travel

Ugadi

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We were in a small coffee-growing village of Karnataka, South India earlier this month. We were invited out for breakfast, lunch and dinner on the 9th of April. It was a special festival for the locals, first day of the new year as per the Hindu calendar.

The ladies were wearing crisp bright new silk sarees and strings of white and orange flowers in their hair. The ground just outside the front entrance of each home was decorated with a colourful geometric pattern made of white rice flour and colourful flower petals, to welcome guests and Gods into their homes. All the doorways had a string of auspicious green mango leaves strung across the top as they drive away negative vibes and infuse a positive energy into the environment.  

As always, food was a big part of the festivities. As soon as we sat down at the table, a fine wheat chapatti stuffed with a thin layer of jaggery was placed on our plate, rich with the warm fragrance of cardamom. A big spoon of homemade ghee was poured on top of it. I was transported back to when my grandmother made these for me when I was five and we were oblivious of the existence of such things as calories.

Then came a small bowl of yellowish powder, called Pachadi. I had never seen it before. Our hostess picked up some of it in the tip of a teaspoon and placed it in my right palm. It was to be taken just like that. Dry. I did as I was told and was perplexed by the taste, which was a mish-mash of this and that. After a moment of utter confusion, I had to wash it down with water and ask what it was. The gentle hostess explained that it was a mixture of Neem flowers, chilli powder, tamarind, raw mango, jaggery and salt.  But why? I asked. It’s not very nice.

It reflects the various facets of life she said – Bitter. Pungent. Sour. Astringent. Sweet and salty. Ugadi signifies leaving the past behind and embracing the beginning of a new phase in life with a positive frame of mind, knowing all these facets exist and always will. Happy Ugadi.

Mum’s village

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The southernmost beach on the coast of Goa is also its most pristine. Galgibaga. The other name for it is Turtle beach, home to a vulnerable species of turtle, the olive ridley. I get that the first part of their name comes from the colour of their shell, which is olive. No idea where the ‘ridley’ comes from. Well…

Approaching the date of delivery of eggs, usually in November,  the female of the species returns to the spot where she herself hatched. Mum’s home, I guess. Mass-nestings are common. Mum’s village, I guess. Sisters and cousins, all coming home to have their babies.  They bury their eggs one and a half feet under the sand. After about two months, the hatchlings have to risk crossing a hazardous beach before they reach the safety of the sea. As they scoot across, predators such as crabs, eagles, dogs and the like nab them. To enhance their dwindling numbers, local conservationists and NGOs now place safety nets around the area where the eggs are buried, discourage dogs from getting close and facilitate the safe transit of baby turtles from land to sea.

No bars, restaurants, casinos, or beach huts are allowed on this white sandy stretch. No loud music. No big car parks, hence humans have to make an effort to get here. So, despite its immense beauty, there is no noise.

Two kilometres along a little road curving inland from this beach is our temporary abode, surrounded by birds and a green canopy of tall trees. Everyone seems to know everyone here. There are no beggars or homeless people. I need never worry about my unlocked bicycle parked outside. It’s safe. Coconuts, big banana trees, pepper vines and baby-mangoes are within an arm’s length of our windows and balconies. A small bus, a car or a scooter may pass by noticeably at long gaps. The distinct calls of the fisher-woman and the bread-man, I can now recognise.  

My return to the land where I hatched and gave birth decades ago. Overlapping cycles of life. Circles, like bubbles being blown to the sky at dusk, capturing all the colours. Merging. Dancing. Bursting.

Simple joys.

Ode to London.

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“I wouldn’t choose to live here. It’s good for a visit. A change.”

As a tourist in London, that was my opinion in 2005. Less than a year later a job offer I couldn’t turn down meant we moved to London with our bags and belongings. The move from the capital of Northern Ireland to the capital of England was a huge culture shock. The sights and sounds of Belfast, a place we had come to feel at home in, were peaceful and serene compared to the chaotic juddering of London.

We relocated, rented for a year before buying. Our home was five miles south of London Bridge and we lived there for 17 years. Saagar lived there for eight, two of which he spent at Uni. We got past our initial anxieties about the cost of living etc. and came to love the buzz, the cultural richness and the stimulating challenges of living in this crazy noisy place.

For the past couple of years, we have wanted to live simply. Last year we returned to India for a few months to winter here in response to the extra attention our respective bones and bodies were demanding from us. We made a home in rural Goa, albeit temporary. Yes. This is serene and peaceful. Yes. Time is plentiful here and the tropical languor is endearing. Yes. The Arabian sea is warm and its breeze soothing. I am utterly grateful for all of that but we find it’s not simple to create simplicity. This place is lovely but it is entirely non-London and I dearly miss that home five miles south of the centre. I miss our cat, our plants, our neighbours (some). I miss my girl-friends and work-colleagues, posh cafés and French restaurants, a quiet walk through West Norwood Cemetery and a stopover at the Tate while along the Thames, a routine, a purpose. I never thought I’d say this but sometimes I even miss people watching on my morning commute to work. I miss being around folks who knew Saagar and spoke of him, people who loved him. 

A friend, Dr Michael Duncan who is a Consultant colleague and a poet, shares the same love of this city in his recent poem.

A Masterpiece of a City

You don’t need an Acropolis
To be the foremost Metropolis
I would need a paragraph
To just describe the Cenotaph
It’s prominent and sleek
And take a look in
To the Arches of Marble
Or the Marbles of Elgin
Pleasing, unless you are Greek
And while that is a pity
It’s still a masterpiece of a City

A mystery of a city
The extremes of iniquity
But the best of the humanities
All Side by side
Diversity is most alive
Within the M25
From Harrow to Bexley
In this Masterpiece of a City

London imperturbe,
Caressing the Thames
And the bends that it lends
I searched the world
And found the world here
My Sentiments for Ealing
Are Morden a feeling
The Thames is greater than the Liffey
A masterpiece of a city

Parakeets, they were transplanted
And brilliantly adapted
And The foxes of Camden
Though residents might damn them
And The foxes of Tooting
Raiding and looting
It’s mammalian diversity
In this masterpiece of a City

And if you should seek something greater
Then enter the chambers
Of the Western Minster
Ministering and dithering
Perfecting their duplicity
Are the master debaters

A masterpiece of a city
It has no Ulysses written about it
But if you take a Peyp
There is potential for one
Thy will be done
The masterpiece, is London.

I fold.

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My latest love is folding. The act of arranging a piece of paper or cloth in a way that it occupies less space and looks neat. Layering one part of it on top of another to make it compact. Apparently, molecules, tents, parachutes, rocks and beds fold too. But I am more inclined towards an un-stitched piece of material. Bed sheets and towels are my favourites but I don’t mind table-covers, handkerchiefs and face-towels.

Firstly, it’s the subtle fragrance of moist lavender fabric conditioner, still fresh from the wash. When I open my arms out wide to hold the margins, the top edge rises right up to my nose and the aroma gets right inside my head. Exhilarated by that, my fingertips follow the margins to find the corners. Sometimes the rim curls up on itself and needs to be straightened, patted back repeatedly on a flat surface. The corner often falls to the floor and it takes a deep forward bend to lift it up. These are the in-built stretching advantages for the upper and lower body.

The corresponding corners are brought together and the first large fold created which gets progressively smaller with every corner alignment, until I have a beautiful stack-able rectangle in my hands, ready to land on its shelf in the airing cup-board along with and on top of its contemporaries in white, blue, orange and green. If dried on a clothes-line, it doesn’t need ironing. That’s the energy saving advantage.

Folding a sari is an art-form. I learnt it from my mother. Here, the mouth and teeth assume an active role. The sari is an un-tailored stretch, at least six yards long and about forty-two inches wide. Before anything I need to ensure that I have a bed nearby so that I can lay the length of the material there while I work on the edges and corners. After figuring out which horizontal edge is up and which surface goes on the outside, I start from the top left corner. The rest of the routine has to be witnessed to be believed but it’s the middle point on the top edge of the sari that has been folded twice over that is held between the incisors for a short time. The silk ones have a habit of going all askew if not held and laid perfectly and lovingly flat. A real treat for the hands and arms.

Oh. The satisfaction. I wish all the ruffles and crinkles of the world could be folded neatly away and patted out with warm hands.

Yesterday I found myself putting away a pashmina that I had used once since it was dry-cleaned. In default mode, I was making the folds along the same lines, in the same direction as the dry-cleaner had done. It was strangely pleasurable and worrying.

Wonder where this new love of mine will take me.

For no reason at all.

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Andretta is a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas. It has been calling to us for the past five years. We’ve been working towards becoming able to take it up on its invitation and finally, we are here.

I return to my country, a stranger. I am not that young lady who left and this land is different from what it was when she left twenty-three years ago. It is noisier, busier and dirtier. People and houses everywhere. The national highways used to run through wide expanses of green and yellow fields but now they are lined with messy shops, workshops and warehouses. Overweight people used to be a rarity but now obesity is commonplace, even in kids and village folk. The forests are thinner and the weather full of surprises. The number of extreme rain events has risen three-fold since the beginning of the last century, possibly due to a warmer Arabian Sea.

It was in the last century that I ventured abroad. The dreams that lived in my eyes then, are a mere story now. Those dreams had to be dashed, so I could wake up. My heart had to be shattered before it could learn to be full. I had to be completely humiliated, before I could be truly humble.

Maybe it was necessary.

Fifty-four days ago, my father walked into a hospital for an operation that he believed would improve his quality of life. He has been unable to leave his hospital bed since. Every time I turn from one side to another in my sleep, I am aware that my father can’t do that. He needs help with nearly every activity of life. He’s aware of his predicament and we all are helpless. This helplessness is an old friend from a few years back. Looking back, it might have been better if he’d not had the operation but we don’t know for sure and it’s too late now. It could be worse. I could be better. It could be different.

I wonder why things happen as and when they do? Is this a question worth asking or is it completely pointless? Some questions are unanswerable no matter how frantically the logical mind looks for answers. There are none.

This is how it is. For no reason at all.