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

Kinnaur: Hindustan-Tibet Road

To read, right click and select open link in new tab 

Published in The New Indian Express, June 2010

Manipuri black pottery

http://www.thehindu.com/arts/crafts/article447229.ece

Published in The Hindu, June 2010

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