Bandhavgarh: In the eye of the tiger

For the standard tourist, spotting a tiger in its natural habitat at a protected reserve requires no special skill. It’s the combination of a competent guide and an attentive driver that performs the required task of picking up signals and alerting. What a visitor definitely needs is loads of luck for that chance rendezvous; else there’s always the next best option of intently gazing at ‘fresh’ pugmarks and furiously capturing it through the lens for a boast back home.

Lady Luck and I have never been the best of mates, especially so when it comes to tiger sighting. All my attempts at various ecospheres dotting the country have drawn a blank.  Until recently, when the fickle maiden finally decided to roll the fortune dice in my favour, not once but twice in succession, at the inviting jungle of Bandhavgarh, eastern Madhya Pradesh.

The Bandhavgarh National Park, once the hunting preserve of the erstwhile royals of Rewa, is a relatively small habitat appearing almost custom-made, consisting of a 105 sq km core area and a buffer zone of 448 sq km. The advantage lies in its diverse topography ranging from steep ridges, plunging valleys, flat meadows and marshes, all centered around a knoll rising up to about 800 m. This assures an assortment of foliage — including the much-worshipped Mahua tree whose springtime blossoms are fermented to produce a heady brew, the elixir of life for many a soul — and secluded watering-holes, both features best suited for fauna, making the park an attractive biosphere offering a fair chance of sightings.

The evening safari at Bandhavgarh is a three-hour affair (3 pm-6 pm) and our initial forays yielded the usual four-legged. An interesting fact I learnt during the drive was the deer-primate friendship, with the latter—primarily langur/monkey at this park—helping in gathering food for the kin of deer, who in turn warn during times of danger.

For about two hours we mapped our given route drinking in the views, trying to decipher jungle calls, and listening to the few nuggets the guide rolled out, even as he kept his ears and eyes open for an indicator on the all-elusive one. Mission Tiger almost seemed to be drawing to a close till a passing jeep mentioned a sighting on another path. And that’s when the chase began.

Ajju, the young driver of our Gypsy, swung into action, literally. The 20 km speed limit in the jungle zone was forgotten as he morphed into Schumacher, throwing all caution to the winds in his race against time. En route, bystanders as the spotted deer, sambhar, neelgai, langur…star attractions up till now, were reduced to nonentities. The King’s arrival had been announced and everything else was a blur. As we approached Chua, the spot the tiger was to make an appearance, we were greeted by a swarm of already-stationed jeeps that frantically gestured us to halt in our tracks. They had caught a glimpse of the tiger approaching and no one wanted that precious chance ruined.  Silence ruled as the crowd awaited the arrival. Seconds ticked by and no movement was heard. And then in a flash emerged B2, the current ageing monarch of these jungles! He nonchalantly walked passed the jeeps, almost at touching distance, least bothered by the rush of flashing cameras or the excited squeals of children. This was his kingdom and he was gracious with us outsiders. B2 crossed the path in less than 15 seconds before disappearing into a bamboo thicket but that was enough to have the crowd agog. They had witnessed a moment that would be long spoken-off. It was my first sighting of an untamed tiger and it took a while to sink in.  

On Day Two we were inside the park by 6 am. November onwards, mornings are considered a fine time for tiger sighting, as the soft paws of the big cats try avoiding the dew, preferring to walk on mud tracks where jeeps ply. We had barely manoeuvred a few bends when sharp warning calls of the langur began booming. The guide immediately directed the driver to change track and move towards Barua Nullah. He was spot on, for we arrived within minutes to find a striped beauty blocking our path. Oh! She was gorgeous.  Young and intense, there was a sort of determination writ across her face. In comparison, seeing the aged B2 yesterday had been a tame, zoo-like episode. We both stood still for a while before she made the first move. Her actions had guide Manjeet Singh exclaiming. “You are fortunate to see this tigress. She is Bhitari, who’s new to the area and is marking territory,” he said, eagerly explaining her moves, as she spray marked and clawed a tree trunk. 
                                          
Then suddenly she changed her path and began approaching us. Ours was the only jeep in front of her and seeing the majestic advance was quite an up-close feeling. Meanwhile, word had got around in the park and soon there was a pile of vehicles at her rear too. All of us feverishly clicked on our cameras. After a few moments, though, I had the urge of tossing my SLR. I felt we were akin to paparazzi hounding a femme fatale. I wanted to watch her intently, but not through the viewfinder. However, the temptation to capture the instant for posterity was too irresistible and the camera stayed on. Her walk towards us was electrifying and I couldn’t divert my gaze from those glowing green eyes. But as she got still closer to our jeep the guide became chary. “Reverse!” he yelled to the driver. “She’s hungry and angry. This can turn ugly.” We slumped onto our seats, with some among us getting visions of a tiger springing forth! Driver Uttam was a master behind the wheel and just as the tigress came within sniffing distance he swiftly drove off. We watched her from a securer position till she faded out of sight, her gait unflustered and regal, so befitting her stature. It was sheer providence that she chose to tread the route we were on, providing an experience to treasure.        

Moments such as these get further stimulating when interacting with persons dedicated to conservation of fauna and its habitat. My opting for accommodation at King’s Lodge — a tasteful eco-friendly property from the stable of Pugdundee Safaris, which also offers the widely-acclaimed Tree House Hideaway in the vicinity — ensured I tuned into absorbing discussions on  tigers, trackers, poachers and more. The force behind the Pugdundee group is founder Shyamendra Singh, an engrossing raconteur of tiger tales, who’s been joined in his passion for providing guests a holistic experience in the wild by naturalist Karan Rana and Manav Khanduja. Their properties speak for themselves: no tree has been felled for construction; the wild grass landscape has been left untouched ensuring a sense of true living in the jungle; and most material used to dress the snug cottages and lounges is in its natural form, particularly arresting being the ingenious use of redundant railway rafters as mirror and windowpane frames.    

The cornerstone of my entire experience was one entity: the tiger. It’s a shame that its tribe is under attack from members of our tribe. Word on conservation needs to spread fast and wide. Chennai-based film-maker Shekar Dattatri is one such individual with an aim to doing precisely that. His recent film The Truth about Tigers is a work of commitment and should be viewed by all. Log on to www.truthabouttigers.org to know more on what you can do. As Shekar questions: If we cannot save our national animal, what can we save? 

Quick facts:

Air: The closest airport is at Jabalpur (164 km/2.5 hrs).
Railways: The nearest railheads are Umaria (31 km/35 min) and Katni (102 km/2hrs), which has better connectivity. Convenient trains from Delhi (boarding at Hzn Nizamuddin) include MP Sampark Kranti and Gondwana Express. From Chennai Sangha Mitra Express is an option.  

Best time: The park opens from mid-October to mid-June. Mid-November onwards is good weather for sightings, barring the fortnight-plus of intense cold beginning around end-December. The harsh summers, though, offer the finest chances of fauna spotting.
Accommodation: King’s Lodge or Tree House Hideaway 

www.pugdundeesafaris.com

0124-4222657-59, 09810253436 

Published in The New Indian Express, November 2010

Bandhavgarh: Some pix of King's Lodge (click on image to view larger size) 

 

Stars minus stripes
 We also roam these jungles...   

Indigo

The indigo holds special place if you are an Indian handloom-addict.  It has quite a true-blue history too 

Origin and Role in Indian Freedom movement

Indian expertise in preparation of vegetable dyes goes back over a thousand years, with excavations revealing strands of dyed fabric belonging to the Indus Valley Civilization. 


According to D. Balasubramanian in his article ‘Indigo nation: Champaran to Chandigarh’ in The Hindu, “Further proof comes from the paintings in the Ajanta Caves, as well as from the writing in Kautilya’s Artha Sastra, which refers to dyes and their uses. Eighth century Central Asia and Egypt knew of Indian textiles. Marco Polo, who travelled through India in the13th century, was the first to report on the preparations of indigo dye in the country. Indigo was known to, and used by, ancient Greeks and Romans, as a pigment in paintings. It is very likely, however, that the name Indigo, attributing its association with India, came after Marco Polo’s report.”

A few centuries ago, the only source of blue was indigo. It was abundantly available in America, which had been colonized by handful European nations, who had monopolized the trade. Post American independence India was found ideal for indigo and Europeans colonizers, particularly British, set up units in indigo-friendly areas in Bengal and Bihar.

Its trade was a profitable venture and as British rule spread its tentacles, thousands of farmers were forced to grow indigo in place of food crops. Indigo was also purchased at a low price from them which lead to extreme poverty. Meanwhile by the end of the 19th century, chemical indigo had been manufactured in Germany and requirement of Indian indigo fell, worsening the conditions of farmers who began getting even lesser return but had to continue with the crop. During the 1920s famine spread in Bihar, and to boost economy the British levied taxes on the already debt-ridden indigo belt which lead to rebellions in the state, the most famous being the riots in Champaran district. Mahatma Gandhi was called to witness the condition of indigo farmers and it was from Champaran between 1918-19 that he held his first satyagraha, a movement that was to finally help India win her freedom.

Colour spectrum

Indigo is one of the most versatile colours. People usually associate indigo with blue but essentially indigo can run between the spectrum of very light blue to deep green. With alum it gets grayish blue, harad (or Black myroblan, the widely-used digestive herb that's also interestingly known in Sanskrit as Haritaki, meaning originating in God's home) makes it go green and copper sulphate turns it deep blue. It is one of the most exciting colours and can bring in unimaginable shades. A different mordant can change the complete look of the indigo. You can experiment a lot with its dyes.  

Indigo has always been used with great expertise on fabric in Asia and achieved cult status in the West when Levis Strauss developed the denim jean. In central and western India the ajrakh block printers are considered masters in the art of dealing with indigo. Every handloom variant—be it kalamkari painting, weaving, Jaipuri block printing etc—uses indigo successfully in vastly different ways. Being a hard-sourced natural dye an indigo outfit on the shelf always has a higher mark up as compared to other vegetable colours.  

Extraction process

The indigo plant is a biennial, bearing yellow flowers and bluish leaves. Known as Indigofera tinctoria or Nila in India, it has a higher indigo content as compared to its variants across the world. To extract the colour, the leaves are crushed into a paste and undergo a series of fermentation and oxidation processes before the dye is obtained. The technology in India, says D. Balasubramanian, was handed down from fathers to sons over the centuries. “In a nation full of castes and communities, each specializing in one art, craft or technology, it was the Kurmis of Bihar and UP, the Kumbis of Maratha and Deccan, the Niralis of Central India, and certain groups of Muslim dyers who have been exponents of this form of medieval biotechnology,” he elucidates.

There are a number of ways of extracting the dye. The common method used these days takes the following route. The first stage involves preparing the all-important indigo vat for which the water is warmed to about 20-25C and caustic soda stirred into it. Upon it being mixed well hydros is sprinkled and stirred slowly. Immediately after, indigo grain is added in small quantity and also stirred very gently in order to let no bubbles appear on the surface. Once it dissolves well the container needs to be sealed tight with a lid. Depending upon the quantity of the liquid the mixture is left to stand and get dissolved. When the surface reflects a greenish hue it’s an indication that the process has been successfully completed. 

The next step is dyeing for which pre-washed fabric or yarn treated in a mordant (which helps in holding-fast the dyes) is taken and fully submerged in the vat and vigorously moved in it. It is then allowed to remain dipped for a few minutes after which it is removed from the vat and squeezed. At this stage the dyed fabric/yarn looks like an unattractive clump of black but magically on exposure to air as the indigo begins to get oxidized the black turns blue. If the final colour emerges as being too faded the process of dyeing is repeated to ensure the required shade is obtained, upon which the fabric/yarn is rinsed in cold water and then given a quick warm bath in detergent and hung to dry.

Say no to chemical dye   

Chemical indigo is again on the upsurge in India and dyers have taken to it rampantly. Besides sounding the death knell of indigo plantation once again, it has adverse side-affects. It is extremely bad for the skin and the repercussions of using the chemical is felt only after a few years. Says Bangalore-based budding textile designer Mallika S, “The use of chemical indigo should be discouraged. Natural indigo is one dye that can last the longest. You need to make one concentrate and can keep adding it to a new mix to obtain successive quantities. It is also a cold water dye and is harmless. Moreover, indigo is part of our heritage and we need to make all efforts to preserve. Go natural. Wear pure indigo.” True blue thought, that.   


Published 

Indian Weaves WEST

The next few pages feature a small photographic documentation, a work in progress, of India's rich textile tradition. This is a mere strand from the brilliant wefts and warps that handloom artisans of India produce.


From top: Rajasthan (bandhini - dyeing); Gujarat (Kutchi - embroidered, Pattu, Mashru - both woven )

Indian Weaves EAST

From top: Bihar (BCI weave); Orissa (three Ikkat patterns); Bengal (Bishnupur, Tangail)

Indian Weaves NORTH EAST

From top: Arunachal Pradesh ( Monpa weave); Manipur (Sukham phi); Mizoram (puan); Assam (two assorted weaves); Nagaland (Ao tribe shawl, Mangkotepsu ) 

Indian Weaves NORTH

From top: Punjab (Phulkari); Kashmir (Jamavar, Aari ); Himachal (Kullu shawl, Chamba Rumal, Kullu border weaving)

Indian Weaves SOUTH

Andhra Pradesh (Kalamkari -- hand painted); Tamil Nadu (Toda -- embroidery)

JORDAN: The surreal and scrumptious

There were endless tracts of beige. The beige of soft sand. Dotting it sporadically was scrubby green vegetation. At times the odd tree, bereft of any leafy cover, stood sentinel-like. Once in a while a camel came into view, languorously munching the frugal lunch on offer and nudging his Bedouin owner. Nothing changed for miles. Almost always, the only sign of civilization was the strip of spanking black tarmac snaking through the beige. This was a desert and as is its fate, deserted. Yet, even in its aridity it held an emotion, offering a succulent quietness and therapeutic calm. A landscape usually referred to as monotonic, felt intensely meditative.

I'm yet to decode how the heat and dust of Jordan soothed the soul. Was it its towns that reflected an inherent peace rarely found in urban settings? Was it because it's a neutral state in the most hostile region of West Asia? Or was it the vibes from its past, of being a cradle to some men born ordinary who were destined to don prophet robes and show the path to Eternal Light?

Hmmn, maybe it was the effect of the delightfully-coloured mezze platters we were served. Or the fact that Jordanians appreciate India (yes, of course, are passionate about Bollywood) and lovingly refer to it as Hind. Whatever the reason, it accentuated the pleasures of a driving holiday across the palm-sized nation ruled by a handsome monarch. Ah, well, maybe I was merely under a mesmeric spell of the blue-eyed royal.

Surface travel is the only way to get a grip of the country and a feasible option is booking a cab. There’s the choice of hiring a self-drive car too but us Indians can feel tad hampered as Jordan follows the right hand traffic (or left hand drive) system. I was part of a tour group that was happily driven around and as we traversed the land, the bright and bold road signages confidently brought home a pointer: a driver will have to make a conscious effort to lose the way here.

Our drive-off point was Amman; a blend of prehistoric and modern, it's Jordan’s most populous city (over 12 lakh) and expectedly choc-a-bloc. The saving grace is its uniform Arabic architecture — typically sugarcube buildings with harmoniously-fawn sandstone façades. This has been a multi-cultural region abounding with archaeological sights and the two excursions from Amman I found remarkable were to Jerash, considered the best preserved Romanesque city outside Rome, and to Madaba, the capital of mosaic art, where on the floor of the Greek Orthodox Church of St George is the splendid AD 560 Byzantine-era Biblical mosaic map made with over 2 million bits of local stone. Madaba town exudes unfettered cheer, offers a host of adventures and definitely deserves more days.

At Amman, the Citadel was the flag-bearer of its lineage with excavations yielding notable Roman, Byzantine and Islamic relics. The Temple of Hercules (mere pillars stand) is its signature symbol but I thought the museum was the worthiest spot, which, besides housing a collection to relish, provided much-needed relief from the harsh temperatures! Among other sites, Downtown Amman with its buzzing colourful bazaars seemed a fascinating area to explore but our packed itinerary ensured we leave that for another time.

To the religious-minded, Mount Nebo and the Jesus Baptism site will evoke a certain sentiment but the places had me ambling through. Instead, I looked forward to the thought of floating on the Dead Sea, but somehow changed my mind and settled for some nutrient-filled mudpack on my feet and face, enjoying the idea of a natural spa treatment direct from the source—the lowest point on earth. 

Nevertheless, I had fun watching the others wade the viscous waters and was amused by clumsy attempts of champion non-swimmers to stay afloat. The Dead Sea, by the way, is the world's only water that determinedly ensures that you can never drown. It can do other things to you, though, with its liquid power. Sitting on the shore I thought how salty could be the waters others were blaring about and bravely drank a mouthful. No sooner than had it touched my tongue that I spat it out: it was bitterly salty and I felt my mouth had disintegrated. Phew!

The scenic King’s Highway took us to Petra. It was the longer route, as usual deserted, but the dramatic rocky topography the road wound itself around was oh! utterly compelling. The drama in stone staged a new act at Petra, Jordan’s most famous site that's now ranked as a world wonder. This is the ancient kingdom of the Nabateans (an Arab tribe) carved into sheer sandstone rock. It's the overwhelmingly colossal scale of rock formations here that give the dimension of awe to its structures, particularly to the much-photographed poster-edifice, Al Khazneh or The Treasury (see pix). It’s a large landscape that requires time and comfortable walking shoes. The entry ticket to Petra is steep (JD 33, includes a horse ride) and money’s worth requires a complete day be spent here to absorb each nuance and see it in changing daylight. We jogged out in four hours, not having done complete justice to it. We couldn’t do Petra by night, either, which am told, is not to be missed.

Petra’s touted as a wonder, but I found Wadi Rum (Lawrence of Arabia was shot here) more wondrous. A desert with spectacular monolithic rockscapes, it came across as timeless and untouched, totally at peace with itself and exuding tranquility. Almost perfect for life in the slow lane, it is breathtaking at sunrise and sunset. Explorations here are done on camels/jeeps/ 4x4s, tents for stay are available, and engagingly, a slice of life of the Bedouins can be observed. This spot definitely gets my top pick: it felt almost "godlike", as is often said about it.

We barely skimmed through Aqaba, a happy, duty-free zone by the astonishingly-blue Red Sea, before being driven back to the airport. In the aircraft, as I leafed through a pamphlet of Jordan, I realized there is so much the country has to offer. I had barely flavoured the mezze. The main course awaits.

Factfile

Air: Royal Jordanian has daily flights from Delhi and Mumbai

Currency: 1 Jordanian Dinar (JD) = Rs 65 appx

Car rentals: For a self-drive holiday a valid Indian license is sufficient, but keeping an international driving permit is recommended. Car daily rentals are usually JD 30 upwards plus tax and fuel. Operators do give a discount if it’s hired for a few days. Check insurance and car condition before signing up. Payment through credit cards is accepted. Reliable car hire companies include Avis: www.avis.com.jo and Hertz:www.hertzjordan.com. Hiring a private taxi for a fixed tour is considerably the best option. Local cabs run by the meter.

Distance monitor: Amman to Dead Sea (55 km); Dead Sea to Petra (225 km); Petra to Wadi Rum (121 km); Wadi Rum to Aqaba (50 km); Aqaba to Amman (367 km)

Accommodation: There is ample choice in the semi-premium category, where the tariff is upwards JD 120 (Rs 7,500-plus). Some suggested hotels:

Amman: Crowne Plaza (www.amman.crowneplaza.com)

Petra: Beit Zaman (www.jordantourismresorts.com)

Dead Sea: Holiday Inn Resort (www.ichotelsgroup.com)

Aqaba: Marina Plaza (www.marinaplazahotel.com)

Published in The New Indian Express, October 2010

http://www.visitjordan.com/JORDAN_NEW_INDIAN_EXPRESS.pdf

Sinhgad, Maharashtra

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Published in The New Indian Express, October 2010

Chinese breakfast at Calcutta

Su Mie Fang reminds me of Charlie Trumper. The protagonist of Jeffery Archer’s As the Crow Flies, Trumper rises from the depths to become a millionaire. In his twilight years, though, he slips away for a few hours everyday to go back to where he belongs: to being the Charlie Trumper in soiled overalls, hawking ware to customers from a wheel-barrow, just the way he had begun decades ago with his grandfather on the streets of London.

Like Trumper, it’s all about belonging and the call of roots for 65-year-old Sue Mie Fang. She comes from Vienna each winter, leaving her palatial home, to sell prawn-chips every morning on the grimy lane of Tiretta Bazaar, off Bentinck Street, in the once-upon-a-time bustling Chinatown of (then) Calcutta. For Sue it’s a way of staying connected with a past that had seen a sizeable Chinese population in the city. Theirs was an immigrant community which down the generations stayed true to tradition, leading a Mainland lifestyle infused with Indian flavours. This sparkling mélange of local and foreign has dwindled and diluted, acquiring a new connotation, but its lingering essence can still be felt.

One of the places it’s on view is Tiretta Bazaar, where in a time-honoured routine, fires are stoked every morning and stalls set-up on the sidewalk by the local Chinese who sell straight-off-the-wok breakfast, bursting with home flavours. The lane comes alive by 5 am and all activity winds up by 8 am, for this is a full-fledged commercial district now and the area has to be cleared to accommodate office rush.

But before the corporate crowd descends, for about three early hours of the morning, it’s a page out of the lively street-food tradition seen across the Far East, albeit on a micro scale. This is where Sue takes a spot to sell her typically homemade red-ringed-ready-to-fry prawn chips neatly packed and laid out on a cane basket her mother used. Her attire is typical too: the Mandrain suit, comprising of a peppy floral or polka-dot blouse and pajama. Till a few decades ago the men in this area dressed conventionally too in the deep-blue/grey Mao suit. Though Mao’s sepia-toned photos can still be seen peeping out from within the few disheveled homes, his outfit has beaten the retreat giving way to tees, tracksuits, bermudas and denims.

Most Chinese settlers, who began arriving in AD 1760, belong to the Hakka lineage. “I’m sure you have heard of the famous ‘Hakka chow’ served all over India. The name comes from our community,”

Sue says with pride, adding, “In China, though, they wouldn’t know what you are referring to. The so-called Chinese food served across India at almost every street corner and the menu-card terms are all indigenous,” she winks and smiles, her steel-grey eyes twinkling with a child-like naughtiness.

I let Sue play guide as she takes me around the stalls. This is familiar ground for her and she chats at the speed of light in a Cantonese dialect with the neighbours, fluently switching to Bengali or Hindi when dealing with customers. When I had initially arrived at this unremarkable street, the first aroma to tingle the olfactory was of a soupey kind. “That’s fish-ball soup. A hot seller,” she informs. It’s a thickish soup with two large dumplings of fish and a garnish of assorted greens. I see it being ladled into beige plastic soup bowls quite frequently and there’s a queue at almost every bubbling cauldron. “There was a time when the fare was served in Bone China crockery. That was also when there was no arrowroot in the soups,” know-it-all Sue says surreptitiously.

I’m here on a Sunday morning, a day when crowds are more and there’s a swarm of customers. Most are regulars, the local Chinese and Bengalis accounting for that majority. The others are visitors, of which I see a handful immersed in the area’s flavours, while some merely tick-mark the spot, pinch their noses and push-off (the dense meat smell, scattering of fish mongers and vegetable vendors doesn’t make it a pretty sight for the weak-hearted). There’s also a television crew filming the proceedings.

The sizzling pork sausages have attracted quite a few and it’s the strong aroma that leads me to the wok where they are being generously stir-fried. Served with soy sauce and an optional bun it’s quite a morning meal in itself. I notice a Bengali-British influence in the batter-dipped, crumbs-coated, deep-fried pork/fish/chicken cutlets.

There’s a variety of steamed dumplings too; which were once delectable offerings from the dim sum stable but have now turned into the doughy-textured momos, in what can be called a Tibetan takeover! There are savoury and sweet pancakes, lamb chops served with a tangy sauce, marine fare waiting to be tossed in sauces and various meats I don’t recognise. At 6.30 am, I find it all too tough to taste. “Our first meal of the day, is our best meal,” Chang, a stall owner, tells. “We don’t have a frugal toast-egg-cereal routine. The breakfast comprises of a few courses. We Hakkas have a typical Cantonese dim sum spread that includes gau (assorted steamed dumplings), bau (stuffed baked buns), chicken-vegetable congee (porridge), spring rolls, sweet pastry and of course tea.” Some parts of that elaborate spread is on offer and emphasizes the popularity of this street despite a general decline of standards. Whoever thinks Chinese food is a synonym for noodles definitely needs to come here.

At the adjoining stall strings of sausages are one sale. At another there’s silken tofu, a variety of sauces, rice noodles, soup cubes and mixed dried ingredients looking authentic enough to purchase. I spot a pile of leather purses too with modest price tags. Is there a bargain on, I wonder: purses at a discount with a pound of pork or vice-versa? The initial migrants had set up tanneries in the city and it remains a trade that still occupies quite a number. Even now city’s old timers head to Bentinck Street or New Market to purchase hand-made Chinese shoes, some of their designs being unique to them.

I’ve been here almost two hours. I go back to Sue’s stall. She has sold out and shut ‘shop’. The morning at Tiretta Bazaar has been about street cooking that overpowers the senses. It makes a mess of the surroundings but the passion on display in the process of making fresh food in bare minimum ways is striking. The aromas are strong yet appetising and its best to allow your nose to dictate what to pay for. The engrossing legends of a community, however, come complimentary.

Factfile:

Air: Jet Airways has regular flights from metro cities.

Railways: The major railhead is Howrah which is well-connected on the national grid.

Best time to visit: October to February

Published in JetWings, October 2010

Dear Reader, 

This report was dated 2010. 

In 2012 the situation is far different. What greets you here now is mounds of dirt, sub-standard fare, a dwindling/aged Chinese population and food stalls run by Nepalese/Tibetans who pass off as the originals. Disappointing? Yes, as yet another slice of 'Calcutta culture' gets drowned and eroded in its infamous filth... and decays. 

You can still manage to get a prized photo, a mood shot, but will it do justice to your real experience? That's for you to gauge. 

Best. 

Sept 2012 

Cover Girl

The photograph of the pretty girl, traditionally attired in festive finery, was clicked in Kinnaur

this May. She made it to the cover!

Published in Fly Lite, September 2010

Bangkok

http://www.scribd.com/doc/36332155/Bangkok-Guide#

Published In JetWings, August 2010

Heritage walks in India's metro cities

http://www.scribd.com/doc/35921985/Heritage-Walks

Backpacking around Manali

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Published in The New Indian Express, August 2010

Bombay Monsoon

I am at Juhu Beach, watching nature’s canvas in progress. Shades of grey seem the only colours available on the palette. All elements between the sky and the sea have been touched by the hue. Each looks splendid. Perhaps the Englishman’s idea of grey is gloomy. In Bombay grey means glorious.
My arriving in Juhu had been impromptu. The day was meant to be tightly scheduled, nonetheless, it began with the cancellation of consecutive appointments as soon as I arrived at VT Station in pouring rain. It was merely 9 am and all I had on my agenda then was reaching Andheri by 6 pm. Sheets of rain were pounding down and I needed to think quick where I could dash-off to escape the onslaught. A café and steaming hot coffee seemed a cosy thought but moments later that option was dismissed. Despite the grievances Bombay is magical in the monsoons. This was a day to be spent outdoors. I tucked my soaring dupatta and pulled out the rainproof. No heed was paid to squelching shoes. I hadn’t walked in such fabulous rain in years.
Though renamed the overly-political CST, VT Station remains eponymous for most, and is truly a stately symbol of Bombay, its Victorian-Gothic style blended with Indian overtones being an illustration of remarkable architecture. Around it there are a clutch of period buildings consistently charming locals as well as outsiders like me. The GPO, for example, is an Indo-Saracenic gem, another stunner is the Bombay MC, and a little ahead the Flora Fountain is lyrical. Further on at the busy Regal Circle aka Wellington Fountain aka SP Mukherjee Chowk (phew!) there are postcard-perfect Gothic-Revivalist edifice surrounding the roundabout: police HQ, Prince of Wales Museum, Hotel Majestic, Waterloo Mansions et al. Rain-washed, these appeared even more compelling.
South Bombay is a sort of borough you can never tire of walking through. Its architecture lends grandeur and an air of calm, despite the incessant rush of black-yellow taxis, the blazing red BEST buses or the sea of humanity that today was domed under umbrellas. There’s an attractive labyrinth of streets here and drifting in and out of these I got to Ballard Estate, in Fort, by noon and head for Café Britannia, one of the few surviving Irani restaurants, another integral of Bombay’s heritage and each a legend in itself. Everything here, the chequered red-white tablecloths and even the peeling paint on the walls, is a constant. Thankfully, so are their flavours. This is one of the few places that serve vegetarian dhansak, an apt comfort food, which combined with ice cream soda, made for much-required mid-way fuel for me.
I followed the former Mint Road (now Shahid Bhagat Singh Marg) strolling past the AD 1829 government mint, the biggest in the country, Horniman Circle and Asiatic Society to reach the Gateway of India and its iconic neighbour the Taj Mahal Palace and Hotel, two outstanding landmarks of Maximum City. The Arabian Sea looked terrific here and firmed my plans of walking as far as I could along its shores. Thankfully the streets had not become water channels I would have to kayak through. Giving Colaba Causeway a miss, I took Madame Cama Road to hit the Marine Drive promenade at Nariman Point. The rain had thinned and it seemed dusk had arrived at high noon over the Bombay skyline. In the foreground the sea was smashing against the embankment. The irresistible panorama had brought the crowds out, who were doing pretty much what I was: relishing the rain, some with bhuttas (grilled corn) in hand. It reaffirmed there being two kinds of people in the world: those who detest the rain and those who celebrate the rain. The aye-sayers for the latter were in majority today.
On Marine Drive, traffic moved at respectable speed and Bollywood stared down mutely from billboards and lampposts. I sat savouring the seascape before opting for a cab ride that took me past Chowpatti and its set of revellers; a marooned Haji Ali Dargah; and Worli, where bystanders were trying to get recklessly close to the sea spray.
Juhu beach held childhood memories and I got-off here. By now hunger pangs had become fierce. Rainy days often do that. I fumbled towards the sea, trying peeking through the unrelenting rain curtain to pick an eatery. As if in answer to the grumbles of my stomach, the aroma of freshly steamed idlis and that distinct tempering of sambhar galloped up to me. Nothing could have been more welcoming, and Jughead-like I was pulled by the wafts. I gobbled up a couple of platefuls. It was a sin not having more than one. These were fluffy, melt-in-the-mouth idlis accompanied by recipe-right sambhar and excellent coconut chutney. It couldn’t get more perfect than that by the sea on a wet afternoon. If life is a beach, this was the beach!
As I watch the skies getting greyer and the waves hammering higher, I’m reminded of my favourite soccer quote: The world, it plays football; Brazil it plays something different. I can say something parallel for a city whose season has engrossed me: India, it experiences the monsoon; Bombay it experiences something else. The Brazilian forecast went haywire at FIFA World Cup 2010. But the monsoon, it kept its date with Bombay.
I did reach Andheri on time. And no sooner than had I entered that my hosts began apologising for the inclement weather and all caution I should have taken to counter this dreadful day. They continued with their rumblings on the mess of the monsoons. Once their grouses ebbed, someone enquired what I had done in the prior hours. “Not too much,” I said. “I was just taking a walk in the rain.”
Factfile
Connectivity: Bombay is extremely well connected. Besides daily flights from all metros, some convenient trains are: Chennai Express (Chennai); Coimbatore Express (Bangalore); Mumbai Rajdhani (Delhi)
Accommodation: Hotel Marine Plaza and InterContinental-Marine Drive (South Bombay); Novotel Hotel (Juhu)

Published in The New Indian Express, July 2010

Sole Stories

Some natural fibre shoes from across India (from top) :

Pula, Himachal Pradesh; Ramacham or khus-khus

slipper, Kerala; Thickme Pabu, Ladakh; Kora grass

(chattai) chappal, Tamil Nadu

http://www.hindu.com/mag/2010/07/11/stories/2010071150320700.htm

Published in The Hindu, July 2010