during family gatherings umpteen times were racing though my mind. I had then successfully managed to quell the surge of emotions. Now, they seemed on the brink of explosion.
Beside me sat a silver-grey haired, fair complexioned gentleman. He had West-Asian looks and I took him to be a tourist. I was lost in thoughts when he surprised me by asking in chaste Punjabi, “Where does your family hail from?”
“Rawalpindi,” I said almost instantly, as if it were an obvious question in these environs. “That’s a distance away. Mine is from Lahore, mere miles from where we sit today,” he said.
“You’ve come to seek it seems,” he continued.
“Yes,” I said.
“Me too. I’m Ardeshir,” he smilingly introduced himself. My questioning glance must have said it all. “Yes, there used to be a number of Parsi families settled in Punjab, especially Lahore and Amritsar,” he said in response. I nodded, recalling Bapsi Sidhwa’s Ice Candy Man, which spoke about one such family. “The Partition partitioned everyone. It broke homes, displaced people. It saw no caste, age or gender,” he commented softly.


Split Wide Open
“The bullet is neutral. It hits the good and the bad, the important and the insignificant, without distinction.” (Character Iqbal’s musings in Train to Pakistan)
Ardeshir was the first time I had heard a non-Punjabi speak about a torment that had affected millions. Nevertheless the pain he had suffered, the poignancy in his voice had similar tenor. Partition had regrouped people. It was still grouping people. Both of us were here to peep into a territory where we had once belonged; both had a yearning to cross over to a land where some dead roots still breathed. He was born there; I had heard tales from those born across. Yet our emotions fused at a certain plane.
I wondered about the many like us who were here at Wagah to get a glimpse of a bygone land. How many of us were searching for our own Mano Majra, the fictional village in Train to Pakistan, a microcosm for any town, city during those days, which reflected the story of societal torture—the fallout of political misendeavours.
Mano Majra was modelled on Hadali (now in Pakistan) where Khushwant grew up. It is shown as an idyllic village where all is laidback and calm. Where only two trains cross daily, their morning and evening arrival signalling the start and end of village activity. That is till 1947 arrives and ghost trains full of Sikh corpses begin docking. The village becomes a battlefield of conflicting loyalties. That’s when religious identities come into focus wearing a treacherous garb.
A slim novel, with a simple plot but immensely multi-layered, it’s through his few characters—like Hukum Chand, the regional magistrate; foreign-educated Iqbal; Juggut Singh or Jugga, the village gangster; and his Muslim love Nooran, for whom he makes the ultimate sacrifice, in the act redeeming himself—that Khushwant fluently brings out the individual and human element of a social suffering, and pertinently asks the questions of right versus wrong or how bad is good and how good is bad, without touching upon the politics involved.


Country Cousins
The train got closer and closer… The man (Jugga) was still stretched on the rope…He slashed away at it in frantic haste…Somebody fired another shot…The man’s body slid off the rope but he clung to it with his hands and chin… The rope had been cut in shreds. Only a thin tough strand remained. He went at it with the knife and then with his teeth. The engine was almost on him. There was a volley of shots. The man shivered and collapsed. The rope snapped in the centre as he fell. The train went over him, and went on to Pakistan. (Closing lines of Train to Pakistan)
Wagah today is about the point of division of two nations, the Radcliff line, and whipping of jingoistic passions at the lowering of flags ceremony. I was a witness to it that evening. Patriotic songs blared. People hummed. Some sang along. Others whistled. Children squealed. As sunset approached, soldiers on both sides carried out their regular drill, showing faux animosity towards each other, much to the delight of the crowd on either end who excitedly applauded the theatrics.
Clank! The gates shut and the national anthem was played. The crowd sang along. Many wept. Profusely. Ardeshir was an unashamed pool of tears. I wasn’t too far behind. I prayed for rain. It didn’t oblige.
As the ceremony got over there was a surge for the gate. On both sides the crowd gaped at each other. Two people, two countries, once again one emotion. I felt like going forward too. But somehow it seemed as if we were two people caged in our lands. The iron grille gates accentuating our fetters. I turned away.
Ardeshir was waiting to say goodbye. All these years he hadn’t been able to make his pilgrimage across the border. In the dusk of his life, I felt, he had settled for the second best. We nodded farewell. Words felt too choked.
There is something about the call of roots. Only those displaced shall know. Ask author Alex Hailey. The quest to get acquainted with the land he belonged, lead him to tracing his origin back two centuries, the mission resulting in his brilliant magnum opus ‘Roots’.
I’ve tried going across a couple of times, the plans always getting scuttled. Each time I fill in the visa form, in the ‘mode of transport’ section I write ‘On foot’, and get an unclassified thrill in doing so. My pilgrimage too has yet to take off. Maybe next time I will book myself a ticket on the train to Pakistan. Hopefully then and in the times to come the two nations would not need a Jugga to do a heroic deed of seeing the train cross the border peacefully.

Factfile
Air: Amritsar is linked by air to Delhi
Rail: Well-connected by rail with all metros and cities through Ambala cantt junction. From Delhi the Amritsar Shatabdi is a preferred mode.
Road: Distances from the city: Jammu 216 km, Chandigarh 235 km, Delhi 435 km. Luxury coaches are available from all these destinations.
Wagah border: 29 km from town. Local cabs do the up-down from town frequently.

Published in Jetwings

Ladakhi Polo

The Ladakh version of polo is played by a set of rules dating back 500 years and more. And it was on the whim of a princess that the sport arrived here. Read on...
In environs as raw and rugged as nature can sculpt it was a rousing display. The innate power of man and mount moving in tandem to conquer. Crossing hurdles and gaining an edge, sometimes letting it all slip away. Fortunes stood on shifting sands. Cluttering hoofs raised billows of dust. The conditions were tough, the weather demanding. But the spirit didn’t flag. It egged on its companions: strength and skill.

When stakes were down the trio rose; charging ahead, pushing frontiers, raising the bar, holding nerve and eventually surmounting. The crowd, sitting with bated breath, broke into an ecstatic cheer. The win was hailed. Man and mount acknowledged. Strength, skill and spirit took a bow. It had been a display of superlative horsepower at its high-voltage best.
I was amidst an eager crowd watching a gripping exhibition of polo at Leh’s Polo Ground, 11,000 feet above sea level. The duel had been fought between the local teams of Ladakhi Scouts and Animal Husbandry. Always the strong favourites, Ladakhi Scouts (corps of the Indian Army) had annexed the day’s honours in this play for pride.
As a venue, the Polo Ground has more than a touch of wild drama, with mud mountains covering one flank, the Leh Palace rising high at the other end and a piercingly blue sky speckled with cottony white clouds doming it. Every summer, between July to September, this is the ‘shagaran’ or arena where polo teams from around Ladakh’s hamlets gather and play the sport…not according to contemporary norms but by a set of rules tabulated centuries back. Nearly 500 years ago.

Princess’ whim

The Polo Ground had a vibrant mix of people. Seated around me was a group of young monks, attentively tuned to the proceedings. “Do you know how polo arrived in Ladakh?” Lama Tsering asked me. I didn’t even try speculating. “I’ll enlighten you,” he said taking-off on a ‘Once upon a time…’ track and weaving a fascinating tale.
Polo wouldn’t have been played in the ‘shagarans’ had it not been for Gyal Khatun. She was a princess of Baltistan’s Maqpon dynasty, who grew up seeing the exploits of her father and brothers astride the steeds and heard their feats reverberating in the royal corridors. The Maqpons dynasty had been established here in the 12th century by Ibrahim Shah, who had migrated to Baltistan from Iran, the cradle of polo. Whenever Gyal got a chance she would espy men playing polo and secretly nurtured a dream of choosing a suitor who was a champion at the sport, considered the mark of man. The other princesses had been wooed that way and Gyal romantically hoped for something similar. Destiny though had other plans. The Maqpons had expansion on their mind and as a strategic alliance Gyal’s marriage proposal was sent to Ladakh’s Namgyal  dynasty. It was accepted and Gyal Khatun came across the Karakoram as the bride of King Jamyang Namgyal.

The young monarch had fallen prey to the bewitchingly-beautiful Gyal the moment he had set his eyes upon here. Any wish of hers was his command. During a stroll one evening, Gyal asked Jamyang why she never saw him playing polo. Jamyang confessed being least aware of the pursuit. Crestfallen, she walked away ruing her fate. Seeing his queen upset Jamyang summoned his courtiers and despatched them on mission polo. Legend says he secretly trained and months later impressed the queen with his mastery in the mounted sport. This was in the 16th century and ever since polo has been played across Ladakh.

Ladakhi edition

The game of polo has a long past. Born in the craggy mountaineous plains of Persia some thousand years ago, it travelled to China and Central Asia from where in its onward journey it halted at diverse places. In India, it is said, Mughal emperor Akbar lent it royal patronage. During the British rule it got further impetus with the cavalry regiments and princely states becoming major nurseries for the sport; the reason the Army and Rajasthan, besides Manipur and Ladakh where traditional formats are followed, are mainstays of the game in the country.

Modern polo comprises two teams of four members each. The game lasts 30 minutes and there are four rounds called chukkers of 7.5 minutes duration. After each chukker teams change sides and the stallions are substituted, which translates into a team requiring 16 horses per game. The stick and the ball are made of bamboo and the ball travels at a speed of 50-60 kmph. A handicap in polo is from -2 to + 10 and in contrast to golf, higher the handicap, better the player.

Ladakhi polo is feverishly quicker and more demanding. Till recently, there was no system of chukker and both teams played non-stop till nine goals were scored by either. This has been amended to two halves of 20 minutes each with a 10 minute break. As per tradition, the same set of horses is used throughout the match. After a goal, sides change and the scorer gets to take strike.
With the game being played at a fast pace and in conditions quite bucolic, chances are you can miss the goal. “Don’t fret,” said Lama Tsering when I couldn’t keep tab on the score. “Tune your ears to the sound of the daman (drum) and surna (oboe). No sport in Ladakh is complete without their high-pitched strains. As a goal is scored, musical frenzy increases and someone from the crowd gets up and does a victory jig.”

Lama Tsering’s narration had been gripping, almost as if I were hearing a movie script, with the polo game unfolding on the field providing complementing action and sound track! By the time the Lama wrapped up his raconteur role, Ladakh Scouts had romped to a win. The crowd began to disperse. They would be back the next day to cheer another session. I would fly home with pockets full of dust and a story to tell.

brindasuri@gmail.com

Quick facts:

Road: Leh–Srinagar (May to October) & Leh–Manali (July to September)

Polo season: Usually begins in July and ends in September with the Ladakh Festival

The Kabuliwala

Offtrack/Hindustan Times/September 2005

Brinda Suri

The Kabuliwala

“It’s exotic fruit, direct from Kabul,” chirped the fruit seller, siting plum in his air-conditioned shop, between boxes of fruit bearing labels from around the world. “Haanji, it’s come on the PM’s airplane,” he continued, breaking into a sheepish grin knowing he had taken his sales spiel a bit too far.

I had spotted sarda (musk-melon variety native to Afghanistan) after years, and intrigued by it I'd walked into the shop. The last time I had tasted the luscious fruit was when Pathan had brought it.

Pathan was your typical-looking Kabuliwala. Six-footer, broad shouldered, rugged, bearded and turbaned. Quite like Tagore’s fictional character or the quintessential black-and-white era Bollywood hero. For us, though, Pathan was no fiction, he was real.

He had met Grandpa in Delhi, one winter noon in the 1950s and sold him his ware: raisins, chilgoza, almonds, walnuts... Every year for the next 30 years he arrived during winters with his bags full. “Sardar sahab ko bolo, Pathan aaya hai,” would be his opening lines. Intriguingly, he always managed to locate Grandpa, who had shifted bases in Delhi and later settled in Calcutta. Pathan as usual found out.

He hailed from around Kabul and would travel the length of Afghanistan, Pakistan and India to reach Sardar sahab who he was very fond of. Grandpa had grown up in the NWFP area, close to the Afghan border, and they would share notes. He was fond of fruits and mentioned to Pathan how much he missed the sarda and anaar (pomegranate) that grew in Afghanistan. Pathan promised to bring some for him next time.

Years passed and there was no sign of Pathan. His country was going through turmoil and we had given up hope of seeing him again.

One summer day, in the late nineties, there was a knock on the door and a familiar voice said, “Sardar sahib ko bolo, Pathan aaya hai”. We rushed to the door. There stood Pathan, aged, but still astonishingly handsome. It was an emotional reunion for the two friends after over a decade. The two ninety-plus men sat and chatted for a while, before Pathan laid out his ware: the regular dry fruits and along with that sarda and anaar. Grandpa looked at him in amazement, to which the Afghan said, “Pathan ne zuban diya tha… I had given you my word”. The moment is imprinted in the mind.

The situation in his country had kept him away. “The taste is not what it used to be, Sardar sahib. My land has seen a lot of bloodshed,” he said with a heavy heart before leaving.

Pathan left, never to return. His Sardar sahib passed away soon after.

“Should I pack one,” asked the shopkeeper breaking my reverie. “It tastes good”.
I let him have his way. Maybe it was from Pathan’s land.

   

Deja Vu

It’s a one road, two hotel, four shop, six home, dozen horse and plenty of potato and apple town. That equation hasn’t changed in years. Fagu seems like a déjà vu hamlet. It has remained just the way it was when I visited it 20 years back. Picturesque, verdant, quiet, slow yet engaging. It’s a blessing how it has managed to retain that charming touch despite rampant concretisation taking place all over Himachal. That fact is more surprising, and comforting at the same time, as it’s mere 22 km from state capital Shimla, where the deodars have made way for a brick and mortar jungle that keeps expanding its limits, throwing all ecology caution to the winds.


Water Colours
It was blazing hot in the plains when we set off for Fagu. A casual cardigan is about all that went into the bag. How cold could it be up there, when Shimla too was reeling under the heat? Grandpa had warned us of more than occasional downpour in the hamlet and how cold it got. “Definitely take rainwear along,” he stressed. We listened to him but didn’t think it necessary to heed the advice. We couldn’t have been caught more deliciously on the backfoot. It rained, no it poured the moment we landed. As accompaniment, the wind howled and we shivered. Grandpa knows these hills like the back of his palm. He deserved more respect from us. We saluted him, and ruing our fate gunned for cover, snuggling into the warmth of the quilts. Hours later when the mobiles began chiming, with lesser mortals from the scorched plains complaining about the heat, we elaborated on how comfortably we were placed in cool climes. No, we didn’t tell them we walked around the hotel foyer in borrowed blankets.

The rain adds an impressionist dimension to the Fagu canvas. We didn’t move out of the hotel room. We didn’t need to. Our windowscape was exhilarating enough. In front of us were blue rolling hills offset by lush green vales neatly contoured with terraced fields. The one odd home with bright roof added a speck of colour to the panorama. The rain bought in curls of mist that softly settled around an apple tree or sat plum on a potato field. The vista looked ethereal and at our feet the electric heater felt blissful.

At 2,450 m, Fagu is at a higher altitude than Shimla and being hugged by valleys the winds get trapped in the bowl, adding to the chill factor. Locals said they never moved out without a warm cover or an umbrella, both being prerequisites as we realised. The weather here changes before you can drop the proverbial hat, or rain-cap in this case.


Field marshals
Sometimes it doesn’t rain in Fagu. Sometimes the sun spreads its splendour. That’s the time you should set off to explore. The pine hilltop, at the edge of a spur, had carpets of dainty daisies, making the hill appear like a frame out of the vale of flowers. Down in the valleys the potato fields were a sea of green with the sporadic white blossom and apple trees had button-size fruit bunched on branches. I met the lady farm owner and got chatting about profits of the produce. We mange well, she said. “She does very well,” her neighbour chipped in. “Last year she had a turnover of Rs 40 lakh!” She smiled. I seriously began contemplating not to bother posting my CV on job sites and instead concentrating on improving my spading skills.

Residents also make an extra buck by offering horse rides in nearby Kufri and their handsome steeds can be spotted grazing in the hills early morning before they set out to work.

The only visible change in Fagu is of some homes shedding their traditional slate and wood architecture for modern finishing. Himachal Tourism’s Hotel Peach Blossom, where we checked in, used to be slate-roofed structure with fire-place etc but it had weathered and in its place now stands a new construction with contemporary trappings. Comfortable, yes, but the former was cosy. There’s another hotel on the hilltop about which the less said the better.

Fagu is a weekend retreat. For times when you have want to do nothing. When you do feel like adding a bit of spice to nothingness there’s Kufri and its pony rides six km away; Shimla and its Mall packed with honeymooners is a half-hour drive (would have been faster but for the traffic); Narkanda is double digit miles away where you can romp through cherry orchards or munch on any fruit of your choice day long; yonder is Thanedar; where the American Graham Stokes planted the first few grafts of the red apple strain known today as the Kotgarhi that changed the face of Himachal’s economy. Further ahead is…Halt! At times one needs to do nothing.

Factfile

Railway: Kalka (35 km from Chandigarh) is the nearest broad gauge railhead. The Kalka-Shimla narrow gauge is amongst the world’s oldest and can be connected to Delhi via Chandigarh (Kalka Mail and Shatabdi Express).
Road distances: Shimla (22 km), Kufri (6 km), Chandigarh (142 km), Delhi (400 km)
Accommodation: HPTDC’s Hotel Peach Blossom 01783-239469

Published Jetwings

Srinagar

They would say the pink and yellow lotuses of the Dal now wore shades of red. The blooms weren’t blushing. They were merely reflecting the colour running riot in its waters and over the land.




We chose Dreamboat. The name seemed just so apt. We had after all come to relive a dream story. His story, with beginnings here. For long years he had courted grandma, at times braving miles on horseback from the North West Frontier Province to meet her wherever she be. Serenading her in a shikara on the Dal made it seem all worth it.
When they tied the knot, with his shy bride beside him Srinagar felt double paradise. Theirs were days of perfect bliss. Long walks on rustling chinar leaves, romping through strawberry fields, hot cups of kahva, fresh lotus-badam, spotless blue skies and nights under golden stars at touching distance.
Kashmir remained their favourite haunt. On many a work trip to the town sans her, grandpa would recollect times spent here. And dream of her? But of course, he would tell us, continuing on with his bedtime tales unmindful of our bashful giggles. At some point of time we would drift into our own world of dreams. He always knew when and the next night the tale would carry on from where it left off. Somehow it always found a route back to 1937 and the song of the shikara.
Come 1947, and Srinagar became a place of refuge. Paradise got blemished. Earthly misgiving couldn’t, however, destroy a mould so perfect and soon once again it was back to heavenly tenor. But somewhere something had cracked in those gory times. It had left its scar which deepened over the years. Paradise actually began to seem of another realm. Out of bounds. Beyond dreams. Blue skies domed bleakness. They would say the pink and yellow lotuses of the Dal now wore shades of red. The blooms weren’t blushing. They were merely reflecting the colour running riot in its waters and over the land.


Guns and Roses
We had been cautioned against the trip. But preferred throwing caution to the winds. Having grown up in cantonments, olive green was all over our landscape and the colour always instilled a sense of security. At first instance, Srinagar seemed an extension of that terrain. Stray conversations peeled the veneer and then eeriness gripped. That’s when Nabi Rasool lead us away from trepidations, as soon as we stepped on to his houseboat.
A genial boatman who had seen generations go by, he cut through the layers of fear taking us to the core. To the heart of real Kashmiryat—of poetry and passion, of lyrical voices, of cuisine that’s as ceremonious in preparing as it’s in partaking, of long starry nights spent listening to strains of the soulful rabab. It was Paradise! Maybe not the way grandpa had viewed it. The refractions were different but the prism had its band of colours intact. The bullet couldn’t kill that.


On the Dal
The Dal is definitely Srinagar’s main attraction. Hugged by snow-capped peaks of the Outer Himalayan range and fringed by graceful chinars, poplars and sprays of happy daises, its mirror-like waters look pristine. Activities are played out on it at all times: honeymooners enjoying a ride, fishing nets being cast, cruises through floating vegetable gardens and past villages with wooden houses, shikaras brimming with multihued flowers on sale. You needn’t move. Life moves around you.
The dawn-dusk luminosity makes it even more hauntingly beautiful; the mellow glow adding an ethereal dimension to the stunning landscape. As night sets in, the waters reflect Srinagar twinkling at different heights. If you are trigger-happy (camera, of course) and even if you are not trigger-happy, it’s advisable to keep few rolls of film handy or an extra GB card. Each moment is so spectacularly perfect, chances are you’ll run out of those extras too.
The finest way to get a feel of the Dal is by booking a houseboat—legacy of the British who weren’t allowed to buy property here. You can’t have gone to Srinagar and not stayed on a houseboat. It’s an affair one lives to tell. The stationary floats, with fanciful names, Anarkali, Jaan-e-mun, Noor-e-Jehan… are dressed in traditional aesthetics, replete with carved wooden panels and furniture, Kashmiri carpets and namdas (rugs), gold-painted papier-mâché embellishments… it’s luxury at every step. Like hotels, houseboats are available in all categories from luxe to budget and during season prior booking is necessary. Generally the boatman’s clan resides in one room and treats guests as part of the family, taking care of all needs—from arranging shikara rides to cooking dishes of the wazwan (banquet prepared by waza or cook). It’s a captivating slice of local existence and it’s as close as you can get of living and observing the Kashmiri way of life. We experienced it through Nabi saheb on Dreamboat.


Gardens and Gushtaba
Srinagar stands on the Dal and on both banks of river Jhelum over which are built seven cantilever bridges. The waters do have their share of dirt and grouse floating around but it’s best to overlook it. I guess being a few-day resident let’s you do that more easily.
The town has mixed inheritance, having been governed by diverse forces, from the Afghans and Mughals to Dogras and British. Its unique character is visible in the structures that dot it. Like the Khanqah of Shah Hamadan, who arrived here from Persia in the 13th century to spread Islam. Said to be the first mosque built in Srinagar, it’s a sort-of pagoda style wooden structure. Various edifices portray Kashmir’s secular ethos, that comes to the fore on Hari Parbat, which has a fort and several places of worship like Sharika Devi temple, Makhdoom Sahib dargah and Chatti Padshahi gurdwara dedicated to the sixth Sikh guru.
Besides architectural beauty, Srinagar has beautifully landscaped gardens overlooking the lakes, a bequest of whom else but the Mughals. Shalimar Bagh is definitely the pick among the three terraced gardens, the others being Chesma Shahi and Nishat. They also created Char Chinari, an island in the Dal with four chinar trees now reduced to three. Shikaras row you there to enjoy another panoramic view.
The road lining Dal, the Boulevard as it’s referred to, is where touristy activity is frenzy paced. The best hotels are on this stretch; scores of Bollywood shootings have taken place around here and local guides point out various spots associated with various films. There are also rows of shops selling exquisite handicraft: papier-mâché, pashmina shawls, hand-woven carpets, baskets, stone jewellery. Every original has a duplicate and only a discerning eye can pick the best. Negotiations are in order. Sometimes the reference to “aapka India” as another country can bother; it’s wise to ignore such talk.
Traditional tastes are best savoured at restaurants like Mughal Darbar, Anarkali (popular name here) and Adoos, which serves excellent gushtaba—meatballs in yogurt—with aromatic sticky white rice. There are a number of bakeries offering a variety of Kashmiri breads rarely seen outside the state, like sheermal, baqerkhani—akin to a puff pastry, tsot and tsochvoru that are buns topped with poppy and sesame seeds.
Local transport of all shapes and sizes, from flashy auto-rickshaws to packed mini buses ferry you around town. Were you to ask me, I’ll say the best way to see Srinagar is by shikara. It needs time and comes at a price. But what’s a little price for paradise. Thanks, grandpa.

Published in Jetwings

Kite Runners

They were flying high—specks of green, red, pink, black, blue—brightening up a lazy blue sky. At ground level, spirited Afghani men in Pathani suits were tugging and spooling kite strings adeptly. Battle lines were soon drawn. Other Afghan men fervently began following conquests happening in the sky. Wild cheers and jeers did the rounds. In a while the coloured specks faded till only two remained. The Green and the Yellow. Tension gripped, brows creased, necks stiffened. The crowd grew silent. Passerbys paused. Two paper squares in the sky held control. Tug, lift, jerk, snap. Suddenly the Yellow nosedived and jubilant cries in Pashto rent the air. The victor was hailed by his supporters. And as his winning Green mascot soared higher, somewhere from among the Pathani-clad men a group of kite runners emerged and ran for the trophy—the vanquished Yellow.

I was watching this engrossing action at the Maidan in Calcutta on a ceremonial Sunday afternoon. It could well have been a page out of Khaled Hosseni’s The Kite Runner being played out in front of me. Such was the similarity in spirit and portrayal at this gathering of Afghans in Calcutta, their adopted home, miles away from their homeland.

Every Sunday, and most visibly during the days of the Eid and Navroz or new year, Calcutta’s Afghan settlers gather at the Maidan and live a little bit of Kabul, Kandahar, Jalalabad…entertaining themselves with traditional passions…kite flying, anda kushti (hard-boiled egg fights) and performing the Attan. It’s a custom that’s been followed for close to a century, from the time the first Afghans began coming to Calcutta to seize opportunities of commerce.

Amongst the earliest sub-continental voyagers, these rugged men would travel the lengths of Afghanistan, Pakistan and Gangetic India to reach Calcutta. Here, as elsewhere across Indian cities, they would go door to door selling bags full of Afghan flavours and fragrances—dry fruits, spices and ittar; translating the capital earned from its sale into money-lending business. Their place of origin and typical dress code—Pathani shalwar kameez, keffiyeh and turban—earned them their brand name: Kabuliwala. Which though a little romanticised, a little enigmatic is an identity that has stuck on till today.

The Kabuliwalas assembled at the Maidan that day were among the close to 2,000 Afghans settled in Calcutta. Most of them still continue to be moneylenders, though many have diversified into other small trades. “Whatever occupation we may do on six days of the week, on the seventh day we Afghans have to picnic,” septuagenarian dry fruit trader Hafeez Muhamud tells me. “We need an excuse to party, feast and dance. You can call it our favourite pastime,” his grandson chips in. While in Kabul they have baghs and cooler mountain regions of Paghman or Salang in the Hindu Kush to let their hair down, in Calcutta, its green lung remains their chosen ground.

The Sunday I was there was a day after Eid-ul-Fitr, and celebration on such festive occasions generally becomes a daylong affair. Conversation was flowing in Pashto and Dari. A lot of catching up was taking place. A visitor from Kabul wearing the pukhool (round woolen cap) and another in a beige turban were holding court. A customary feast of pilau, naan, qorma, boulanee, watermelons and of course a lot of dry fruit, had been spread out on dastarkhwans and groups of men were tucking in. Throughout the various sessions, Afghan chai was doing brisk sales. Quite similar in taste to kahva, local tea vendors by now are adept at making the beverage and prefer calling it lal chai owing to the colour of the cinnamon-flavoured concoction.

On the fringes sporting activity continued. A few boys displayed their volleyball skills, while others preferred playing football. Some avidly watched the blade of the willow hit a cracker of a shot by one of the many teams playing weekly cricket at the Maidan. In one corner empty trays of eggs and coloured egg shells lay as reminders of a passion for traditional games played on Eid like aanda kushti, which essentially is two contestants trying to crack each other’s hard-boiled eggs, which are painstakingly painted in bright colours after being boiled to perfection. Dozens of trays get used up, the winner being the one who manages to have maximum eggs intact. “The boiled eggs are eventually used for the community dinner or given away in charity,” burly Khomein explained, counting the number of eggs he had managed to save.

Around late afternoon, the two drummers who had been providing a background score, increased the tempo and as if on cue a group of men took centerstage and began performing Attan, the Afghan/Pakhtoon dance that has origins in the southern provinces of Afghanistan where every celebration culminated with it. Its beat is the traditional Mogholi, said to be a creation of the Mughal dynasty. A huge circle was created and performers from the crowd followed each other going round and round in a circle to the beat. Their Attan was a blend of three steps: wardaki (lots of twists and turns), logari (clapping and turns) and khosti (snapping of head from side to side). As the rhythm and beats began to get fast, participants who couldn’t keep pace dropped out and others joined in…and the Attan went on till after sundown.

“We like to stick to traditions,” a youth who held an Indian election card told me. Yes, the conservative Afghans sure do stick to tradition. Except for the little girl in a pretty pink salwar kameez, their women were missing from the gathering.

Published Outlook Traveller

Balo

She wouldn’t get on board. She stepped in and then stepped back. Beads of cold sweat appeared on her forehead. She was clearly petrified. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “It’s too long,” she replied. “What is long?” “The bus,” she complained. “Where’s the bus?” I asked perplexed. We were both standing on the platform of Udhampur station. For miles around me were rolling hills; and closer were dozens of security personnel, many passengers, no drinking water and immaculate rail tracks. I couldn’t see a bus though. “This is the bus,” she told me, pointing to the ochre-coloured DMU (diesel multi-purpose unit). “That’s the train we’re going to board for Jammu,” I chuckled. She didn’t agree.“

She would recognise a train, if she’d seen one,” boomed a voice behind me. A young Gujjar, clad in a chadar-kurti, clutching three milk cans, stood grinning. “She’s my sister. I’m taking her for a ride on the train. I know all about it, I’ve travelled by it a few times,” he pronounced authoritatively, ordering her to get in.

Balo, the Gujjar girl, who eventually made it inside the compartment, was not the only first-timer on board. The Jammu-Udhampur section has been operational for two years (on completion the 342km rail line will extend to Katra, Qazigund, Srinagar and Baramulla), but the train that runs its tracks is only eye candy for most. Like the post-graduate Dogra youth sitting beside me, who had come to Jammu for a job interview and decided to take the train on the return journey.

As for me, I had time on hand one afternoon while in Jammu, so instead of browsing through the bazaar near Raghunath Mandir for the nth time, looking at reams of Kashmiri embroidery, line-ups of cricket bats, piles of imported blankets and putting on calories tasting walnuts at every third shop, I found myself queuing up for a ticket on the 1.10pm Intercity. The 55km journey cost me a grand sum of Rs 11. The bus fare would have set me back by Rs 30, besides adding 64km to the journey. A kilo of the ‘finest quality’ shelled walnuts would have cost me Rs 320 at bargain price.

The train passes through Jammu city and the route is a virtual tour of the area’s tourist attractions like the Bahu Fort, Mubarak Mandi, Peer Kho, Har ki Pauri, Maha-Maya Mandir, Trikuta peak (Vaishno Devi), all of which come up in quick succession. The tranquil Tawi river gives the train company as it meanders in and out of tunnels, over suspension bridges, through barley fields, past meadows with grazing horses, alongside waterfalls and small brooks. The sky is a clear blue, and the journey is exhilarating. I catch fleeting glimpses of the snow-clad peaks of the Pir Panjal range. Some day soon a train will run in their shadows.

The only sign of activity during the one-and-a-half hour journey is when the train halts at four picturesque stations—Bajalta, Sangar, Manwal and Ramnagar—so squeaky clean that they seem like stage sets. Looking part of a different set are the armed security men who line the entire route and parade up and down the train. Try pulling your camera out and chances are that they’ll pounce on you.The train does the Jammu-Udhampur return journey thrice a day. It’s packed to capacity with Gujjars—for whom selling milk and ghee in the region has become less tedious now (as Balo’s brother explained); mothers visiting married daughters; students; army personnel; and joy riders like me.

During the return journey from Udhampur I tried talking to Balo but she seemed anxious, and remained reticent. The relief on her face was unmistakable as the train chugged to a final stop at Jammu Tawi station and the crowds rose to disembark. “Did you enjoy the journey?” I asked her. She wavered, smiling bashfully, nodding a no, but then changing her mind to conclude with a yes. “What was the best part?” I prodded. For the first time she seemed excited, “When night would fall all of a sudden and then the day would begin once again.” She was referring to the 20 tunnels we had crossed en route (number 7 at 2.4km being the longest).

We’re aiming for Mission Moon. At the moment though, Mission Train seems to be just about getting on track in large parts of the country. Balo will vouch for that.

There are two trains running on this route. The DMU departs Jammu at 7.45am, 1.10pm and 5.20pm and leaves from Udhampur at 10.30am and 2.40pm. The 2445 Uttar Sakranti Express leaves New Delhi at 8.35pm and gets to Udhampur the next day at 7.45am.

Published Outlook Traveller

Rupa

Sometimes the middle of nowhere can spring culinary surprises. I experienced it at a freezing mountain pass in Arunachal

No one serves it better than Rupa. Steaming hot with a dash of lemon. It’s a simple noodle-soup with even simpler ingredients. But when it’s freezing cold in the world outside her little tenement at 13,700 feet, it tantalises the taste buds exotically and is succour for weary, weather-beaten souls traversing the mountains tracks of awesome Arunachal Pradesh.

Tawang, near the Indo-Tibet border, was our destination for the day. Our quartet, that’s a group of four adventurous women between 30 and 70 years, was geared up for the geographical assault we had been warned about. But nothing could have prepared us for the vertical climb, when we had started off on the eight-hour journey from sunny Bomdila, in West Kameng district, early morn. Getting to Sela, the splendid snow-covered natural mountain pass -- second highest in the world, with the mirror-like Paradise lake -- is a test for the nerves, as you drive past stunning rocky topography that captivates and numbs at one go. And residing there…well, even lichens find it tough.

But not Rupa, or Rigu Renchu, as she is known on school certificates. She believes in living on the edge, literally. Her one-room shack, which doubles up as Hotel Tenzin is the lone dwelling at Sela, entry point to district Tawang. She has only the gods to keep her company… Lord Shiva resides in the temple opposite the road and so does Buddha. Sentinels at the Army post stand on guard too. But Rupa, she needs none. She’s a stocky, happy hill woman. Content with the way life has treated her. It’s the passerbys who are dependent on her. The Armymen, truckers, few and far between tourists and locals need to halt at her quaint abode while on their way up or down the treacherously-inviting terrain. It’s at her home-hotel you stop to refuel spirits and gather breath to do the breathtaking once again. And Rupa makes sure she pampers you thoroughly.

It was raining when we reached Sela. We bundled out of the gypsy shivering; shuddered a little more on viewing snow at a distance, got our feet wet with sleet and let the frosty breeze play pranks on the face. Hotel Tenzing seemed a non-descript address to halt. But then at those heights it’s heavenly to find an address. We lumbered inside the wood shack expecting… well, nothing too much. But ah! It was snug. The bukhari spreading the warmth, smiling Rupa the cheer as she welcomed us warmly, in her unmistakable lispy Hindi.

The little room is Rupa’s realm. One corner has her ‘shop’: racks of biscuits, bread, eggs, namkeen, sweets… the survival basics. The standard Bangladeshi and Chinese crockery is also up for sale. The other side has her bunk bed. A huge radio lies on a shelf above and Vividbharati is tuned into all day. In the middle of this all is the bukhari with a few chairs around it. That’s where we made ourselves comfortable and placed the order. A friend had told me about the delicious soup served here and one had to try that. The errand boy was instructed to pump the stove. Water was put to boil. And in 10 minutes flat the soup arrived. Garnished with sprigs of coriander. Were we impressed? We were flattered by the service! Hunger growled at us more ferociously, making us plunge the spoon into the soup. A mouthful went in. Ah! No exotic feast could match the culinary delight we were savouring at that moment. No fussy environs could make us feel more rejuvenated for the expedition ahead.

Sela was the highest point we hit during our week-long trip in Arunachal. In the course of the journey, cyclically we would touch heights between 8,000 ft to 12,000 ft and then come down to 4,000 ft as we crossed mountains and valleys to reach our destination, Tawang, birthplace of the sixth Dalai Lama. The contrast was such that if one moment there were evergreen semi-rain forests with the most incredible green vegetation, myriad-coloured orchids, ferns the size of date palm trees... the next hour we would be driving along barren brown and white mountains with mist moving in and out and dense fog enveloping the area making visibility a task. So if at a point of time were in light clothing, an hour later we’d be shivering despite being clad in layers of woolens.

Arunachal was all about coming face to face with the unexpected. As we did at Sela in Rupa’s little room. By the way the recipe: It’s a soup she innovates with your regular 2-minute Maggi packet. The noodles she boils appetizingly right and lets a little water stand (that’s the stock, people). Throws in a few flakes of chilies and a spoonful of onions. One more boil and the soup is ready. Quarter of a lemon is squeezed in to add the tang. But let me tell you… try making it at home and you’ll never get it right. It’s Rupa’s special. And no one serves it better than her.


Permit: Sela is the entry point to district Tawang.
For Tawang, an Inner Line Permit, is needed. Foreigners need to apply for special permit. At 13,700 feet, it is the second highest motorable pass.
It has the Army outpost, Shiv temple and lake. Rupa's Hotel Tenzin is the attraction though.Travel:By air:Kolkata-Guwahati has daily flightsKolkata-Tezpur twice a weekBy road:From Tezpur (Assam) you will have to take a taxi. It takes about 7-9 hours to Bomdila, where you should stop overnight. From there it will be another 8-10 hours to Tawang. The road is excellent and a pleasure to drive on. Shared taxis should be booked prior. State government buses also run.It is advisable to take a tour guide along, as there are many off-track sights the eyes might miss. Sanjoy Sengupta, a guide in love with Arunachal, is recommended. He provided us with a budgeted trip and made it breathtaking with his nuggets on the region.

Contact: Traveloagencies, Sanjoy Sengupta 212, R B Avenue, CD-47, 1st Floor Gariahat MarketKolkata - 700 029, West Bengal, Indiatel: (91)-(033)-24402767Accommodation:Bomdila and Tawang have a number hotels. Don't look for comfort. Try and book the circuit houses which are a delight to stay in.

Published DI

Billa and jaggery highways

The cauldron was gigantic. It was large enough to cook a spread to feed a village. Two men constantly stirred the content inside it, which boiled frantically letting off thick, sticky vapour. A posse of men in all sizes—from children to granddads—were busy in various related activity. The content continued to bubble and occasionally someone or the other would come by to take a look at it and announce a progress report.

After nearly two hours, the men in charge of stirring put their ladles aside. As if one cue, most business around came to a standstill. Everyone began crowding around the cauldron. Some watched, some participated as the vessel was hurriedly lifted off the fire and taken to a platform that held a large wooden tray. Within moments, a glowing golden-brown viscous liquid was speedily eased onto the tray. Almost immediately a young boy swung into action, giving the molten a vigorous final whisk to smoothen out any traces of unevenness. Following that it was allowed to firm up for a few minutes.

It was still hot and semi-solid when spoonfuls were scooped from the tray and placed on a dry slab. One of the men picked up a bite size and felt it in his hand before popping it in his mouth. He gave a thumbs-up sign. Smiles appeared on faces all around. Sweetly-delicious, melt-in-the-mouth gur or jaggery had just passed the perfection test. It was ready to be laid on sale. For the men, it was time to get back to work to prepare some more gur.

Drive down the highways of Punjab in winters and the picturesque pastoral vista gets an added aromatic dimension. Alongside canary-hued carpets of mustard fields, little straw sheds prop up, beneath which bucolic pace picks up a new velocity, as day-long a clique of skilled hands get busy in preparing that sweet something called gur. Its sharp, overpowering whiff fills the air and that’s enough to lift the foot off the accelerator and push the brake pedal. You can’t manoeuvre past fresh-off-the-fire gur and not pick up a few kilos. It’s just not done. The numbers of vehicles lined up at these roadside vends affirm that.

Jhanjheri village, en route Fatehgarh district in Punjab, is where I turned off the ignition. The scent of gur had played its part. It remains the best advert for its makers. Half-a dozen sheds stood alongside and I was among a host of others inspecting the gur on offer. We were being handed chunks of gur merely for taste. Remember this was Punjab, the land of the large-hearted. Here they don’t believe in pint size quantities in matters of food. They relish the fact that you have relished their fare. Whether you purchase or not is another story. By the time I reached the last shed I had tasted all sort of gur—plain, semi-molten, with masala (fennel seeds and spices), with dry fruits and as shakkar, its crystalline-grainy variant. They all seemed good except one that was a little dusty in taste.

What stationed me at Billa’s stall was the fact that his gur was just a few minutes away from being removed from the fire. I preferred buying fresh stock for people back home and for the many who would drop by and demand their share. Billa was all of 19 years but had been part of the gur business ever since he was a child. He proudly informed his gur was the best for miles. “My patrons will confirm that,” he beamed. Named Shakeel Mohammed by his parents, his friends and customers began identifying him as Billa or the cat-eyed one, a common moniker in this part of the country for anyone born with green eyes. The nickname has stuck on and “Billa’s gur” is hugely in demand in these parts of the state.

As is the tradition, his complete family is involved in gur making, which is a multi-layered process. Trucks loaded with sugarcane arrive every morning. Then begins the process of squeezing juice, which is set to boil in the cauldrons. While one group attends to the production and sales work, the backroom boys deal with leftover sugarcane which is spread out in fields to dry, to be later used as fuel to fire mud ovens that prepare gur.

Though it doesn’t look so on the face of it, jaggery units like that of Billa’s are an industry in themselves, with quite a turnover. Indulging in elementary arithmetic threw up some interesting figures. Around 5,000 kg or 50 quintal is approx the amount of sugarcane offloaded everyday at each of these sheds. About 1,000 kg juice is crushed out of the lot. As much as 100 kg is boiled at one go and it takes two hours to cook to perfection; to yield around 25 kg gur in one session which is sold at Rs 20 per kg. Nearly 10 such sessions are carried out from sunrise to sundown. This means 2,500 kg gur per day, per shed. Multiply that with a modest figure of 2,000 such sheds across the state and the amount of gur produced daily off the highways in Punjab would be a whooping 50,00,000 kg! And this is just a conservative estimate. The actual amount is anybody’s guess.

The status gur enjoys in Punjab is parallel only to Bengal where odes have been written in honour of the divinely delicious nolen/notun gur made from sap of the date palm. In Punjab the date-palm variety is unheard of and sugarcane rules the roost. Though unlike nolen gur which lends its delicate sweetness to a range of delectable mishti (sweetmeats) every winter, gur in Punjab is enjoyed in its robust form, at best finding itself in kheer (rice pudding), variety of chikki (winter snacks) or crushed and served on a roti (Indian wheat bread) with dollops of ghee. A favourite diet here is gur-channa (roasted black gram), believed to resist any season-related indisposition. Gur finds metaphoric reference in the region’s folktales and songs, and in recent years a top of the chart bhangra pop number, that had the nation swaying, was singer Malkit Singh’s version of ‘Gur nalon ishq mitha’ (Only love is sweeter than jaggery). That should explain it all.

Published in Jetwings