The Last Lesson

When I first read the short story, “The Last Lesson” written by Alphonse Daudet, back in school I thought it was nothing short of an exaggerated tale oozing with blown-up nostalgia and fancy hyperbole. ‘The Last Lesson’ a story which is set in the days of the Franco-Prussian War when France was defeated by Prussia. By an order from Berlin, German language was imposed on the French districts of Alsace and Lorraine. Alas! I was wrong. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would experience something similar, although in a different context, a different setting.

Last week, I woke up to a rainy morning. Rumbling, dark clouds, thunder and rain pervaded the atmosphere. Unusual, freaky weather for the month of April, I reasoned. I reluctantly got ready for University. Luckily, I just made it in time for the Econometric Applications class. Our professor, Dr. G. Singh, a noted agricultural economist and brilliant econometrician is the epitome of what an ideal mentor should be. Regrettably, the sassy behaviour of our class didn’t match his expectations.

He is never absent or late for any of his classes. But, on that day he never turned up for the class on time. Many classmates, usually locked out for reaching late thanked their stars. Others sighed. Dr. Gurmail Singh entered the class a little late. He was not his usual self. He was clearly upset and saddened. He wasn’t angry or annoyed. The glow on his face was missing. We knew something was wrong. Maybe we had gone overboard and taken him for a ride. Gregarious, compassionate and large-hearted, he started the lecture by announcing it would be his last. The last lecture of his tenure as a Professor. He started out by apologising to each one of us if he was at fault for not delivering. We didn’t know where to look, where to hide our shameless faces. We felt small. His eloquent silence went like a cleaver that sliced through our hearts. No apparent flow of blood, but the cold, biting pain lingered. The poignancy was hard to miss. We knew right then, as students we had failed.

After a brief pause, he made a dash for the blackboard and scribbled the topic of inflation modelling on the board. And, thus started the last lesson, the best he ever taught. He was back in his mode, brimming with passion and zeal. He formulated the entire model with finesse and ease, leaving us bewildered, as always. Time flew past in a jiffy and before we knew he bade farewell and wished us luck for all future endeavours. He quietly exited the room. We felt guilty and embarrassed to have ended his teaching experience on an awful note. He is someone I secretly admire and look up to with immense awe. We knew we were at loss and we had to make up to him. We pooled in money to buy a farewell card and scrawled it with the following wordings, “Dear Sir, we may not have been the best class you’ve trained. But, we’ve learnt life lessons from you that will stay with us for a lifetime. To our icon, our mentor, our source of inspiration and idol- fare thee well!”

Book Review: Writer on the Hill, By Ruskin Bond.

What happens when one of India’s most prolific, finest and loved writer wields his pen on paper like an artist extraordinaire who uses his paintbrush to liven up the canvas for more than 6 decades?  Pure magic.

The Writer on the Hill has got to be the most comprehensive Ruskin Bond bible published till date. The book is an extensive and careful selection of Bond’s fiction and non-fiction, both that is widely acclaimed and that is little known. Flipping through the pages of this omnibus is like breathing into lungfuls of fresh, clean Himalayan air. It’s the kind of book where the reader can expect to stumble upon an old postcard or a dried crimson rose bookmarking the page that still effuses the delicate scent. It carefully weaves priceless wisdom gathered from decades of random ramblings in the Mussorie hills, with stories picked up from moonlit meanderings in sleepy hill stations and also offers a slice of autobiography. Armed with an unpretentious vocabulary, simplicity is what describes it best, highlighted by his black-and-white portrait sketch on the book cover against an appropriate background –a subtle green watercolour painting of the hills.

I’d say the book has the very best of Bond. You get to share an exciting rendezvous with Masterji on a railway platform. Return to his iconic, award winning story, “The Room on the Roof” and hoot when Rusty stands up to his bullying, boorish guardian. With rising urbanisation, confrontations between man and animals have become commonplace. But, only Bond can conjure up with his mesmerising, thrilling prose to bring out the pathos of the situation. His story, “Man and leopard” offers the reader a glimpse of his vivid imagery and brilliant prose. And then there’s the story of Binya’s Blue Umbrella, which makes you happy and sad, both at the same time. That’s the magic of Bond’s writing.

As we saunter along with Ruskin Bond from the 1950s in Dehradoon to the 1960s and 1970s in Mussorie, we get a glimpse of his inspiration on the open road, the plains, the hills and the mountains. An endearing view that leaves us mesmerized about the extraordinary sublime beauty of an otherwise pedestrian life. The grandfather-grandson relationship is beautifully brought out in “The Cherry Tree”. The pain and heart-felt nostalgia acts like a cleaver through the readers heart in his autobiographical note, “The Last time I saw Delhi” where he meets his ailing mother for the last time, no apparent flow of blood, but a pain that lingers.

Coloured with characters like the nature-loving bank manager, the taxi-driver who flaunts his “ear-shattering horn”, the impulsive school friend who ran away with him and the hopeful shopkeeper in the remote hills of Garhwal, the stories wander effortlessly from one fascinating tale to another over the years. Even more enthralling and absorbing is the charismatic character of the towns, the rivers and the valleys.

He is near to the Zen concept that if you observe and be acquainted with the presence of every feeling about phenomena around you, it is likely in such recognition you become aware of your awareness, which is a form of transcendence above mundane experience. The imagery in “Break of monsoon” is so vivid; you can almost smell the flavour of wet earth or feel the first, fresh burst of the pre-monsoon showers. He successfully manages to bring alive that unforgettable petrichor, the fragrance of the earth after the first rains, coupled with the fresh scent of crushed geranium flowers. Sheer brilliance.

In an era when clammy sex and notorious socialite, urbane life writings are in vogue, we definitely need a Ruskin Bond to bring us gently back to earth, to resuscitate our senses to the natural beauty around us, especially the mountains he loves and which have produced his most inspired work. “Sounds I like to hear”, “Ganga descends , “The good earth”, “Some plants become friends” , “In grandfathers garden” are naive, unsophisticated write-ups  that help the reader see what he would’ve otherwise missed. His uncomplicated style of writing is so apparent; it disarms even the most seasoned, sceptical reader. He talks about the seasons, spring, summer, autumn and winter in the hills. He is our very own desi Wordsworth, in prose!

At 80, he joyfully writes from his quaint little Ivy cottage, neatly tucked away in the august company of deodar and oak trees, far away from the hustle bustle of the Landour bazaar. Some of his non-fiction writings from the 1908s, reflect how he was found his own wellsprings of contentment and pleasure, how he has learnt to live life with its defects, how he sees beauty in imperfections and doesn’t worry about his critics. Bats and bricks are welcome, and he is more content to let the trees of mussorie hills be the guardians of his conscience.

For all Bond-fans this is a must read. And for all Bond-critics, who don’t have trees and flowers to fall back on, who are caught in the cobweb of mundane tasks and trials of life, this book is the perfect antidote to stress. Pick up this book and watch your worries fade away-out of the window as Bond takes you on an unforgettable journey to hills and beyond. This book can be picked up, leafed through, put down as and when you like, depending on your mood, whims and fancies. Believe you me, the comfort is instant.

The writer apparently prefers multiplicity and variety, over intensity, and the result, if not incredible, is definitely warm and engaging. Delving into the pages of The Writer on the Hill is like sipping hot chicken soup or sugary cardamom chai at the end of an extremely rough day; it just soothes your taste buds rather than exciting them and you’re indebted for that.

Shimla- then & now…..

What was once a Himalayan township of magnificent and regal government buildings and English-style cottages set in forested open spaces has mushroomed into a gigantic swath of hideous, concrete, multi-rise commercial buildings. The chauffer of our vehicle manoeuvres at the wheel around a series of nauseating hairpin curves.  Rocky mountains to my left and valleys lying hundreds of feet below me with their teeny weenie village hutments clinging to their slopes on my right. Coldplay’s much-loved track Paradise plays in the background, as I stare blankly towards the horizon- stand the mighty Himalayas, like equilateral triangles, row behind a row, showing off their snow covered peaks. They leave me bamboozled and befuddled- paradise, indeed, I tell myself.

Once the summer capital of the Raj, this is where the privileged and influential of the British civil service and military brass exchanged the sweltering summer heat and dust of the plains for the breezy deodar, oak and pine woody slopes of the ‘Simla’ hills. Spread across seven hills in the northwest Himalayas among verdant valleys and forests of oak, rhododendron and pine is the capital of Himachal Pradesh that was the erstwhile summer capital of colonial India. Today it is an affordable holiday destination for the average Indian middle class family who ramble about the Mall Road in scorching summer to beat the heat and toboggan down the snowy slopes of Kufri and Mashoobra in chilly winter.

My mother has nostalgic memories of growing up in Simla, where she studied economics and psychology at the prestigious St. Bede’s College. I, too, recall with fondness vivid memories of visiting this hill station ever since I was a toddler. My maternal grandfather, Mr. IS Kang, a former civil servant, served in the coveted Indian Forest Service, for over 30 years. Post-retirement he built his summer residence in Simla. Every year we would visit my grandparents and spend two months breathing in lungfuls of fresh, crisp and pure Himalayan air.

As we round the last corkscrew bend, ‘Shimla’ comes into view, My mother and I exchange remorseful glances. A lot has happened ever since the letter ‘H’ was added to ‘Simla’ as it metamorphosed to ‘Shimla’. Has the change been good or bad? We can’t decide.

The deodars have vanished. The Cedars are weeping. The Oak is on the ventilator. The Rhododendrons are lamenting. The Pine is orphaned. What once used to be a settlement of Tudor-style buildings and English style bungalows and villas set in the midst of thick forested jungles has suddenly burgeoned into a ugly, repulsive swath of multi-rise commercial buildings, untidily packed in Lego-like tiers up and down the hillsides, all too precariously.  I feel saddened and depressed at this sudden transformation.

Later that afternoon we decide to abandon the lassitude and sticky miasma. So we set out on a walk along the ‘Mall Road’ – the main iconic street that straddles the town. Our initial panic begins to dissolve as we discover that beneath Shimla’s chaotic facade, Simla’s old world charm, its magnetism, aura and reminders of a less hurried world still lingers. We walk past the Cedar House- the erstwhile residence of the Maharaja of Patiala, the lilac and baby pink hydrangeas in all their splendour brighten our faces and lift our depressed spirits. We then cross the Chalet School and the iconic Clarkes Hotel retaining its lure and wooden facade. The Willow Bank building is dilapidated, probably on its last legs.

We then halt at Shimla’s quintessential cafe’ Embassy, to buy our favourite orange slush with homemade ice-cream. It still tastes the same. We identify landmarks that evoke a bygone epoch – the stately turrets of Viceregal Lodge, once the residence of the high and mighty British viceroys, rear against the sky. It was the scene of intense negotiations that eventually closed a chapter of Indian history in 1947: the end of the British Raj and the birth of two independent nations – India and Pakistan. Today the structure serves the country’s intelligentsia at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study. Regrettably, its upkeep and maintenance has been poor and its shabby environs are hard to ignore.  The grand Gorton Castle, an opulent edifice reminiscent of an English country estate, used to be the Secretariat offices from where one-fifth of the world’s population was once administered.

Old confectionary shops have given way to the branded stores. The winds of globalization have been sweeping across Shimla, more than ever before. In the midst of all the branded stores, we are able to spot our beloved baker. Thrishool Bakers offer some of the most delicious, authentic confectionary items like japs, spoonies, scones, éclairs Dundee cakes et all. The owner laments that although his clientele has augmented, but the elite, classy, sophisticated have all vanished. There was a time when the mall road was witness to the who’s who, men and ladies of importance and oomph. Handsome, aristocratic Sikh gentlemen with their neatly tied turbans would strut around accompanied by their graceful better-halves. The selected few also included sophisticated, immaculately dressed government officials, civil surgeons, civil servants and Judges. The crème de la crème has given way to riff raff.

Below the surface there existed a Simla which the celebrated writer, Rudyard Kipling categorized as being a potential breeding ground of “frivolity, gossip and intrigue”. Clandestine affairs prospered between young dashing bachelors and beautiful wives whose husbands were absent on duty tours. The infamous Scandal Point earned its nickname after the suave Maharaja of Patiala was said to have eloped with a Viceroy’s daughter, whereupon he was banished from the town for life! That is how Chail, a satellite town which the Maharaja developed came to exist, with the worlds highest cricket ground.

We take a turn from the notorious Scandal Point, rising off the Mall is the Ridge, an esplanade with views of Himalayan ranges on the horizon. The Ridge is actually a huge water tank that supplies water to half of Shimla. Sadly, it’s been reported that the Ridge has been sinking on account of unchecked urbanisation. Today, however, a chiffon scarf of mist obscures the peaks, so we turn away and stroll along the Ridge towards Christchurch, pausing en route to click a photograph or two of the half-timbered Tudor-style Town Hall and State Library.

On the way back, we head for a cuppa finely brewed Darjeeling and sandwiches at the revamped Amateur Dramatics Club, Gaitey Theatre. The old Gaiety Theatre-a dignified grey stone building-still offers live theatre during the summer season is now a property of the state government. The Club is perhaps one of the very few places in Shimla that has retained its colonial character.  The atmosphere is calm, the decor is elegant and the gentry are stylish and refined.

We sit on a wrought iron bench opposite the fire station and help ourselves to the hot and sweet Gulab Jamuns or ‘GJs’ as they are called from Baljees.  Shimla definitely has unequivocally and unmistakably post-Raj vibes. Indian families from various states stroll along the Mall-wives wearing Sarees and suits, their husbands in casual ‘jeans-sweaters’. Groups of chuckling, bubbling, enthusiastic boys and girls strike a pose for photographs. Old men, retired Indian Army officers or former bureaucrats from the All India Services perhaps, wearing scarves and ties sit on wooden benches, their eyes distant with memories.

As the sun starts to stage its exit, the air feels crisp. So, we decide to head back home. We go via the Lower Bazaar to buy fruits and vegetables which terraces below the Mall, the alleyways are crowded. We rub shoulders with tourists bargaining for cheap Tibetan jewellery, embroidered garments, wooden ornaments, leather goods, souvenirs and trinkets. Energetic, Pathani-clad Pahari men with tough weather-beaten faces carry truckloads of jute sacks on their sturdy backs; their women wearing long skirts in vibrant colours and headscarves, brass hoops adoring their ears and studs in the noses, carry cute rosy cheeked babies slung in hammocks on their backs.

Mother spots ‘miyah ji’ near the Mosque ,the ‘fruit-wallah’, from whom my grandparents bought fruit decades ago. We buy black-heart cherries, luscious nectarines and juicy peaches and plums and head back.

As I write my dairy entry before sleeping, I sense that historical ‘Simla’ is finding it increasingly hard to coexist with the contemporary ‘Shimla’. A lot has changed, and there’s little that remains the same. Nothing is eternal, I guess.

Plants as companions

The exquisite amber shrimp plant- it has a magnificent fiery-orange flower, glossy emerald green leaves, and it grows in my front portico, almost all year round.  Or the variegated money plant, its heart shaped leaves that stays put on my bathroom shelf, like an obedient audience maintaining respectful silence to my cacophonic singing. Is there more could I ask for?  I doubt.

Some plants are the guardians of one’s conscience-they never judge you no matter what. For instance, the giant pine tree in my backyard, with whom I’ve shared many a secrets and exchanged a friendly banter from time to time. I bow before its stretching branches seeking its benediction. While other plants, like seasonal flowers, periwinkle or cosmos in summers and sweet-peas in winters, are like fair-weathered friends. They don’t stay with your forever. Their transient existence puts me off, just like some blood relatives and friends in real life, who don’t stand by your side when in pain or suffering. They share your success but never your defeat. They are few relationships that are meant to be cherished those that stay with you forever, your parents, for instance. Just like the immortal ivy veil, that grows wide and far, enveloping the entire wall like a protective sheath and stays green ceaselessly.

My mother, an ace psychologist turned garden enthusiast, has earned the reputation of a plant doctor in our locality. She likes to take in other peoples ailing or discarded plants and cajoles them back to good health. Her plant ward has been ballooning ever since! She strongly believes that plants have feelings and emotions just like humans, and despises those who indulge in plant abuse. She feels satisfied to see a sick plant or a dying bonsai on the path of recovery. Last week, our neighbours received their posting orders and had to shift to Hyderabad. So, they left their potted Balsam flowers with my mother, because they knew she’d take good care of them. My mother feels encouraged and optimistic that her efforts aren’t going in vain.

Loyalty with plants ought to be cherished and valued. So, if my banana bonsai does well in my veranda then that’s where it must belong. If the flowering impatience pot wants to sit on the balcony windowsill or the royal palm wants to be in the company of my books in my reading then I must oblige. After all, I can’t afford to receive summons from mother dear for violation of plant rights!

It’s rewarding to have the august company of green plants and flowers. The soothing effect from the fresh fern fronds or the greenery of the bamboo just calms your agitated nerves. Plants teach you important lessons. I often take a leisurely stroll in my back lawn and my plants help me analyse the philosophy of life and aid in refurbishing my corrupted soul. The Zinnia flower, for instance, blossoms in grand splendour, in the scorching summer heat. It teaches you to always keep smiling in face of adversity and trouble. The rubber plant standing perfectly erect without any support, reflecting the importance of staying true to ones words or promises. The Plumeria tree, its branches spreading wide and far, where birds come and relax, lays emphasis on charity and giving. The effect of plants on ones spirit is strangely exhilarating. It’s an enigma that never unfolds but can only be experienced.

For those of us, caught in the vicious cobweb of mundane tasks and trials of life, I’d say, it’s never too late! Bring in a plant and watch it grow. It’s an investment that you won’t regret.

The enchantress in crimson

The sandy, choky loo winds of June herald her arrival. She struts down the boulevards of Chandigarh with oomph and vivacity posing for the shutterbugs-paparazzi no less!     Bang! She enters the city and livens up the muted atmosphere, cutting through the staid and uninteresting summery miasma. An itsy-bitsy glimpse of crimson juxtaposed against bright emerald foliage or the first burst of fiery orange reaching for the sky indicates her grand arrival- and how. I never accuse her for keeping me waiting for months together, because the unrelenting wait is well worth it.

As dramatic as a theatrical trailer she stimulates as sense of uneasy inquisitiveness within one and all which in no way prepares us for her smashing and colourful debut. She puts the overbearing swashbucklers, roisterers and other swaggering gallants to shame. Such is her poise and grace. As the trepid summer advances, she undergoes a metamorphosis from coy bride to an enchanting temptress, the risqué pleasures she offers corrupts the virginity of your soul. The flame orange and crimson spreads far and wide, reaching for the patches of pale gold and dusty pink, to infinity and beyond. I am often left bamboozled at her sheer brilliance; in her outstretching arms I seek her benediction. This year I spot her down the alley in meditative tranquil, she is as beautiful as she can get. I quietly stand back and just stare at her, careful enough not to cut through the porcelain silence. You can also spot her in any chaotic bazaar standing in the corner in a contemplative posture.

I’d like to believe I’ve been her Romeo ever since I hit my teens. In school, as a child I would secretly withdraw from a game of tag or football and rush to the corner where she stood majestically. I would sit cross-legged at her footsteps and enjoy reading my all-time favourite Enid Blyton. The crisp wind would gently blow causing the bright orangish red flower to smoothly land in between my pages, I secretly knew I had her approval.

As time wound its way through the cosmic clock, I was guilty as charged for having lost contact with her. My address book lost her whereabouts. Strangely enough, I never bothered finding her. Perhaps being caught in the cobweb of mundane trials of daily life was to be blamed. Yesterday, having resolved to go for morning walks, I experienced a sense of déjà vu. It struck me like a lightning bolt. Lost in my pre-occupied thoughts, I sauntered around the road when I saw her bright red head nodding a warm greeting. I ignored and moved ahead. Something felt wrong and I turned back only to realise my dear friend stood right there where I left her many years ago. She was still the same. Like old wine, she had matured into a real beauty. Like the reigning British monarch, she too was going strong with no signs of wear and tear. Its scarlet canopy was waiting to be marvelled at. The sheer happiness you feel when you re-unite with an old comrade after aeons, is unparalleled.

She brings to agitated, troubled human mind the warmth of the crack of dawn and the red-hued golds of a dying sunset. I personally believe to just look at her is to bask in the quintessence and clarity of life. My maternal grandfather, a spirited man and an ardent nature lover, would often tell me that to stare at her is to trust that life is all about unending joy and happiness. However sad or upset one might be, she teaches us the secret philosophy of life to simply smile and breathe in the artless beauty of good earth.

The other day, as I was cleaning my book shelf, I stumbled upon an old novel, only to find a delicate flower pressed between the pages, its colour still bright blood-red. It rendered a smile to my face and here I am penning down a tribute to the woman in crimson. She’s an enigma that won’t reveal itself, a mystery that can never be solved but an experience and a friendship that will last you a lifetime. Long live, the mighty Gulmohar!

Zulfi-The Guardian of our Conscience

Sepia-toned photographs are a treasure trove of memories. Every one of us has a box that we guard anxiously, for it contains all that we hold dear. I stumbled upon an old snap, dating back to the early 90s- ever so beautiful mama bear seen hugging her two little babies, my sister and I. On her lap sits the apple of her eye ,’Zulfi’ , our pet dog, back then a frisky little Pomeranian pup. I can’t help but stare at it-a river of emotions outpour of longing. So, I decide to pen down this paean in the memory of Zulfi. He entered the portals of our home as a spirited pup. Although he belonged to my sister, it was papa dear who took him to the vet for all his shots and ailments. But, he adopted my mother as his master. He was as human a dog as I’ve ever known and he shared all our moments of laughter as he did our troubles. He was a little bundle of joy; you could cuddle him to death! During the baking summer months he would wail like a toddler, ‘boo oo oo ooo’ to be with my parents in their air conditioned room. Often at night, he would mischievously tip-toe to the master bedroom and sniff into papa’s ears to make room for him on the bed. He always obliged much to my mother’s protest.

He was a communicator extraordinaire, he spoke with his eyes. We would sit and talk to him. He shared our top secrets. I would often reprimand for ‘socially unacceptable behavior’ and a ‘clear lack of etiquette’ as mama’s constitution read. Zulfi would find me sobbing under my bed, sniff soothingly, and officially lodge his protest until my parents made up to me with pudding or ice-cream. Being my partner in crime, I always shared my dessert with him.

He would wake up at the crack of dawn, impatient for his morning walks. He whimpered and quivered with excitement for his breakfast. After having his fill, he would make a dash for the master bedroom with the day’s newspapers in the wooden basket for papa. I vividly recall papa sitting cross-legged, head dug deep in a mountain of files. He would often look at Zulfi seeking answers and recommendations. In return, Zulfi would supportively look at papa, ‘Yes! Sign it’ his eyes would say, reassuring him of his decisions. Who said dogs weren’t smart enough to offer policy advice?

He developed the most special bond with my mother, probably owing to the fact that he spent most of the day with my mother. Like most dogs, Zulfi too, has a sixth sense. Ten minutes before the clock struck five he would dash for the gate, eagerly waiting for papa and greet him as he alighted from his Ambassador. Then, he would join all of us for a game of football or cricket.

Zulfi aged with poise and grace. There were nights when we would all be up, caressing his forehead and comforting him. After all, he was twelve years old. My father had to proceed to the United States for a year to study. This meant leaving Zulfi behind with our domestic help .It was a tough call. One cold wintery night, papa received the dreaded call. He mustered all he courage he had and said, ‘Zulfi passed away peacefully’. The poignancy was hard to miss. Oh! The world came crashing at our feet. Mama wailed, for she had lost her baby. It was a bleeding pity and a crying shame that we weren’t with him when he breathed his last. We never ate food that day. After all, we lost our friend, our soul-mate, our companion.

Jaipur-through the lens of Tikam Chand’s camera

In the midst of the Johari bazaar in the royal city of old Jaipur in the royal state of Rajasthan in western India, a tiny group of khaki-clad, pot-bellied, weather-beaten policemen shout of top of their voices in a colloquial  Marwari dialect, fretfully whistle and wave their battered lathis , trying hard, albeit unsuccessfully to keep the chaotic traffic moving. Swanky SUVs with ear-pierced, solitaire studded Marwari blokes’ manuvoure at the wheel, horns blare, the milkman tinkles his petite bicycle bell, a group of burqa clad women wait for the traffic to ease, uncomplainingly wait in one corner. They artistically and rather skillfully lift a side of the laced-veils only to reveal their luscious stained lips and spit out tobacco spraying the wall in hues of crimson and pink.

Our taxi driver manages to get through the Sanganeri Gate, a real bottle-block. We get off near the Hanuman temple and merrily walk along the freshly painted salmon pink coloured street. A skinny, almost emaciated young boy with a missing limb in tattered threadbare cloth sits with a begging bowl-the sorrow and pain on his face makes you want to shake your fist at destiny. Zealous vendors push rickety, shabby carts laden with scrumptious looking local street food, kulfis and ice-cream cones packed in earthen barrels. A group of men help themselves to some delicious looking papri chaat served on dried banyan leaf plates. I can’t help but drool-all in vain. A group of foreign tourists, presumably Americans, look aghast and stand appalled by the clear absence of adequate sanitation and are almost horrified spotting the swarm of houseflies over pyramids of delectable jalebis and other Indian sweets.

A fledgling, amateur tourist like me who comes looking for the magnificent Hawa Mahal will leave flustered at the unkempt, dilapidated state of the area’s many historic buildings and the chaos! But, the preserving Indian in me refuses to give up. And So, I tread along with my friends on step at a time in the august company of handcrafted puppets dancing with the breeze, leharia and bandhej veils fluttering in their entire splendid colour.

The iconic Hawa Mahal and the Johari bazaar are quite a catch for all tourists visiting the pink city. And while walking on that stretch you are more than likely to bump into Tikam Chand and his brother, Surender along with their era old camera which probably took its first snap around the time former American President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. Do the math!

Tikam Chand, the proud owner of this antique treasure jumps to declare its authenticity, “ It’s an 1860 Carl Zeiss camera manufactured in Germany. The only piece of its kind left in the whole world.” He announces with an ear-to-ear smile. It’s been clicking and snapping portraits for centuries, much of it on the shabby street of Jaipur sidewalk adjacent to the maharaja’s town hall. It was first used by their grandfather-‘Pahari master’-the royal photographer to the Maharaja of Jaipur in the 19^th century, and then by their father and now for the past four decades by them.

As popular legend has it, Chand’s grandfather, ‘Pahari Master’ was a philanthropist, social worker and a charity donor. He also had a passion and an unwavering enthusiasm for photography. He often used to visit the Maharaja’s museum to keenly observe the various cameras on display. Chand claims that his grandfather was on friendly terms with the British and one fine day, he revealed his extraordinaire shutterbug skills to an official, who informed someone at the Royal Palace. Like all fables, this one gets a little fictional and dramatic. Cut to chase, the end result is that “Pahari Master” received this camera as a present, bakshish, from the royal family!

Today, this 150-year old camera is precariously perched atop a rather dainty looking fine mahogany wooden tripod, with an inbuilt dark-room attached at the back of the camera, wrapped in tattered, filthy, aged black leather.

This camera has been a huge support system for Tikam Chand and his family. The sibling duo earns a livelihood by charging a meager 200 rupees for each sepia-toned portrait. It comes as no surprise, that a petite image of lord Krishna has been sheltered safely in the dark room-to bless his profession ,pictures and profits, I believe.

As in indulge in a fascinating tête-à-tête with Chand, his brother asks one of us to sit on a makeshift wooden bench placed before the camera. I nudge and ask my friend, Rishabh to take the plunge and he willingly does so. I stand back and observe, a little amused. He then adjusts the focus, with calibrated precision, nothing less than that of a surgeon, by repeatedly sliding the lens back and forth while one of his hands is inside the wooden box. Taking the portrait with this vintage beast involves nothing as monotonous as clicking a button. Instead, Surender scoots a little, carefully removes the fragile lens cap for a split second and enthusiastically shouts, “Aye! Ready!” and instantly shuts it after a fraction of a second to allow the sunlight to hit the lens. My friend heaves a sigh of relief-who thought freezing for a portrait was easy business. If this sounds multifarious and complex-there’s more! The entire procedure has only produced a negative, which is then dipped in a tiny bucket full of murky water- almost like a magic potion. Like a magician, his fingers move in perfect symphony-he repeats the entire process to produce a positive image. Abracadabra! After all that handwork, we are presented with our custom-made , bespoke portraits.

When I say he’s nothing less than a magician, take my word for it. All his calculations are by instinct. What’s more? He also does sepia effects, by rubbing special chemicals he can darken your hair or moustache. He’d give the creators of Photoshop a run for their money.

As the sun stages its exit, it gets a bit chilly and so we decide to bid farewell. We politely request for a group photograph with the man himself and his camera. He’s more than willing to oblige. He stares at our chic digital SLR camera with amusement and delight. “In this digital era, photography has brought stupendous revolution in the way we click photographs. Sadly, what is distressing is that these cameras are being neglected.” The poignancy and melancholy in his voice is hard to miss.

I pen down this paean as a tribute to Tikam Chand, his 1860 Carl Zeiss Camera and most importantly, his passion for capturing moments and people. I am forced to believe that his photograph is much more than just a snap. It’s an experience- you have to see it, to believe it!

Confessions of a Tea-Lover!

Ah! Well its official- mighty winter has arrived-and with a bang! Although, I love autumn and spring seasons as well- cheerful cadence and warm days. But, hey! I am true-blue scorpion and so I enjoy when the days shorten, the perfect sleeping weather arrives, I get to pull out my favorite pair of corduroys, turtle neck sweaters and mufflers. Wait am I missing something here? Oh yes! Winter is also the season to bring out the quintessential tea kettle. Personally, I drink hot tea all year round, but I find it particularly alluring and soothing once the delightful winters set in and along with that the mellow sunshine.

As a tiny tot, my mother introduced me to the joys of a great cuppa. She hails from an aristocratic ‘Chiefs of Punjab’ Sikh family where a cuppa finely brewed Darjeeling is taken very seriously! So much so, she inherited an 18^th century custom-made pure silver tea-set and an emerald studded strainer from her grandmother as a part of her wedding trousseau. It’s something she treasures till today.

My mother is a tea connoisseur, a borderline fanatic.  In our family we could choose from orange pekoe tea, first flush Darjeeling, Early grey breakfast et all with either milk and sugar or with fresh lemon and honey. A fine art, tea drinking is one of the most typical, and it requires a highly trained mind, a pedigree, oodles of finesse as well as a vigorous palate to appreciate it to the full. Sadly, people dub it as nothing but a “British Hangover” or something elitist but I guess, there are something’s money can’t buy.

The trick is to infuse the tea-leaves in the purest spring water which has been brought just up to the boil, but not beyond it. Serve it in petite porcelain cups and saucers, beautiful in themselves and of subtle colours or floral prints, that it will enhance the natural beauty of the tea. The key is to appreciate the colour first, followed by the scent and ultimately the flavour. Empty the mind of all its burdens and troubles and give it over entirely to the enjoyment and soothing action of the tea. Take it into the mouth while still piping hot and allow it to trickle slowly down the throat, rolling it with the tongue the while. Pause between each tiny cupful and meditate upon the delight it has given you and, as a warm glow suffuses your being, give yourself up to the tranquility and quiet contentment that it brings.

The most wonderful thing about tea is not only does it taste great, but now we are discovering how good it is for our health. Green tea is rich in a compound that blocks a particular enzyme needed in the digestion of starchy foods.  If you drink the recommended amount of green tea while eating a meal or snack high in starches, your blood sugar will only increase by 50% of its normal rise. Amazing, isn’t it?

How can I forget, we’re all Punjabis at heart, and winters will never be complete without the good ol’ fragrant ginger-cardamom chai with extra sugar in an earthen Kasora. So now that foggy mornings beckon, it’s time you get your kettle, some of your favorite tea-cups and tea out, and warm up your insides while treating yourself to a warm cup of tea. It’s a lovely way to usher in the ‘contemplative season’, a time to mirror back over the happenings of the year gone by and nestle in while dreaming of the times ahead.

So, what’s brewing in your cup?

Mirror, Mirror! on the the wall!

Immodesty apart, I can surely say that my mother is an extraordinarily pretty looking woman. (God bless her genes!) Like all women, she too, stands guilty as charged for spending way too of much time with her soul-mate- yes, the mirror! My father often cribs when she spends hours caressing her long tresses, or smearing pancake on her face and what not before the mirror. 25 years into their marriage, I guess they’ve peacefully negotiated and reached an arrangement where my father keeps mumma in the loop of all socialite evenings, musical soirees, theatrical events and official dinners, well in-advance. But, women will be women! Mumma dear cares too hoots of what her hubby has to say, so till date, at the last moment before leaving for any event, with calibrated precision she sets out to straighten the pleats of her 9-yard crimson Benarasi saree or apply that last touch of subtle pink rouse on her cheeks. Men can go to hell! At the end of it, she’s always dressed to kill, she blinks her kohl-smeared eyes and triumphantly announces, ‘I’m ready! Let’s go, honey!’

Being an economist, I always go back to data and numbers. If we are to go by statistical evidence, the average woman spends an hour a day in front of the mirror. That is roughly, two weeks a year! The earliest evidence of mirrors being used by humans goes back to 600BC in Greece. The earliest form of mirror was water or any other liquid in a container for one to see his or her reflection and do the hair or put on make-up. They weren’t moveable. The Galvanised mirror entered the scene much later when the German chemist Justus Liebig invented it in 1835. The mirror, other than the fine-cut diamond or the Burmese ruby perhaps, has been any woman’s best friend.

Literature too, has emphasized the significance of a mirror in a woman’s life. Remember that fairytale, “Snow White and the seven dwarfs” where every morning, the queen asked the Magic Mirror the question “Magic mirror in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?”. The mirror always replies: “My Queen, you are the fairest in the land.”

All women, from young 4-year old girls to 90-year old grandmas, leisurely look into the mirror before stepping out of the house. They get so engrossed while putting on make-up or adjusting her hair that they often forget about the world around them! I secretly like to believe, that women even talk and engage in fascinating tête-à-tête’s with their mirrors or rather her own image, her doppelganger, asking questions and seeking answers in perception of her own beauty.

The misanthropist in me often wonders, if only our eyes saw souls instead of just physical attributes how very different our ideals of beauty would be. Like my mother always reiterates, it’s the inner beauty that never needs any make-up. How true! The best part of beauty is which no image can reveal, it’s an enigma and the world’s a mirror for glass mirrors too, sometimes lie.  As the celebrated Lebanese poet, Khalil Gibran says, “Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.”

Sweet Spirals of Goodness!

Now that October is here, can revelry and merriment be far behind? The other day as I was walking back home from the university I found myself slightly distracted. My olfactory lobes were up to some mischief.  I decided to take a detour and I found myself sauntering around a row of shabby sweet-meat shops. It was relatively calm and nondescript. The sweet shop was doing brisk business in samosas, barfis, cholle bhature et all. A vendor firing up his pan, but nothing to suggest I was in the presence of culinary greatness. My hurried observation was , however, flawed.

I reckon, merely watching a halwai, piping out loops and curls of Jalebis mechanically one after another in a wok full of hot, sizzling oil, is perhaps one of the most enthralling sights that behold the human eye ever. It’s like a live magic show, scrutinizing the wrinkling of the curls of jalebi coming into shape-is indeed magnetic.  The Jalebi- sugary gastronomic sin swimming graciously in a lake of syrup is the kind of food to crave for and get misty-eyed over. It’s heart-stoppingly good-quite literally-given the amount of ghee we’re talking!

It had been quite some time since the ‘Big J’- had entered the portals of my home.  It’s not that my parents don’t possess a sweet-tooth but because they are that stage of middle-age egotism where additional kilograms here and there around the midriff spell danger. But, that shouldn’t keep me away from gorging on those lovely golden squiggly loops of wholesome goodness! And so I gobble a dozen in one sitting, savouring each twirl one by one and soaking in the mellow sunshine -I know, I know guilty as charged!

The Jalebi is actually an Arabian confectionary item that was first document in an Iranian food memoir in the 13^th century. In Iran, it is known by the name of, ‘Zoolabiya’, and the sweet is essentially prepared and distributed to the poor and needy during the holy month of Ramzan. In India, the delicate rose-scented and exquisite warq-coated jalebi is made from a batter of urad dal, wheat and yoghurt. A bit of online research tells me, that it was first called, ‘Kundalika’ and later ‘Jal Vallika’ which eventually metamorphosised into what we call it today as-jalebi!

The Jalebi is perhaps, one confectionary item, which probably does not indigenously belong to us but is an integral part of our cultural ethos and our most iconic mithai. It symbolizes festivity, happiness, good cheer and everything in between. It cuts across societal layers, income disparities and religious divides. Indian celebrations can never ever be complete without jalebis.

Now that Diwali beckons, Kuch Meetha Hojaye? Keep calm and eat jalebis!