Mandarmani

The moment he saw me, Wasimuddin came running from the sea. He had a nylon bag in hand sparsely filled with fish. Laying out his ware he began imploring me to buy some of the catch for dinner. When I declined he upped his sales spiel and quite soon was offering to off-load the entire lot for a negotiable price. Sensing my absolute disinterest in a deal he gave up and settled himself alongside.

We had been sitting silently for a while looking at the tide coming in before he spoke. “I don’t relish eating fish. It’s a sin to kill,” he said with a gravitas reminding me of moral science classes. “…if we don’t net it someone else will. Besides, only those fish not strong enough to evade our trap get caught.” His monologue now had an echo of Darwinism and had me glancing at him with a degree of amusement and admiration. The boy did know a thing or two about the survival of the fittest. I had seen him at work trying to beat competition from other little challengers. They all had tried but hadn’t pushed hard enough. They might have, I presumed, had this been a beach in Goa or Kerala. But this was Mandarmani, tucked away in the Bay of Bengal, and so far unaffected by burgeoning numbers. Like the hamlet its people had a languid attitude. Or maybe it was the wisdom of the sea that had rubbed off on them, making an eight-year-old sound so sagacious.

About four hours from Calcutta and 45 minutes short of Digha is Mandarmani, till a few years back just another anonymous sea-side village in the district of Purba Medinipur or Midnapore East, both names being functional. It has been discovered now and positioned as an alternate weekend getaway. Still, it’s a far cry, and thankfully so, from being labeled touristy though a string of all-budget hotels have lined up its shores. Herein lies the appeal of this seaside speck that “doesn’t have the roaring breakers of Puri” as I was woefully told, or the “fun of Digha” as others chipped in. “In fact it’s quite boring, a bit like Chandipur where the sea is miles away,” was another observation. I’ve often wondered why we get into needless comparisons. Why do we want Bombay to be Manhattan? Mandarmani offered itself and no more. And it was savoured.

The 173-km route from Calcutta snakes past Kolaghat, Contai (Kanthai) – which is also the closest you can get by the railways – and Chaulkhola where a left turn took us through a sequence of villages. What used to be a single, bumpy, dusty path running through the countryside till last year is now a paved stretch. The final 12 km ran through pastures and pukurs (ponds) which gave way to an assortment of construction, including mosque and temples, at Kalindi village which was a rundown sort of a place. As we entered Dadanpatrabar, the last link leading up to the destination, the landscape changed to lively red mud flanking the track, swaying coconut palms and a mix of concrete houses and conventional huts playing peek-a-boo. The settlement had been described in websites as a ‘charming costal village’ and it lived up to that reputation. Immediately after, we were vrooming on a beach road, the firm sand making it smooth as silk. The waters had receded by the time we arrived but the whiff of the sea was enough for a round of exclamation.

Mandarmani is petite and placid. Nonetheless it has a distinction to flaunt, if Google search is to be believed, of being Asia’s third longest and India’s best motorable beach. The statistic notwithstanding the 13-km beach is a delight to drive on and the feel of being on wheels at the edge of aquatic blue is brilliant. Though it’s prohibited to drive in the bay waters, adrenaline rush does get motorists racing like no tomorrow. Unaware of the stricture we drove a wee bit too close, to be duly summoned by the coast guard and admonished. By then we had had our share of thrill and surrendered to the order.

During the duration of our stay the seascape remained tepid, neither lit by golden skies nor by the mesmerising glows of dusk which add shimmer to the waves. It alternated between an overcast grey and pale blue, with a blaze of luminous orange making an appearance once briefly. The painterly element apart, the sea shares a special relationship with the sky. They seem to meet yet never do. Both appear limited by horizons yet remain boundless. It’s this infinity that the quietude of Mandarmani enhances, with the unruffled waters adding character to it.

More than often you are likely to be the only person on the beach at Mandarmani, so quiet is it for better part of the day. Once in a while an Ambassador races past or a Trax-taxi comes in loaded with local passengers. At other times the brightly-painted indigenous motorized cycle carts will honk on seeing vacationers and offer a ride up and down the beach, which is quite a splendid option if you haven’t come by your transport. A few thatch-roofed shacks selling either pretty souvenirs or offering meals with fish of choice under striped umbrellas are the other spots of action. On weekends, we were told, tourists do flock but the count is nowhere close to cousin Digha which remains the numero uno for the majority Calcutta crowd.

Tourist days apart, Mandarmani does come to life in the morning and evening hours when fishermen return or set off for the deep sea in their trawlers. Activity builds up when the catch comes in which largely is an inch-sized silver-coloured fish, that’s dried for use as manure or in preparing fish bait, a major means of livelihood for the population in Dadanpatrabar. On other occasions the variety of fish that netted is sold in markets around, some of it playfully so by Wasimuddin and his gang of imps.

There is, though, one perennial occupant of the beach: the army of red crabs. In such abundance do they dart around that I mistook them for a red canvas sheet lying sprawled on the beach’s western end, an area they prefer inhabiting. Unexpectedly, it’s these crustaceans that have played a part in contributing to the name of the place. According to legend, the population of crabs sunning themselves on the beach resembled fields of the mandar flower (a species of red hibiscus) leading locals to poetically refer to the area as ‘Mandarboni’ that over time has shaped into present day Mandarmani, which I had incorrectly assumed to be a dedication to a temple.

Our weekend in Mandarmani was a lot about lessons in nothingness. Of calm mornings, lazy noons and balmy evenings. Of long walks in gentle waters, collecting sea shells from the unspoilt seashore and watching sail-boats ride the waves. The resort tried wooing us with a plethora of organised games and folk-craft workshops which somehow felt too much of an effort to exert for the mind that preferred being surrounded by the tranquility of the coast.

We hoped the place stayed the way it was — shy and small. Looking at the hotel expansion on the cards tomorrow seems all set to change. Till then, the sage-speak of a young man by the sea will probably continue to outdo his fish-mongering skills.

Getting there

AIR: Nearest airport is at Kolkata, 173 km away

RAIL: The nearest train station is at Contai

ROAD: Mandarmani is best reached by road via NH 6. Try and move early if coming from Calcutta to avoid getting stuck in the traffic at Kolaghat bridge.

When to go:

Round the year. Best in winters.

STAY:

The Sana Beach Resort (033-64525172/09831031895) is star category but stuffed and hidden behind a wall of trees. The neighbouring Rose Valley (033-25006470) has friendlier ambience and spacious sea-facing rooms. Masara Beach Resort (0903861999) is an option for modestly-appointed cottages.

EAT

Stick to food at the hotels. Beach shacks do offer fresh fish but hygiene is questionable.

SHOP

Seashell bric-a-brac sold at the beach kiosks make for interesting buys. The shop at Sana Beach Resort has an assortment of sparkling quality objects.

SEE

Daily activities at the fishing settlements on both ends of the beach.

www.scribd.com/doc/29650387/mandarmani-ittp

Published in India Today Travel Plus, April 2010

Road trip through Shekhawati

As I travelled through Shekhawati my mind often went back to French author Antoine de Saint-Exupery acclaimed for The Little Prince. I had read his quote some place and it said, “What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.” Indian dunes cloak the spectacular and it’s the bareness of terrain that puts the accent on such findings.

Just as smooth seas do not make skilful sailors, it’s aridness that has made Rajasthan a synonym for vibrancy. Adversity is known to bring out survival skills in man and an exemplar are people of the desert state. They have, in fact, not only overcome the deficiency of lifestyle and landscape but embellished it with a brilliance that shines through in everything they nurtured, whether food, craft, textile or architecture.

From among the many communities in Rajasthan, it’s the czars of commerce, the Marwaris, who have contributed in large measure, to both business and culture, the latter in many ways being a spin-off of an abundant livelihood.

It’s the Marwari then who studded the Rajput land of Shekhawati with its most noteworthy feature, the frescoed havelis. The birth story of the havelis, or mansions, goes such. Marwari trading routes, from the Arabian Sea ports to interior India, ran across princely provinces of Rajputana which imposed a levy for the passage of goods. Being centrally placed, the powerful Jaipur province would get bulk business much to the envy of others. In a bid to direct profits away from them, neighbouring Shekhawati decided to reduce tax. The Marwari trader willingly changed his route and caravans packed with precious stones, silk, spices etc began passing through Shekhawati which prospered immensely. Over time traders were offered land by the Rajputs to build mansions and further develop the economy of the province. The Marwari readily agreed, and the dime-a-dozen frescoed structures we see today are the outcome of a win-win deal struck a few centuries back, beginning around AD 1800.

Most havelis lie in a shambles now with owners having taken flight to areas where business interests were pampered better. These structures, as well as plenty other overshadowed architectural remainders, stand mute testimony to acumen and bustling times, as I found out during a circular road trip.

Nawalgarh

It was a day-long excursion of about 100 km and I began my journey from Nawalgarh, the only town I had heard about, primarily due to the annual noises about the Shekhawati Festival held here every February. Being close to Jaipur (142 km), Nawalgarh had developed as a commercial hub, the reason it boasts of havelis largely belonging to the who’s who of the current business world. Amidst the heat, dust and dirt of town are many celebrated mansions, some of these being: Morarka Haveli that’s in its original form and has been turned into a museum; Ramnath A Poddar Haveli Museum which has been completely restored (its walls have a staggering collection of 750 frescoes in decorative, descriptive and portraiture style) and established into a brilliant exposition of Rajasthani culture; Bhakton ki Haveli that has a dominant mustard-golden hue and some of the finest frescoes; and Aath Haveli which contradictory to its name Aath or eight is a complex of four havelis. Apart from these are Seksaria Haveli, Koolwal Haveli, Uattara Haveli and Saraogi Haveli to pick a few.

The blueprint of each haveli is similar with there being a collection of rooms around an outer courtyard meant for the men, which lead to the inner square where the ladies resided. Some defining features of the havelis—apart from the frescoes that are based on religious themes, folktales and customs—are lattice jharokhas (windows), massive wooden doors with brass fittings and a number of pillars. Typically, the men’s section had a durbar hall while the women had the kitchen set-up. I found the ‘acoustic pardah’ an interesting element of design, which, tad unfairly though, allowed conversation from the men’s arena be audible to the women but never sneaked out what the ladies spoke!

As I was to notice during the trip, temples in this region had an almost palace-like appearance, replete with jharokhas and chhatries or canopies. Nawalgarh had one such remarkable structure in the about 200-year-old Gher ka Mandir opposite the Morarka Haveli.

Mukundgarh

On a wet morning I set out to map some towns around. The vehicle had barely stepped out of Nawalgarh that it arrived at a rain-washed Mukundgarh (14 km). As its name suggests there is a garh or fort here, however, in line with the spirit of enterprise it’s been converted into the ubiquitous heritage hotel and is largely out of public bound. Some well-known tourist spots here are the Ganeriwal Haveli and the Saraf Haveli.

Mandawa

Mandawa (23 km) turned out to be a classic backpacker’s town. This was the only place we got a chance to lighten wallets and let the eyes darts from juttis (shoes), faux-antiques to pre-stitched Rajput sarees to the usual bric-a-brac. All that was missing was a German Bakery to complete the happy hobo picture. Mandawa has developed at the foot of its fort (now a hotel) and has a lively market quad. The entrance to town was through the Sonthalia Gate, a whimsical haveli that had a public gateway as its appendage and was crowned by a lifesize idol of a stern Lord Krishna flanked by sterner-looking cows. I roamed the streets and paused at its painted mansions among which stood out Goenka Haveli. And as I walked along I came upon a structural feature which for me was the highlight of this tour: four-spire wells. I was to spot these at a lot of places ahead. According to a school of thought, with water being scarce wells became places of public gathering and the areas around them were beautified. For me, they broke the monotony of seeing frescoed havelis beside being architectural gems.

Fatehpur

The drive onwards was through a scrubby sandy terrain studded with lopped khejri trees which seemed like randomly placed lampposts. Khejri’s small leaves are nutritious feed for the camel and I saw these being sold by the quintal (100 kg) at many spots en route. Fatehpur (22 km) was an unhurried town. It had a baoli (step-well), spire-wells and a few significant havelis. I found the Neotia Haveli quite exceptional for its well-preserved frescoes and at the same time I was amused by the quirkiness of its pink coloured iron grilles with the central image of Queen Victoria! This was representative of the Marwari trader being well-travelled and carrying influences of the big world back home.

Not so absurdly, given our fetish for all things foreign, a popular spot here is the haveli purchased by a French woman artist who has renovated it and turned it into a ‘museum cafe’. She charges a ticket for exhibiting nothing too different but the population happily pays to see ‘Indian exotica’ as interpreted by a Westerner.

On the return I took a detour to the popular Salasar temple and drove through Laxmangarh, another spot with a lot of sightseeing potential. As my tour showed, Shekhawati teems with unusual sights and it’s not merely large towns but a nondescript village that can throw up a stunner.

Getting there:

Air/Road: Jaipur is the nearest airport, 142 km away.

Rail: Closest railhead is Sikar (28 km from Nawalgarh).

Accommodation:

Koolwal Kothi: Mid-budget heritage accommodation www.welcomheritagehotels.com

Roop Vilas Palace Hotel: Luxury suites as well as tents

www.roopvilas.com

Kurja Resort: Budgeted semi-traditional stay 01572-220461

Footloose in Chamba

What’s a town without a charming legend? Chamba offers quite an engrossing bagful and I was amused by one that spoke of the whims of royalty. It dates back to Raja Bir Singh of Nurpur, in the Kangra hills, who was a friend of Raja Charrat Singh of Chamba (AD 1808-1844). He saw in Charrat an ideal match for his sister and sent across a marriage proposal. Charrat agreed immediately, however, Bir Singh’s sister astounded him by rejecting the alliance. The reason: she apparently had an Imeldian fetish for footwear and felt Chamba residents wore cloddish shoes!

Nevertheless, the marriage was solemnised. And who do you think was part of her retinue? A humble cobbler from Panj Baria village near Nurpur whose duty was to craft gorgeous zari-embroidered leather footwear for Her Majesty; in addition to attractive designs for the public so she didn’t lay her eyes on crude soles. That’s how the region got the famed ‘Chamba chappal’ for women and sandals for men, which are supposedly still stitched by descendants of the cobbler.

The shoemakers I spoke to at the local bazaar weren’t aware of a noteworthy lineage. Some, though, were familiar with the legend and took pride in narrating it. The Nikes, Reeboks and imported fakes, notwithstanding, Chamba can be seen sporting footwear once made-to-order by a princess.

Considering it’s among the few towns in the country with over thousand years of history and is culturally evolved, Chamba surprised me by its size. It turned out to be packed but quite small. In the hills everything is in diminutive dimensions. Some impregnable forts I’ve viewed in Himachal would at best correspond to a chalet. Yet, I had expected Chamba’s past to be more exaggerated in its bearings. It was, instead, typically tucked away and content to be overshadowed by commerce of the present.

To reach Chamba valley we traversed a winding state highway that meandered past pretty rice fields running up the hills and neighbourhoods of sloping slate-roofed houses. Our SUV came to a halt as the land plateaued into a green carpet around which rose a town, appearing almost as an amphitheatre. This mountain table-top was the Chaugan, Chamba’s hub. Everything—melas, picnics, protests, sports, jogging in the morning, strolls in the evening—seemed to happen here. At its foot was the gushing River Ravi, the source for hydel projects in the district, and enveloping it were snow-capped Dhauladhar and Zanskar ranges of the inner Himalayas, all combining picturesquely.

It’s best to foot around Chamba, as you can barely shift gears that an intended spot arrives. For reaching places that are steep, well, the wheels obviously don’t roll up there, so panting and copious sweating is in order, regardless of the weather.

Chamba owes its all to Raja Sahil Varman (AD 920 onwards) who is credited with establishing this as his capital. His contribution, the Laxminarayan Mandir--a complex of five stone temples built in shikhra style--stands in the centre of the market and is Chamba’s holiest spot. It is from here that the annual Manimahesh Yatra commences in July-August. Thousands roll into Chamba everyday through the three weeks of the yatra. I happened to be visiting during its last stages and saw the town buzzing with pilgrims on their way back sporting red bandanas and carrying tridents of all sizes. Lord Shiva chants would rent the air for better part of the day and night and the rush of corporates to cash in on the event and sponsor free kitchens saw food distributed at all corners.

The Suimata Temple, a small dedication to Sahil Varman’s queen who sacrificed her life so that Chamba would always have water, and Chamunda Devi Temple are the other two prominent religious spots. These are at a considerable height and I wondered if my sins had been washed after the effort I made to reach their sanctum sanctorum.

Varman’s descendants ruled Chamba ably and their seat of power, the Akhand Chandi Palace, was built centuries later by Raja Umed Singh between AD 1748-64. It overlooks the Chaugan and is the most prominent structure of Chamba. The green-roofed palace is now a college and its painted walls, stained glass windows, intricate woodwork are to be admired even as their fast deterioration, in absence of maintenance funds, is to be mourned.

According to sepia-tinted bromides, royal Chamba offered only the palace and handful other buildings. The present day district headquarters has clusters of small shops, homes, hotels and offices. As I walked its lanes I would often pause at stone-latticed havelis with prettily carved wooden doorways and window frames. Many of these are increasingly being juxtaposed with brash constructions with no sense of design. Where and when did we lose our sense of artistry and hygiene is a question that has baffled me. It’s not merely in these hills but unfortunately across the country.

Chamba is a repository of monuments, fine arts and craft. The rajas were worthy patrons and their collective wealth of art history can be seen at the Bhuri Singh Museum (one of the oldest in the country established in 1908) that has a large compilation of sculptures, costumes and miniature paintings in the Chamba, Kangra, Basholi and Guler styles. Bits of the art processes can also be spotted at its bazaars where I saw weavers on wooden handlooms making shawls; silversmiths crafting pendants; metallurgists hammering at copper to shape it into trumpets, bells and puja platters; artists working on Pahari paintings; and girls embroidering the Chamba rumal (a unique do-rukha or reversible stitch-craft embellishing cloth used for covering gifts and holy offerings).

Lamp-posts in the market, dating to the early 20th century, pointed to the arrival of electricity here far before it reached more accessible parts of the country, courtesy progressive rulers who encouraged development in all fields. It's Chamba’s glorious past that remains its calling card.

Getting there:

Road: Connected via SH 33. There are frequent buses to Chamba from across Himachal. Private taxis are easily available.

Railway: Nearest railhead is Pathankot in Punjab (120 km).

Airports: Closest airports are at Pathankot and Gagal in Kangra (187 km).

Stay: The Hptdc Hotel Iravati has comfortable accommodation, friendly staff and good food. Tariff: Rs 800 upwards.

Published 2009

Chamba Rumal

‘Firdous Handicrafts’ said the board of the shop down a narrow lane ahead of the Main Market in Chamba town. The gracious lady behind its counter was Siraj Begum, an award-winning artiste who had been honoured for her specialisation in Chamba Rumal, which I had heard was a unique style of embroidery. There were numerous pieces of the stitch-craft displayed at her small showroom and on  first glance they seemed to be simple stem-stitch embroidery. But it was not as rudimentary as it seemed. It indeed was distinctive. The technique of embroidery was double stem-stitch known as ‘dou-rukha’ the uniqueness lying in the design on either side being alike, making it reversible in use. Being a master artiste, Siraj Begum was well-versed in the history of her craft and wove a fascinating tale on the rumal’s journey.

Embellished squares

Chamba Rumal is an illustrative skill of embroidery whose origin is believed to date back to the 16th -17th century, to the royal kingdom of Chamba, in Himachal Pradesh’s north-eastern region. The embroidered pieces were called ‘rumals’ or handkerchiefs as they were usually done on square pieces of cloth.

But that’s where its similarity with a handkerchief ends. The richly embellished Chamba Rumals can be as small as 6” x 6” or as large as 5’ x 5’. These were, and continue to be,  used to cover offerings made to gods and dieties, gifts presented to royalty, weddings platters, other ritualistic items at ceremonial events like festivals and religious fairs. Moreover, traditionally it is a part of the bride’s trousseau and it's her grandmother who especially embroiders it for the marriage.

The lineage of the rumal dates back to the Pahari School of painting established by miniature artists who were given patronage by Chamba rulers after the disintegration of the Mughal Empire in the mid-18th century. The painters translated their art on to fabric and this stimulated the women of the region who took up the craft with gusto. The motifs they embroidered were largely folk style depiction of Hindu mythology and social themes. “With time the designs have come to stay and even today only a slight variation in theme can be found on the rumals that continue to exhibit original patterns, with only the colour combination having become slightly urban,” asserts Siraj Begum.

Stitch art

The cloth used for the embroidery is usually hand woven muslin. The ground fabric is white or cream and it’s the embroidery threads—handspun silk strands dyed in natural colours—that provide the arresting contrast. As the initial step, the design is drawn or traced after which the filling of figures, flora and fauna is done in dense stem stitch in such a manner that an identical pattern appears uniformly on both sides of the cloth. Upon completion, the outlines and details like facial features, pleats of a lehnga etc are worked out in with black thread making use of basic or double running stitch depending on the cloth used, as in the instance of silk. For esteemed functions and for royalty the rumals were embroidered on silk, a delicate fabric on which the artiste needed to do extremely small double-running or darning stitch. The task was laborious but the final result in silk would have the magnificence of a painting.

Krishna Ras Leela, a beautiful circular pattern of Lord Krishna with the gopis, is a dominating motif on the Chamba Rumal. In all shops across Chamba town this design was found and classically is a hot seller. Siraj Begum too had plenty of colour combinations on offer in the motif, though she admitted that it was in vibrant folkish hues that the design looked best and not in nouveau shades. Seeing the difference in presentation I couldn’t agree more. The other designs that have stood the test of time are those of mythological episodes, especially from the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, nayika (maiden), deer hunting, forest scenes with lots of trees and animals, Shiva-Parvati, Radha-Krishna, and the typically dressed Gaddi-Gaddan with lamb (shepherd couple). Chamba’s famous Minjar Fair also finds prominence on the rumal. The motifs are bordered by floral patterns, highlighting the Mughal influence in design.

New trends

Moving on from handkerchief shapes, whose use is confined to an item of décor, other products in this craft now include a variety in apparel. The restricted available range includes panelled skirts, stoles, scarves, dupattas, kurtas and saree blouses.

The Chamba Rumal was registered under Geographical Indications (GIs) of Goods Act in end 2008. The Union Government’s Geographical Registry in Chennai issued a certificate in this regard in its response to an application for registration by the Himachal Pradesh Science, Technology and Environment Department. According to standard, “the registration of GI is akin to a community patent in which case in place of an individual, the whole community of artisans, producers and other stakeholders of a GI get benefitted. This registration will grant legal protection to the embroiders of Chamba Rumal, which in turn will prevent unauthorised production and use of the term ‘Chamba Rumal’ by any producer outside the geographical region of Chamba”.


For more IMAGES, DESIGNS, INFO contact: brindasuri@gmail.com

Udaipur

You can decipher the top spot of a destination by the names of its hotels and resta-urants. In Agra, almost everyone, the under-the-mango-tree dhaba included, wants an association with the Taj Mahal. At coastal places there are definitely a few dozen with Sea View as suffix. In the Himalayan belt there will always be a Snow Point or Hill Retreat amongst the billboards you spot. Likewise, Udaipur is no exception to the rule, with lake and palace being the buzz words here. So there’s Lake View, Paras Mahal, Hilltop Palace, Queen Palace and any other permutation you can think of. The choicest of them all of course is one whose name combines both elements: Lake Palace, a hotel that’s been voted amongst the most romantic in the world.

I had often heard mixed reviews about Udaipur, the erstwhile capital of the Mewar dynasty, and considered one of the most beautiful heritage cities of the country. The shrinking water table ruining its pretty lakes was a constant cry. This had lead to a spurt of NGOs sprinting off to rescue its decaying wetlands that looked less blue and more green on account of algae and hyacinth. Nonetheless, since the past few years the city of lakes had hosted a string of celebrity dos so it couldn’t be in such a pitiful state I presumed, setting-off for it.

The Mewar Express links Delhi with Udaipur very conveniently. It’s a 12-hour overnight journey that gets you in by 7 am, just in time for breakfast. With due respect to The Bard, if food be the music of life, eat on is my mantra. Though Duke Orsino in the Twelfth Night wanted an excess of music to kill his appetite for love, there is certainly no such cause and effect as far as food goes. Rajasthan is famous for its spicy as well as drenched-in-the-sweetness-of-sugar offerings. Udaipur in particular is known to have had one of the best royal kitchens and those recipes are still prepared here. My preference in those morning hours was for off-the-street fare and my guide was more than willing to kick start my city sojourn on a scrumptious note. We drove towards the eateries packed between the city landmarks of Jagdish Temple and City Palace and within minutes of our reaching I was savouring a typical straight-off-the-wok mirchi vada—a stuffed chilli-pepper and gramflour fritter—handsomely loaded with a variety of chutney. It had the right measure of spices and was not the dynamite its name made it sound. Next up was a flaky lentil kachori and a steaming glass of milk resplendently flavoured with a fusion of condiments. What was an enormous breakfast for me was a mere appetiser for local men in colourful turbans who had gathered at this hole in the wall stall.

Udaipur’s reference is never complete without mentioning Lake Pichola on whose banks stands the stunning City Palace complex, a few ghats, dwellings, and a couple of leading luxury hotels. The lake is the pride of the city and the Aravallis in its backdrop lends added charm.

The initial views of Udaipur had shown me a series of atmospheric narrow lanes and bylanes typical to Rajasthan but as I approached the lake front it was as if I had entered a completely new world. Geography textbooks never told me an oasis could be so beautiful. They never mentioned its mornings could be ethereal or its sunsets gorgeous. They never said it could evoke poetry. You see, they never revealed the romance of a place called Udaipur. It’s Lake Pichola and the royal quarters around it, so sculpted and planned to precision, that overpower the senses. It’s said, when Maharana Udai Singh was ruling the kingdom of Mewar, Mughal emperor Akbar captured Chittorgarh in AD 1568. This forced the Maharana to relocate and establish a new capital, which was christened Udaipur. The Suryavanshi dynasty ruled fearlessly and passionately, each succeeding maharana beautifying the capital city and leaving his imprint on the sands of time.

I spent Day One by the lake enjoying its many moods. If it were up to me, I would not have ventured beyond its sight, so fairytale-like are its environs. But my super efficient guide was more than eager to show his city, and so the next day we began, delightfully so, with a boat ride to the two island palaces — Jag Mandir and the exceptional Jag Niwas (now the Lake Palace, a Taj hotel property). Next up was the City Palace museum where I found Mor Chowk particularly spectacular. Its mosaic and enamel courtyard has peacocks in lapis lazuli and other stones...talk about royal living and this is a shining example. A little later I was at Bagore ki Haveli, on Ganghori Ghat. Once the house of Amar Chand, the prime minister of Mewar, it's now a cultural centre and a must-visit to view a slice of Rajasthan. By noon I was running up the flight of steps at Jagdish Temple and then resting the heels at the popular Saheliyon-ki-Bari, a garden where ladies of the royal households would spend their leisure time. My whirlwind tour wrapped up at Ahar Museum, about 2 km from the city, a tranquil garden that has a cluster of cenotaphs of the Maharanas.

By sundown I was back by the shores of Lake Pichola. The sapphire blue sky of the morning had given way to flaming auburn and the waters reflected that majestically. Two musicians played the sitar, the stringed notes adding a dose of sublime to the already blissful ambience.

I hadn’t expected Udaipur to be so spectacular. A few days in the city showed what many others have felt before me. In the sweltering bowl of Rajasthan nature had been more than generous on Udaipur. Further on, its creators had accentuated this already worthy canvas with forts, palaces, temples, lakes and islands to compose an architectural landscape that was truly the shining jewel in Mewar’s crown. The reason millions have been smitten by it and I was no exception.

Factfile

Air: Direct flights from Delhi, Mumbai

Road: Connected with Delhi and Mumbai through NH 8.

Railways: Mewar Express (2963): Departure Hazrat Nizamuddin (Delhi) –1900 hrs; arrival Udaipur – 0700 hrs

Accommodation:

Fateh Prakash Palace, City Palace

Tel: 0294-2528016-19

Published in The New Indian Express, February 2010

Snowtime in Simla

She was Grandpa’s premier amour. He was smitten by her when a teenager and that was the beginning of an enduring romance. Even after he married Grandma, with whom he had a long innings, he never did forget her. For him she was an eternal beauty who always responded the way he chose: as a companion, refuge or elixir, sometimes all rolled into one. The years trotted on but nothing ever diminished his commitment towards her; not her wrinkles, not her tatters. She remained his Queen. Grandma had resigned herself to that fact and never resisted nor forbade any rendezvous he ever planned. When we queried her on it she would all-knowingly say, “First love is not easy to forget.”

The maiden in question is Shimla! Her affect on old-timers like Grandpa has to be seen to be convinced off. There’s the classic case of a friend’s NRI relative who visits India annually to avoid the cold European months. While here, the moment he hears ‘snow’ he rushes off to Shimla, defying all logic of having come to spend time in a cheerfully-mellow winter sun. “I’ve been from Alaska to Switzerland, but nowhere do you feel the magnetism of Shimla,” he always explains.

Shimla attired in her white winter ensemble holds particular charm for them. I had never been drawn to snow destinations so the only portrait I was acquainted with was Shimla in summers with its perennial rush-hour feel. Thus Grandpa and I could never agree on her status of beauty. He had seen her heydays when The Mall was a ramp for connoisseurs of elegance and concrete structures were few and far between.

It was a particularly cold morning in the winter of 2008. This was the effect of snowfall in the higher reaches, and happily for all local newspapers Shimla wrapped in snow took care of the editions’ lead picture. “You’ve never seen her in winters, why don’t you make a trip,” Grandpa proposed. I knew he would have liked to dash off but arthritic knees prevented that luxury. His suggestion was tempting and the next morning I was in Shimla. No sooner had I arrived than I looked around in disbelief. There was not a square inch of snow! I was 24 hours late. The previous day’s bright sunshine had made sure the season’s first snow-carpet did the disappearing act.

I rued missing my date with white floss as I trudged up to The Mall. Sprightly elders zipped past me even as I huffed and puffed, halting every few moments to catch my breath. At one such pit stop a local clad in the traditional coat and pahari topi began chatting. After a while as I took his leave he said, “Don’t fret. It will snow by late evening. I can smell it.” My olfactories smelt nothing; and I was certain his too had failed him when it was way past sundown and no sign of snow. It had been an exhausting, disappointing day and I retired early.

Despite the layers I was clad in, the night had been uncomfortably cold and I was up early. An inky blue dawn sky was peeping through the window and as I walked up to the balcony I noticed that quite bizarrely the colour was being reflected from the entire township. It took me a while comprehending the visual imagery and then my eyes stayed peeled. It had snowed!

Apparently snowfall began late last evening. Never again would I doubt a local. They know the scent of snow.

I stood in the balcony till the sky wore some blush-on. It was no picture postcard I had been looking at. It was real and the experience was sublime. What heightened the affect was the contrast; the myriad hues of yesterday’s muck and mundane had disappeared and all that was visible were the shades of purity. Now I know why the many who courted the Snow Maiden did. Attired in a sinuous robe of pristine white she appeared breathtakingly beautiful. One stellar stroke from nature’s brush had magically transformed her.

I stepped out of the motel for my maiden walk in the snow. The town was waking up and only once in a while did someone appear adding colour to the whitescape. As I strolled past its landmarks —the Scottish Church and State Library on the Ridge, Gaiety Theatre and gabled-roof shops on The Mall— Shimla looked a painter’s canvas. From trees to trails to buildings, they all wore a new expression. Snow had brought in a dimension where bare was beautiful. It felt God belonged to the school of surrealism. What I was witnessing was the annual presentation of his art-work. And each composition was a masterpiece.

As I approached Scandal Point tiny cottony balls began flying in my direction and I wondered what that was. Snowfall? Ah! It was my day. Within minutes snowflakes began melting on my hands and eyelashes. The flakes barely embraced before they disappeared. If rain is a resounding raga, snow is silence in motion and quite spectacular. I walked some miles in the snowfall and in those few hours savoured a lifetime.

For the return journey I opted for the narrow gauge railway route and travelling through snow by train was the perfect cherry on the top.

On arrival I showed Grandpa digi-shots of Shimla. For me these were mere images. For him they were frames of nostalgia. He beamed when I told him she was majestic. “I’ve always maintained that,” he said triumphantly.

It’s fortunate my trip materialised. Grandpa passed away shortly after. I’m sure his Queen shed a tear.

Published in The New Indian Express, January 2010

Holding Fort at Jhansi

Read text at: http://indiatoday.intoday.in/site/Story/64220/Travel/Holding+fort+at+Jhansi.html

Published in India Today Travel Plus, 2009

Vegetarian in Thailand

"Don’t forget to pack snack sachets. Else you’ll have to survive on fresh fruit and fresh air! They don’t know what ‘vegetarian’ means in Thailand,”

warned a friend well-vers

ed with the sun and sand country. This was my maiden trip and I duly adhered, even as more mock commiserations poured in. Considering I was off for a food convention, suitably titled ‘Amazing Taste of Thailand’, I wondered what was on my plate, quite literally so.

The concept was to showcase Thailand through its cuisine, a relatively new tourism initiative. About 22 countries were invited and each was exposed to a particular province. The Indian contingent got an essence of the southern region by way of its vacationer island Koh Samui, a jewel in the Gulf of Thailand, besides which was getting up close with the capital charms of bustling Bangkok, where the official finale was held.

On trawling both destinations, I pleasantly discovered that away from shopping malls, beaches and massages there indeed existed a stimulating culinary realm—equally on view in uber Thai kitchens as well as on street carts—bursting with colour, fragrance, flavour, aesthetics and above all with the unrestrained joys of preparing, serving and partaking. Herein lay an assortment of robust and refined menus way beyond the globally-recognised staples of green and red curry pastes, the Tom Yam, Sa Tae etc. Each of Thailand’s five regions had a distinct taste to boast off and getting acquainted with it redefined what ‘Thai cuisine’ had meant all these years. That apart, the prime revelation for me was getting terrific meatless food, far more astonishingly diverse than I could have ever expected.

Koh Samui is ringed by a 57-km road and a drive through provides a charming glimpse of its touristy spots, the pick being the striking ‘Grandma-Grandpa rocks’ that beckon from the middle of an oceanic cobalt. Samui has six powder-sand beaches and their shallow continental shelf, typical of a gulf, allows you to stroll a length into the tepid waters or just laze in them without a tab on time. Chaweng Beach is where the rage is and that’s sufficiently underscored by its sprightly markets open late into the night, modish restaurants and cabaret shows.

Thailand has managed to interestingly package food tourism, which entails visits to grocery markets and cooking lessons at hotels you stay, in addition to savouring a host of flavours. So amid hours of relaxation and enjoying a cruise, we spent time at Samui’s local bazaars getting familiar with herbs/spices like Prik Kee Noo or ‘bird chilli’—the tiny dynamite that fires Thai cuisine—and essentials as Prik Nam Pla (fish sauce), while tropical fruits like rambutan, langsard and durian made for succulent sampling. Beach-side cooking demonstrations competed for eyeballs with displays of fruit-vegetable carving (a Central region tradition that flourished under royal patronage) done by skilled hands that unbelievably used nothing but rudimentary knives. Epicurean applause, however, undoubtedly lay in tempting multi-course fare we were treated to at the typical Southern-décor Samui Seafood Grill & Restaurant, which had an added ingredient of graceful Thai dance in the backdrop; and at fabulous sea-side places as Zazen Boutique Resort & Spa, and the celebrated Six Senses Hideaway where every villa alluringly faced the ocean and heaven appeared to be a doorstep away.

Southern Thailand is known for its spontaneity and this reflects in its cuisine that engagingly asserts a distinct spiciness and sourness. While the rest of the group went into raptures over duck, snails, grasshoppers, minced pork, mussels etc I relished the textures of silken tofu, water cress, bean sprouts, zucchini et al, delicately flavoured with kha (galangal), lemon grass, green pepper sprigs, makrut (kafir lime) or horapha (sweet basil), in salads and soups, curries and stir-fries which are always served with a portion of fragrant jasmine rice. Deciphering whimsical names on the menu like Kaeng Khieo Wan Nuea (Green curry with beef), Thod Man Pla (fish cakes) or Pad Pak Ruam (fried mixed vegetables) added to gourmet pleasures. Though desserts are limited in Thai cuisine I found a few lip-smacking and recommend a visitor to taste Mango-sticky rice; Sangkhaya Fakthong (coconut-milk custard steamed in pumpkin) and Khnom Krok (the inimitable bite-size rice pancakes).

Bangkok, an hour’s flight away from Koh Samui, expectedly had lots to offer: from its amply-discussed down-town shopping profusion at Siam Square, Central World and MBK; the exciting weekend bazaar of Chatuchak; to its heritage zone that included the capricious Grand Palace complex, the serene Reclining Buddha at Wat Po, and the beautiful Temple of Dawn or Wat Arun, that’s a short boat ride away. I managed to pack it all in a day courtesy an efficient transport network of sky-train, taxis and tuk-tuks. Another spectacular illustration of grace and grandeur was the Siam Niramit musical stage show (www.siamniramit.com) that traced the history of Thailand, and is a definite must-watch.

The highlight, though, were our lessons at Blue Elephant Restaurant and Cooking School—housed in a period building, a rare occurrence in the steel and glass city. The schedule involved going vegetable shopping by sky-train to Bangrak market and coming back to prepare Green curry vegetables/chicken and Som Tam (raw papaya salad) at individual work-stations, after having been tutored by master chefs. As we constantly saw, Thai food was as much about subtle tastes as it was about presentation. The chef was an artist and the platter his canvas. The final outcome was nothing short of culinary magic, accentuated by the presence of the bashful orchid that appeared on mocktails, starters, desserts…everywhere.

In between learning to say sawasdee kha (hello)and khawp khun kha (thank you), I managed to successfully convey my food preference, sawirat (vegetarian), praise a chef with a-roi (delicious) and address vendors with gee baht (how much). However, the Thai language has soft syllables and a musical intonation. Until you get these nuances right, you may have spoken sawirat but it could well have been Timbuktu. So usually it’s best to continue with English, which ultimately does get translated, by the ever-smiling and willing-to-help Thai citizen.

The snack packs I had taken remained untouched. I presented them to a local resident as a taste from my country. In Thailand I always had a lot on my plate!
Factfile:

Getting there: Thai Airways flies daily to Bangkok from all metro cities, including Chennai.

Accommodation: Easily available for all budgets. Some centrally-located option are:
The Imperial Boat House, Koh Samui
Siam City Hotel, Bangkok

For further details contact:
Tourism Authority of Thailand, New Delhi
www.amazingthailand.co.in
Phone: 011-4674 1111, 41663567-69
PUBLISHED in The New Indian Express, Chennai, November 2009

Destination called Leh Road

Ladakh@Rs 924

If you thought the humble paisa can’t buy you nothing, think again. For the 1,026-km bus journey from Delhi to Leh, I paid 90 paisa per km. My entire expense, including fare, lodging and food en route, was a princely Rs 924. On a road journey that’s acquired cult status among travellers globally, it appears almost embarrassing to be paying such pittance for incredible views of a lifetime.
To begin with, the decision to board the bus had to be made immediately. All other options of travel had failed and if I was to meet my target of reaching Leh by September 1, to be in time for the Ladakh Festival’s opening cultural pageant, I needed to be on the bus right away, notwithstanding the long miles of a three-day, two-night journey and my being prone to motion sickness.
By 4 pm I was seated in a packed carrier, its overhead racks stuffed with luggage waiting to fall at the slightest jerk. All passengers aboard were proceeding ‘home’ or ‘on work’, as I discovered 17 hours later at Manali, having slept through Chandigarh, Mandi, Kullu. The bus emptied out here and when we took off after a short halt at Manali bazaar, I was one of the two women on board, the other being an elderly Ladakhi. My co-passenger now was a soldier, who enquired whether I was a duty-bound government official or school teacher. When I replied in the negative he said, “So, what are you doing on the bus?” My being a curious wayfarer bemused him. “Who in this age of cheap air tickets travels by bus to Leh,” he asked. “Only foreigners do. And, of course, helpless soldiers like us who don’t manage a warrant air-ticket.”

The journey up till Manali had been along the sprightly River Beas, on a relatively smooth highway racing past verdant hills. It was all set to change as we hit the onward trail. Short of Marhi, the popular breakfast halt before Rohtang Pass (12, 723 ft), kiosks advertising fur coats on hire had begun lining the road and a few hapless tourists, unaware that the Pass in end-August is a sunny meadow of green and not a carpet of snow, were seen haggling rates! “Anything for a fast buck,” grinned the soldier, a veteran of this route, who turned out to be a delightfully well-informed guide.
Beyond Rohtang it was a descent into the singular landscape of Lahaul district. Mountains that had appeared in soft shades were now handsomely rugged. Each seemed sculpted by the Master. Each spoke the story of creation that millions have been witness to. Within me, they evoked awe and anxiety almost in the same gasp as the bus rolled past, dwarfed by their might. The River Chandra often meandered into the canvas, sometimes as a gushing unruly brown and on occasions like an elegant silver ribbon. Its boisterous form had managed to chew the tarmac in many sections between Gramphoo and Sissu and the tyres would daringly cross such impromptu water beds. I had taken an air-pillow along which proved to be my sole luxury equipment that I would prop as a head-rest or use as a seat-cushion. Sometimes it was effectively employed as an ear muff to block the entertainment our driver insisted on providing, by playing non-stop hits of craggy Himachali music. So mandatory is such score in subcontinent buses, I’m surprised it still hasn’t been recognised as an honourable genre of music.
The moods of the mountains continued to inspire as the bus trundled past Tandi—famous with overland voyagers as the last place to tank up before Leh—and few two-shop hamlets before reaching the only major town en route, Keylong, the district headquarters of Lahaul-Spiti, famous for the Khardong Monastery. The sun was fast dipping and I needed to look for night accommodation. My single-woman status had help pouring in from all ends, and genuinely so, unlike the touts of Bombay or Delhi. The nice-looking tourism hotel was 500 meters away but my weary mind preferred something closer. I opted for a homestay a stone-throw away and hit the sack almost immediately.
At 3.30 am I was back in the bus as were some new passengers, among them a bunch of European backpackers. Sleep-deprived, I lost no time in escaping to slumberland. A monstrous bump awoke me and how providential that proved to be! Dawn’s inky blue shades were gingerly lighting up the sky even as we drove past enormous ranges of barren rock mountains in the valley of the beautiful River Bhaga, its waters reflecting silver and bronze. It was a stunning moonscape and here onwards it grew more awesome. The steady speed of the bus ensured the camera produced creditable images but to be true a lensperson has to do nothing, each frame is so perfect.
By forenoon we had summited the rocky Baralachala (16,049 ft), the second highest Pass we would cross. Soon after we hit the Sarchu plains (a favourite camping site), where ends Himachal and begins Jammu & Kashmir territory. All vehicles report at its checkpost, which allowed me to stretch my legs in starkly beautiful surroundings. The rocky face prior to Baralachala had given way to dramatically barren mud mountains. The whispers of the wind, by way of erosion, had made the mountains a playfield for creativity and carved on its face the most spectacular expressions ranging from castles to crowned monarchs.

The short break at Sarchu, though, stretched to an agonising few hours as the bridge ahead had collapsed, which meant we crossed Nakki la (16, 765 ft) and Lachung la (16, 600 ft) in the afternoon and arrived at Pang, the lunch halt, close to the evening. The menu was typical to the hills and included the ubiquitous Maggi noodles, parantha, omelette and soup, all of which manage to taste quite excellent in such surroundings. For the roadies bedding priced between Rs 80-Rs 120 was available at all tented ‘restaurant-cum-hotels’.

Up next was the fascinating Morey Plains, a 40-km flat strip, the land of the nomadic Changpa tribe. What captivated my imagination here was the way cottony white clouds speckled across the backdrop of a brilliant blue sky formed shadows over austere brown hills. The contrasting colours coalesced pleasingly and the swift movement of the clouds added fluent grace to the drama unfolding in this cold desert theatre.
The scheduled time of arrival in Leh was 5 pm and at that hour we were more than 100 km away traversing the highest pass en route, Tanglang la (17,582 ft) that fluttered with prayer flags. Its ascent had been gentle but by this time my mind had grown restless. The journey seemed never-ending and the other factor was I hadn’t booked accommodation in Leh, having hoped to walk around the pocket-size town and hunt for a suitable place.
Just before the sky wore its night cloak we reached Rumtse, where the first signs of civilization appeared after about 350 km. By 10 pm we finally reached Leh bus station. It was quiet and dark, but thankfully my cell-phone came alive. I rung up a friend’s decade-old contact, who materialised within minutes and in true tradition of Ladakhi hospitality escorted me to a cosy guest house.

It’s said 24 hours acclimatisation is a must before venturing out in Leh. I didn’t have a chance and early next morning I was on the streets capturing images of the Ladakh Festival. The road journey had naturally acclimatised me. And its magic still overwhelms.

Bus journey coordinates and suggestions:

Delhi-Leh bus (Himachal tourism)
Departure: daily (till Sept 15) from ISBT, Counter 7
Time: 3.45 pm
Fare: Rs 482 Delhi-Keylong; plus Rs 460 Keylong-Leh (The latter tkt is purchased in Keylong...the fares have gone up 15 pc since I travelled). Total: Rs 942

Tele contacts:
ISBT Delhi: 011- 23868694
ISBT Chandigarh (Himachal counter): 0172-2668943
Manali bus stand: 01902-252323
Keylong bus station: 01900-222245

Some options for bus travel are:
1. Take the morning train from Delhi to Chandigarh (Shatabadi Express), do a city tour and catch the Leh bus that departs at 9.40 pm.
2. Else, take the Delhi bus up to Manali, and stop over for two days or a day. Then take the bus till Keylong. Break journey as there is enough to occupy you around here for a day or more, and it's worth it to explore if you have come up all this way.
3. Take the morning bus from Keylong to Leh which will be around 15 hrs journey.

Published in The New Indian Express, September 2009

All Kosher

Synagogues of Calcutta

http://traveller.outlookindia.com/issuecontent.aspx?id=1800&type=45&flag=issuehome

Published in Outlook Traveller, July 2009

Craft from Bihar

One of the oldest seats of learning in the world is here. So is the place where Buddha gained enlightenment. It is the cradle of two of India’s powerful dynasties, the Mauryan and the Gupta, as well as the birthplace of the king among kings, Ashoka the Great—whose ideals dating back to the BC epoch reverberate in the Indian Constitution. This is the region where Mahatma Gandhi began his non-violent struggle against the British regime by staging the first satyagraha in support of the indigo farmers of Champaran. It’s a land rich in minerals and natural resources. A province with vibrant folk art and culture… If that’s arresting enough be prepared to be intrigued further, as the spotlight is on the state of Bihar.

Every state in India has an exceptionally rich handicraft and handloom tradition and Bihar is no different. For so long has it been plagued by a trail of troubles that its artistic attributes have been pushed into the background. As the dust is wiped away what emerges is a treasure trove of inheritance pursued by creative hands and minds.

Sikki

Sikki is a common riverside reed found in abundance across the northern Gangetic plains. A plant of high tensile strength, people down the ages have creatively used it to mould items of daily use. The coarse reed is dried in the sun till it turns supple and glossy golden. Its strands are then secured into a rope which is coiled into various shapes, ranging from boxes, animals, pencil holders, planters, serving-bowl casings etc. The natural-hued products are further bedecked with colourful dyed strands that are woven into arresting geometrical patterns, converting ordinary grass into a piece of art.

Sujuni (or soojini)

This form of embroidery, which is simple running stitch, is currently making waves globally enthusing fashionistas and folk art collectors alike. Nowadays done on a single fabric and found on bedspreads, wall hangings cushion/bolster covers and also on apparel like saris, dupattas, stoles, jackets and skirts, traditionally women stitched together layers of muslin cloth and decorated it with motifs transforming it into a quilt or mat for home use. Similar in appearance to the kantha of Bengal the subtle difference lies in the colour scheme and motifs. Sujuni is always on a cream base fabric and it’s only village life that’s portrayed through embroidered motifs, which are outlined in black chain-stitch with the inner detailing being in colour.

Madhubani paintings

The Madhubani style of art is Bihar’s most famous export. Its origins lies in vibrant wall paintings, by women of Madhuban village in Mithila region, depicting gods-goddesses, usually Shiva-Parvati, rural sequences and social celebrations. The paintings were always bordered by floral patterns. Demands of modern times have replaced the canvas of mud-plastered wall with handmade paper, tussar silk and cotton fabric. Madhubani motifs are available as wall frames for as little as Rs 100 or can be flaunted on sarees, bags, office folders etc.

Lacquerware

If you are attending a Bihari marriage, notice the hands of the bride; they would be adorned with red or turmeric-coloured bangles that have been embellished with sequins and mirrors. Ritualistically worn for a year or forty days, these are made with lac, a resin found in the forests of the region. Lac bangle-making is a cottage industry that churns out conventional and myriad contemporary designs in a collection of colours. A pair can begin at Rs 20 and go up to Rs 1,000 for a set of 12. Another attractive range of items are painted woodenware varnished with lacquer and this includes toys, beds, stools, keychains, bowls etc besides a traditional wedding item called the kiya or sindoora, which is a lacquer-finished red wooden vermillion box shaped like a temple spire.

Papier Maiche

According to legend, the art of papier machie took root in Bihar for the purpose of crafting mukhota or masks used in the popular Chhau folkdance. The masks have given way to a surfeit of brightly-painted products with folkish designs tailored for modern day including a choice of toys and games. These are hot sellers at handicraft fairs and light up whichever corner they are placed in.

Tussar silk

At handloom fairs the ‘Bhagalpur silk’ stall is ubiquitous. The district is amongst the largest producers of tussar silk in the country and is known for the fine quality of its handspun fabric. Fast movers like silk stoles, sarees, dupattas in addition to yardage can be found in quite a few natural shades of cream, beige and brown as well as in dyed colours.

Nalanda weaves

Originating in looms of Nalanda, the typical weave of an elephant or duck motif panel on red or lilac handspun cotton fabric, caught the fancy of people a few decades back and continues to reign. Also called BCI or Bihar Cottage Industry pattern it’s immensely popular as a chaadar or bedcover, curtain and tablecloth.

Stoneware

The blackish-green stone found in abundance around Bodh Gaya has lead to a stone carving industry. Figures of Lord Buddha and Ganesha have the highest demand among tourists besides which a host of tableware items like coasters, stem glasses, platters and decorative bric-a-brac in glossy finish grab eyeballs.

Terracotta

Every region has a terracotta tradition. In Bihar it dates back to the Mauryan period when potters shaped utility items for personal use and as barter currency. Over centuries the designs have altered to suit décor needs with pots, pans and toys sharing space with assorted bric-a-brac. A distinctive product is terracotta jewellery that’s been a rage since a few years.

Published in Jetwings, December 2008

Old Manali

http://www.itgo.in/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=309&Itemid


Published in India Today Travel Plus April 2008

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


See more at

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