A journey so enlightening!

The giant clock outside the station showed 8:45PM, which meant my train would leave in next 15 minutes and I had to buckle up. Though my luggage included only a laptop bag and I have a clean tar-free lung, running always makes me breathless.  Panting and gasping for breath, I finally made it to the platform and darted towards the sleeper coach I had a reservation in. I was lucky enough to board the train just 2 minutes before it blew the horn.

Unlike amorous dreams of having a young debonair gentleman as company, I always have the fate of ending up with three categories of people. First, large boisterous families who feel it their birth right to talk at the top of their voice, caring little for fellow passengers, followed by army men who turn into gapeseeds, ogling hungrily throughout the journey.  And the third category is usually reserved for lecherous uncles with mid-life crisis, whose uncomfortable stares make their voyeuristic intentions palpably transparent. My current encounter entails brush with coxcombs of the third category who have absolutely no qualms about betraying their prowess of being complete perverts or their extinct knowledge of general awareness.

I finally made it to the seat and upon placing the luggage dialled the phone number of my ‘worried’ boyfriend who did not want to waste his time, energy or money in purchasing a platform ticket to see me off but was very keen on learning if I had reached safe. Amid an animated conversation of my solo struggle to catch the train over the phone, my eyes caught the attention of three men, perhaps in their late 50s, gawking at me. One of them hinted at his desire of wanting to strike a conversation, which I casually ignored. After making three calls back to back when I finally disconnected and started enjoying the trails of lights of the distant factories my train crossed, one of the three finally came up and asked, “Would you mind exchanging your Upper Berth with my Middle?” I courteously denied citing safety issues and started checking messages on my cell phone. Almost half an hour passed and I could sense their restlessness of learning of my whereabouts. My patience had nearly given way of their stealing glances and I decided to excuse myself to the Upper Berth. My mental calculation was again interrupted by the same man. However, this time his question not only showed keen interest in knowing me but his and his fellow companion’s pathetic general knowledge.

Just as I got up to climb to my seat one of them questioned, “Are you from Nepal?” ( A question I frequently come across in my own country owing to my Mongoloid features) I looked at him for a while and blatantly answered, “No, I am from Bhopal.” Of course this was too trivial an answer to quench their irrepressible hunger of digging out more about me, for reasons I just couldn’t fathom! My fellow companion made it quite clear with his statement followed by another question that he wouldn’t let go off me unless his enquiries were put to rest.  “You don’t look like you are from Bhopal. (Obviously people of Bhopal have big eyes that like ogling; very long nose that they enjoy poking into other’s business and of course a large mouth that cannot stop from asking stupid question. By this standard I surely did not fit the bills. ) Where do you stay in Bhopal?” I had decided to answer one last question and so I replied bluntly, “I am from Assam, living in Bhopal for some time.” With these words I jumped into the berth and snuggled into the warmth of my tiny red blanket.

However, failing to catch sleep in the rowdy milieu, I was compelled to pay an ear to their discussion, one that could send any North Eastern into hysteria. The discussion that unfolded was, “Dekha maine kaha tha Nepal ki nahin hai, Assam ki hai who aur Assam Tripura mein hain,” said one of the three buffoons. Another one was fast enough to correct him impromptu. He showed his brilliant knowledge and said, “Arrey nahin, Assam Tripura mein nahin, Sikkim mein hai. Waha Darjeeling se jaana padta hai aur wahan ke log Manipuri bolte hai!!”

Well, this was my saturation point, I guess. Eavesdropping into the conversation of such ‘enlightened virtuoso’ could be detrimental for my sanity, I decided. So, wasting no more time I plugged the earphones, hibernated into the blanket and dozed off for the night. Thankfully it was an overnight journey and by the time I woke up the train had already made it to the destination, leaving no room for any further discussion! 

The maiden Travelogue

Sandakphu-Gurdum: Coup de Foudre with Eastern Himalaya

Somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery why we climb. 

- Greg Child

The Sleeping Buddha

Mountains never warmed me in particular. I could credit this antipathy to my upbringing at a place surrounded by hills on either side or the very fact that I get easily bored of the lack of activities on the mammoth structures. I always considered myself more of a sea person and realized it was the turquoise water and clear azure sky overhead that I enjoyed more than the snow-caps and lush greenery. However, this was a notion I fostered only until I dated the scintillating Eastern Himalayas.

Stretches of dense forest of magnolias, spruce, 600 varieties of orchid, 4 types of bamboos, neat rows of rhododendrons in myriad hues, unpredictable whimsical weather, chilled wind and enveloping all these, the 180 degree panoramic view of the majestic snow-capped range of the Eastern Himalayas with four of the highest peaks of the world- Mt. Everest, Kanchendijunga, Lhotse and Makalu-peering through the wild jungles of soaring pine trees. There is hardly a reason adventure freaks would not like to explore and trek through the Singalila range, summiting at Sandakphu, the highest peak of West Bengal. Sandakphu, a small village parked within the Singalila National Park is located at a height of 3,636 metres. With its wide spectrum of all the peaks of the dazzling Himalayan ranges, this lesser-known trekker’s paradise has started garnering attention of travellers from across the globe, who come here to witness the breath-taking monument carved immaculately by nature. The word Sandakphu is derived etymologically from ‘Sandak’ which means cold and ‘Phu’ which means wind in the Nepali dialect. Apart from its jaw-dropping beauty, the place is equally recognized for its erratic and biting wind straight from the Himalayas that travels at 60-175kmph.

Here's to the gang of 27!

The idea of trekking through the wild was conjured by a group of 8 ‘adventurous’ individuals of which only three of us finally braved it to the end. We started off the five-day track of 57kms on January 3 with a group of 27 young adventure freaks under a nationalised organisation. After a small customary ritual of sending off the trekkers with applaud, we were transferred by jeeps to our first halt, Maanebhajang, for our packed lunch and thereafter sent to Dhotrey, a small village covered with smog, which marked the starting of the arduous journey. Excited and a little nervous, all the trekkers set off on an enthusiastic and energetic mode which was brilliantly turned off within the first couple of hours, courtesy, the unpredictable and inclement weather and baggage of extremely heavy backpacks. A walk of close to 3 hours opened up in a meadow replete in plush greenery. It was there that the first dreamlike sight of the Kanchendijunga, basking in the sunrays, greeted us cordially. However, without having much time to spare complimenting the colossal beauty, we started off for the spot we needed to halt for lunch. Statutory warning to all first time trekkers: the journey post lunch is way more painful.

The jungles of Dhotre

After close to 6 hours of walk stretched across 7kms, we reached our first camp, a small hamlet Tumling, on the Indo-Nepal border. Stay at a Nepali village, receiving text messages from network providers of Nepal, experiencing first camp fire (albeit only symbolic), tiny wooden rooms and scrumptious Nepali cuisines were all that was required. However, the piece de resistance of Tumling remained the enchanting feel of spending a night above the clouds (quite literally) and the awe-inspiring view of the Sleeping Buddha or Sleeping Shiva, the illusionary image created by the entire range of the Eastern Himalayas. One of the countless best things of trekking is, bond with the rest of the world is snapped temporarily while that small coterie of adventurers becomes part of an extended family. Quite obvious, the first day of the camp was the most stirring with everyone getting to know each other through camp fire and over a mouth-watering dinner of rice, dal, potato fry and egg curry.

Sunset at Tumling

After nearly 16hours of rest we set off for the second day’s voyage that required wayfaring through 14 kms. The first break of the second day was at another small hamlet in Nepal called Joubari. The journey henceforth was fairly tough and hazardous as there were chances of slipping on ‘Bhaar Glass’, stones that get covered with transparent layer of ice but are not visible to the eyes. The road meandering through several hills and partially covered with snow led us into a small village called Gairibash that also had a small military set-up. The next 2 hours of journey made us climb one of the toughest terrains of the trek. The rugged hill with uneven stones made the ascend complex and tiring. Following some dedicated struggle our little troop reached the lunch halt for the day, Kainyakata. The packed lunch of Tibetian bread was all that we could pine for. Having crossed a challenging path we expected the journey to be a cakewalk henceforth. However, I would consider the 3km walk from Kainyakata to Kalipokhri the most painstaking. 

Temperature close to 0, sights blocked by the chilling fog and each turn leading to a slew of endless turn made this part of the voyage absolutely irksome. We reached Kalipokhri, the base camp of the second day around 3 in the afternoon after close to 7 hours of trek. Kalipokhri gets its name from a small pond with black water, considered sacred. If given a choice, it is this junction that I would consider the best in the five-day trip. For post dinner we witnessed something that could aptly be described as miss-and-blink odyssey to Paradise! With hardly any streak of light in the atmosphere atop the hill, the zillion of stars overhead seemed at stone’s throw distance from us. Enveloping the dark environ was the thick canopy of stars that covered Kalipokhri like a blanket. It was this overwhelming feeling of being on the top of the world that made us brave -7 degree with élan.

The black lake at Kalipokhri that does not freeze

The fourth day of the trek was a mere 3 km uphill to our summit camp Sandakphu. Sandakphu being clearly visible from Kalipokhri made us assume the distance would be a rather short one to be covered within a couple of hours and for once at least, we were accurate in our presumption. A combination of easy and difficult treks, umpteen shortcuts and undeterred help from fellow trekkers made us accomplish this part of the journey in 3.5 hours. Let me not forget mentioning, the route to this summit camp also made us come across acres of aconide plantation, a tiny red berry used as a potent anti-ageing component but considered greatly toxic. It was almost noon when we reached Sandakphu.

Scaling 3,636 metres

After a serving of hot soup some of us dared to scale the highest point of the place, exact 3,636 metres above sea level. Though a tough climb and descend, the pristine view of the celestial Himalayas floating above the clouds was worth facing the vagaries of nature. The sight witnessed from the peak had rendered all of us laconic. The stay at the summit camp is perhaps the most difficult, especially for people who aren’t used to extreme weather. The temperature recorded -12 degree while that inside the two-storied wooden guest house recorded -6 degree. It was undoubtedly the most trying night of the entire itinerary. However, as the adage goes, the darkest hour of the night comes before day break; the tough night did make way to the most beautiful sun rise of our lives. It was only the dreary bed of clouds at first. Eventually the contours started getting filled resplendently with the seven colours of VIBGYOR and then suddenly an orange ball popped up from under the clouds. It took us sometime to realise it was the callous sun that we often curse. Sun rise at Sandakphu should be on top priority on the bucket list of all adventure freaks.

The Heavenly sunrise at Sandakphu

The journey until now involved extensive uphill climb. However, the fourth day of the journey was all about descending, climbing almost 15 kms downhill. Unarguably this part of the trek programme was very exciting as we passed through dense forests, heard whistles of wind through the copious bamboo growth of different shades and sizes, crossed several water bodies and finally felt less chilly wind on our skin. However, it was a test of our limbs and all of us had turned into momentary Achilles with horribly weak heals by the time we reached our base camp Gurdum. Another worth-mentioning sight of this day’s trek was coming across a forest of burnt trees. The beauty veiled under the eeriness of the burnt trees was very well dichotomised. At Gurdum we were welcomed to a beautiful green wooden house encompassed by towering hills in every direction and a small garden. The accommodation provided here can be considered the best of the five-day journey. Good food in abundance and a decent cold made the stay delightful and pleasant.

When an entire forest catches fire, all that remains is charred trees!

The last day of the programme entailed another downhill climb and wandering through several verdant growths, a dilapidated hanging bridge with a stream flowing underneath and a couple of tiny waterfalls. All these led us to the lunch destination, a place called Sirikhola. This place has a small hotel that can literally be called ‘placed in the lap of nature’. Surrounded by hills and waterfalls, Sirikhola is ideal for people who wish to get away from the cacophony of city life and enjoy a few days in peace and serenity. The small stream facing the hotel gave all the photographers of the group stir their shutterbugs from their slumbers. While it was about clicking the opulence of Mother Nature all the time, this place gave everybody (read female trekkers) the perfect reason to arrest themselves with pouted selfies. 

The vintage hanging bride at Sirikhola

After a halt of an hour or so the final leg of the journey began, a 2.5 hour walk to Rimbick, a small town of West Bengal. We were lucky enough to enter the place on their ‘haat’ day and thus were welcomed into a market teeming with people. Witnessing so many people after almost five days and the articulated discussions between the enthusiastic sellers and not-ready-to-give-up-on-their bargain made the walk through the market utterly intriguing. Sauntering through the busy streets we reached our last accommodation. Although Rimbick is more celebrated for its Dragon cups; China cups with dragons carved on them, often purchased as souvenirs, what we carried along as keepsakes were the mouth-watering flavours of two new edibles we had luckily got to lay our eyes on –Thaifu and Phalet. Thaifu is dumpling of gigantic size served with both chicken and vegetable filling and phalet is like a ‘parantha’ with chicken filling.

'Stream' of consciousness 

The last day of camp fire was thoroughly entertaining with each fellow trekker sharing interesting anecdotes from their lives and previous trekking experiences. It concluded with the valedictory ceremony of handling a certificate and memento to all the trekkers on completion of their journey and the ‘Grand’ dinner. Officially it was also our last day together and so most decided to spend the night gossiping away or bonding over a game of cards.

Early on 8^th January we boarded the cabs for the final ride, winding the lifetime experience of five-days tucked in a corner of the world, away from the world. A small ride of nearly two and half hour brought us back to Darjeeling, the place we had started from, making the trip come a full circle. Following the customary goodbyes and exchanging of numbers we finally parted ways promising to bump into each other’s backpacks somewhere in some distant land!

Getting friendly with the mountains, surviving on limited food and water, picking up the art of staying without a shower for days, ditching all norms of urban living and going wild, experiencing the capricious character of Mother nature, making new friends and living up to the norms of friendship and above all, knitting a cognitive tapestry of the wonderful memories of ‘those five day’; 

Truly, it is only between the climb and summit that we found answer to the mystery of why we climb…

Yeh hai Bhopal meri jaan

Maana ki bohot shokh hai Nepal ke log

Sach hai ki bohot khoob hai Bangaal ke log

duniya ko khangala to ye maloom hua

bemisaal zamaane me hain Bhopal ke log

The best way to feel the pulse of a city is to learn about its people and their ways of life. This ‘rubai’ (poetic genre of two couplets) by Sadequain beautifully describe Bhopalis and their idiosyncrasies. No wonder the red building of the Central Library or the Minars of Taj Ul Masajid visible when you enter the city from the station declares you are in the ‘city of Nawab’, the actual Bhopal lies even beyond these monuments and the lakes. The real substance of the city can be felt through a set of activities or some delectable delicacies that have been practiced so much over the years that they have inadvertently become unwritten salient features of Bhopal. Here's what makes you feel you are in Bhopal

Riding with panache

When you see jeeps from Willys to Ford, Kaiser or even modified ones plying liberally on the street, you know you are in Bhopal. From the adventure of diving their vehicles into murky water, to meandering on muddy tracks during mud-rallies, weekend got (family outing) or just evening jaunts, jeeps are the obvious answer for most Bhopalis. Born with a command on the road, Bhopalis have their own ways with these muscular vehicles, something you will not witness in any other city of India. Interestingly, many Bollywood stalwarts have imported modified version of the vehicle from the city, a fact that bears testimony to the importance of jeep in Bhopal.

Fishing out the perfect time pass

A leisure activity for people across India means either watching a movie, dining at a restaurant, shopping at a mall or going for a long drive. Although Bhopal is not bereft of any of the aforesaid, when it comes to time pass, Bhopalis love going old school. So, while the rest of the world enjoy the marvels of human invention, people of the city seek resort in the lap of nature, angling their time out. Be it the Upper Lakes or Lower, irrespective of season, people of every age can be spotted all set with their fishing rods and bait.

Quintessential Bhopali talks

Interested in knowing the fate of Barrack Obama in the next elections of United States of America or the gadgets that are likely to get launched in 2050? Sit with a bunch of Bhopalis and you could get an answer to all. In an era of technical advancement when dissemination of information is mostly executed through high-end technologies, Bhopal is perhaps only one of the few cities where people still prefer sitting and talking with each other and exchange information in the process. However, these discussions never take place in coffee shops but at roadside pavement. Not to forget, it is an unending process that starting from the noon can continue till the wee hours.

Anything for this cup of tea

All who say Darjeeling tea is the best in the country have most certainly not tasted the essentially ‘Namak wala chai’ of Bhopal. From discussions to debates, a lot can happen in the city over a cup of this ‘chai’. The aroma of tea leaves boiling ceaselessly in a container enamelled with brass is just enough to tantalize the olfactory senses of gourmand and compel them to revitalize their taste-bud. Although few in number, almost all shops serving Samover (namak wali chai) are choc-a-bloc round the clock.

Who says bikes are meant only for riding?

Ever wondered why all vehicle stunt shows unfailingly witness participation of youngsters from Bhopal? The answer is quite obvious actually. Just like driving open jeeps, performing wonders with motorcycles runs in the veins of Bhopal. Manoeuvring the two-wheelers to perform wheelies, stoppies or burnouts can give unmatched joys and young Bhopalis have proved it every time. So, the next time you happen to see someone stunting on their bikes and feel the adrenaline rush, don’t forget to remind yourself you are in Bhopal.

Strangers in the night, two lonely people we are

Bored of routine busy Saturday, last evening I started shuffling the mouse through the myriad windows open on the system, when the tiny green bulb flashing on a friend’s g-talk, indicating his online status caught my attention. Impromptu I sent a ‘Hi’ and in sometime received a pop-up with ‘Hello’ in reply from him, a former classmate and current contemporary of a rival newspaper. Following the customary exchange of pleasantries I told him how my current editor, who also happens to be his former boss, is absolutely fond of him. Thereafter this is how the brief chat session unfolded: 
Me- Our editor seems to really appreciate you :p 
He- Seriously? 
Me- Yes.  Not one day goes without mentioning your name. 
He- In what context btw 
Me- Anything. Your existence is the biggest context; I guess 
He- Burai karte hai? 
Me- Are you mad? Burai kyu karenge? He is absolutely fond of you. 
He- But he was telling me the other day that I am not doing any story. 
Me- Ah! That is just to encourage you. You see, he really loves mentioning you. 
No, there is nothing brain-wracking about the conversation that could raise an eye-brow or two. The whole purpose of mentioning it is to drive-in a realization my otherwise-buoyant-mind met with. From the very word go there were at least three instance when I typed ‘the editor LOVES you’ and replaced it each time with ‘really appreciates you’, ‘fond of you’ and finally ‘loves mentioning you’. My thought bulb suddenly came to life in the third instance when I was trying to reason out my reluctantance about mentioning the word ‘Love’. The very next question that popped-up was, ‘Would I falter writing the same a decade back?’ Perhaps no. 
The most trivial conversation abruptly released a tremor in my queries’ quarry, unearthing a slew of doubts. It posed a question on my claim of being progressive and outgoing. I realized the only reason I did not mention ‘love’ was my attempt at sounding politically correct. Don’t know why, but maybe I thought it would sound ‘homosexual’ and my friend would not appreciate it. My action perhaps serves a classic testimony to the ‘hypocrite’ lying dormant in many of us. 
I always thought I was avant-garde at least when it came to love and romance and often considered myself an advocate of the philosophy that ‘Everyone has the right to love’. However, the small incident failed me.  It made me accost the latent prejudices that many of us still hold on to, despite our tall claims of ‘coming of age’. Something I have still not been able to comprehend is the underlying rationale that gave such simple conversation a convulsed turn.  Why, in the very first place did I think of mentioning ‘love’ could sound inapt and even if it did what was so inauspicious about it? Had my editor been from the fair sex, indeed it would not have evoked my mental make-up, triggering my thoughts to find an escape in form of this article, at a wee hour. Then why did their belonging to the same sex create this avalanche in my thought-process? 
The infinite lacuna of thoughts and dichotomy of outlook is so appalling. It is bewildering that the same me whose thoughts are so progressive can be clouded by such starkly different uncouth feelings; leaving me flummoxed if I have at all understood myself in the past 26 years! It is so like being someone during day and someone overtly alien after nightfall!!

Boulevard of BROKEN DREAMS

Witnessing the same sight day after day returning home from workplace has become a part of my mundane routine. Every day I find an army of ants burrowing the earth on the left-hand corner of the bathroom door, marching adroitly and producing a mountain of it. A sight absolutely nettling to my worn out eyes (tiring because of staring at the Dell monitor relentlessly for eight, sometimes even nine to ten hours shift in the office), the first task I execute post entering the house is doing away with the soil and also most of the ants, thus blatantly destroying their day’s labour and ruthlessly enjoying the feel of being a cold-blooded murderer of the tiny helpless species, without any dash of regret whatsoever.

As a disciplined follower of all the self-set rules, I swept off the assiduous labour of the ants with a lash of the broom even today. It was barely a matter of ten good minutes that I saw them rigorously up at work, already having dug a decent amount of earth yet again. However, this time I looked at them not with annoyance but with a feeling I was reluctant to acknowledge; admiration and adulation at their undaunted determination and resilience of fighting the odds. And then suddenly something struck me; I realized the similarities we maintain at least on the work front.  Looking back at the corridors of the past I realize how puerile I was to have invested three precious years into the most inconsiderate company ever, overlooking the insult and profane remarks and still serving it dedicatedly. Doesn’t this betray a situational similarity with the dexterous insects?

Retrospection of all the hollow promises made and gleeful dreams then starts mocking me. Had Chetan Bhagat not purchased the rights for the title ‘3 mistakes of my life’, I would have published a book on the same with Coming to Bhopal, Landing up at Makhanlal and Joining my current print media house encapsulating my life’s biggest blunders.

When it comes to my company, the organization that has robbed me of all anticipations, all that the place has to offer is fake commitments by frustrated old lecherous bastards, who hardly deserve the kind of designation and power they enjoy or should I say misuse. Strong political nexus and a considerable amount of time spent in the company could be way powerful weapon than a nuclear bomb, if used meticulously to create mayhem in a diffident and introvert junior’s life. And this is exactly what the worthless braggarts do. A boulevard of broken dreams, the three-storied building, parked at a narrow alley of MP Nagar recounts gloomy tales of how I have been set to the gallous of unprecedented mental torture almost daily in the past 1058 days and how without any lamentation all my aspirations, in forms of appreciation, encouragement and increment been brutally crucified. The small office painted in olive green stand testimony to my ruptured dreams, crushed under the heavy weight of the newspaper and intolerable cruelty. Tantamount to the ants, even MY anticipations and hard labour have been flushed down the gutter every time. If not anything, one can witness some great dramatics in this replica of hell on earth.  Replete in politics and acts of making a junior’s life a living hell with unabated threats of handing a pink slip is what defines the character of the ominous place and some douchebags working in it. With absolutely nothing positive in the aura, there are times when you start suspecting your own shadow.  

Having said all these, the big question is why don’t I renounce? It is apparent that I am often tempted to give up trying my luck at this hell surrounded by such vile coxcombs. However, soon I realize how this office is but just an insignificant road, an address that will be effaced from the journey called ‘life’ very soon and how ONE DAY I will make THERE. It is perhaps this undeterred faith of celebrating the overriding joy of reaching my final destination that makes my charred hopes spring up from its own ashes life a phoenix, time umpteen. Just like the ants, banking on my prowess I keep going with stars of hope gleaming bright; for my dreams are much higher than some nasty old idiot’s dwarfed macabre ploy. After all in the end is it only the amount of patience we hold on to that decides how far we can go! And this journey has just unfolded….

PS: This has nothing to do with the popular Green Day track

A DAREDEVIL ON THE STREETS OF BHOPAL

Enjoying the evening zephyr caressing the face, while sitting comfortably on the window of the giant red bus, being chauffeured around the city; no, that isn't me, I am the one standing squashed just beside the lucky girl who got the window seat, waiting for this daily torturous commute from the work place to get over and cursing myself for the inability of being able to ride or drive a vehicle. The pang of not having picked up the art is quite unsettling as I often wonder how immensely exhilarating it would be, gliding through the broad roads of Bhopal, without being at the mercy of a friend or colleague. Just as I am approaching the climax of my delicate reverie, incessant honking and bashing of my head against the same lucky girl transports me to the harsh realities of the present. Dazed and confused in the pandemonium, smoke and smell of the burning rubber I realise a vehicle just collided with the leviathan bus I am in, leaving me in a quandary whether I am blessed not having to travel in a private transport. 

Although the enticement of romancing the lipstick red Vespa is too hard to resist, there always remains a chance of getting mown over by a car or bus that did not see you coming around. Not to forget, Bhopali rider's penchant for whizzing through the traffic might take you off-guard anytime, swiping you on the ground. Of course four-wheelers remain a pragmatic choice, but even they aren't spared the overwhelming touch of love received from fellow drivers who can squeeze their rides even where the pedestrians fail to approach. Every time serving pillion to someone you are likely to feel like a target with bevy of vehicles darting towards you from all directions.

So, did you think public transport was a better resort? As a vulnerable commuter, left to the whims of petulant mini-bus drivers, words of a friend from France currently in Bhopal, on the nettling traffic system of the city often resonate- 'Bhopal has the worst drivers in the world, ones without any regards for the  traffic rules whatsoever'. You can experience the pathos of this foreigner and the unadulterated veracity of his statement no sooner you board a bus or an auto-rickshaw. It is like conductors of the dingy mini buses are in some inexplicable competition of stuffing the 'sawaris'  like chicken into their vehicles, to the point the poor thing gets tilted. Having said this, imagine the roller-coaster ride you live through at every turning. If this was not enough, there are times when drivers, irrespective of buses or auto-rickshaws, possessed by spirit of some F1 racer, speed through the traffic, exhibiting their kinetic competency and making you apprehensive if this would be your last journey.

Working behind the wheels, a dedicated commuter of public transport or a harmless pedestrian, life is an equal gamble for all on the streets of the city of 'Nawabs'. No wonder then, had Hamlet been born in the present day Bhopal, his biggest crisis would possibly have been 'To go, or not to go'!

Unabashedly unsocial

I have never been a very social person. Memories of those moments often pop up when while my sisters would be busy entertaining the guests I’d jail myself in the world of books and music. No, I have neither been a bibliophile but books have been the best escapades. Resorting to a career like media, I soon realized the key role socializing plays in escalating your career graph. Talking of socializing, in this age of new media, the word ‘socializing’, without the interference of the cyber world can sound quite profane. To avoid any such heresy, I too surrendered myself wilfully to the universe of social media.

With nearly eight hundred friends (read namesake) and a recently developed twitter handle with mere sixty followers, I am gradually climbing the ladders of networking and socializing, in today’s sense of the term. Leaving alone twitter, as not much of my friends have made their debut into the site, let’s talk about Facebook. The ten-year-old networking giant has become the lynchpin of existence now. A recent development on my FB profile has compelled me to contemplate on the very purpose of the site. It’s been nearly a year that the only updates I get is about an old school mate getting hitched, another going on a honeymoon across the globe and yet another delivering her second child. With a flurry of overtaxed notes and photographs of conjugal bond and childbirth, my profile sometime looks like a baby calendar and most of the time like a matrimonial site. It is incredibly amusing how people have the mettle and time of keeping the world updated from a labour room or ‘shaadi ka mandap’.  While some might define this new-age phenomenon as an act of socializing, for me it is nothing but ‘extreme insanity’. Having said this, I would always prefer being tagged as a recluse than indulge in such hilarious social cacophony.

When the new editor cajoled me out of the comfort zone

Shades of summer

Abandoned asphalts with elongated mirages, veiled commuters, mud-pots with brimful water parked on roadside for people struggling with the gruelling heat, dusty lanes, air-coolers and air-conditioners adorning every home and shops unarguably conjure up an apt image of the atrocious attack of summer in Bhopal. While days break gray and dull with patchy clouds dangling in the thin morning air carrying pollens of a million blooming plants and trees, and coaxing enthusiastic morning-walkers throng parks and streets; the afternoons reflect a starkly different scenario with the overhead sun pouring fire all around, forcing Bhopalis to ditch the idea of moving out. Though awfully hot and humid, the season is not bereft of its share of virtues. Summer evenings give the perfect reason to dine alfresco, drink unlimited soda and lemonade and take set out on long drives. Travelling through the landscape of the 'City of lakes', the lens arrests some quintessential shades of a sultry day in Bhopal.

The Royal Cool Off

The old and unlucky Santiago was not the only one who had to battle hard to save his marlin from the brutal assault of the sharks in Hemmingway’s Old Man and the Sea. Fighting against the vagaries of nature is a daily business of the fishermen in the city who move out of their homes at the crack of dawn and labour had to make their ends meet. While the rest of the city lazes around in the comfort of their chilled offices and at noon, these anglers carry on their duty with undeterred dedication in the Upper Lake, shielding themselves from the heat lashes with an umbrella. 

An angler's diary

The old and unlucky Santiago was not the only one who had to battle hard to save his marlin from the brutal assault of the sharks in Hemmingway’s Old Man and the Sea. Fighting against the vagaries of nature is a daily business of the fishermen in the city who move out of their homes at the crack of dawn and labour had to make their ends meet. While the rest of the city lazes around in the comfort of their chilled offices and at noon, these anglers carry on their duty with undeterred dedication in the Upper Lake, shielding themselves from the heat lashes with an umbrella.

Lost in love

 Love knows no boundaries. Lost in love, when couples forget even two of the bare essentials of life, food and sleep, the excruciating heat is but only a freckle. Transcending all trials and tribulations of nature and outshining the unbearable heat, lovers do not shy away from canoodling at popular hangouts. Braving the noon heat a lovey-dovey couple share some light moments against the backdrop of the vast Upper Lake on a mid-May sunny day.

The street...that did not feel the heat

Abandoned asphalts with elongated mirages, veiled commuters, mud pots with brim-full water parked on roadside for people struggling with the gruelling heat, dusty lanes; unarguably conjure up an apt image of the atrocious attack of summer in Bhopal. The days break gray and dull with patchy clouds dangling in the thin morning air. The afternoons however, reflect a starkly different scene with the overhead sun pouring fire all around. Travelling across the landscape of the City of Lakes we tried capturing some such quintessential shades defining a sultry day in Bhopal.

Clocking the heat

The two binary digits blinking in red hardly crossed the number twenty even a couple of months back and the same digital clock audaciously flaunts forty-three degree, reflecting the transient nature of everything in life. Just like heydays even rainy days are a temporary state of affair and the busy traffic, indifferent to the changing phase of the gigantic clock befittingly pass on the message of how life always moves on, irrespective of its thick and thin. 

Skilfully serenading on a Sunday

Music has the power to override the worst crisis in life. Good soulful music can give an orgasm unprecedented. Those who have ear for music and worship this divine art form will surely find my statement disparaging and sacrilegious. That however, I presume was the best way I could define the overflow of emotion experienced listening to Indian Ocean perform live in Bhopal.

 It was one such evening when heat and chill was at a tug-of-war, leaving us baffled with an erratic weather. Cannot surmise if it was the lulling zephyr of the upper lake, the beatific charm of Bharat Bhawan or the invigorating notes of the popular Indo-Western fusion band of the country, something had enveloped me in a stupor, an intense one, which followed me to my dingy one BHK apartment and remained adhered for a substantial period. The four-member troupe started the performance with a song titled ‘jhini’. By the time I entered, the open-air theatre was reverberating with enthusiastic singers crooning along. Not surprisingly, the musically and culturally advanced breed called Bhopalis were aware of all the songs played subsequently, most of which I had not even heard of! The only songs I managed to lip sync were the incredibly popular ‘Des mera’ from Peepli Live and ‘Bandeh’ from Black Friday. Other songs that quenched the ear’s thirst included tracks like ‘bhor’, ‘Maa Rewa’ etc. The enigmatic bunch of musicians further bewitched all with scintillating rendition on a single-stringed instrument, used fundamentally in Baul music, a genre typical to Bengal.  The musical spell was so profound, I never realized and three hours passed away in a jiffy, punctuated with small episodes of tiffs between my close buddy and her usually submissive boyfriend. Getting to meet a candid Rahul Ram, the vocalist and bass guitarist of the band was like icing on a whole platter of deserts. Trained in Indian Classical music, a singer who has the chutzpah to smoke chillam on the stage, Raghu, is one from that coterie of people you feel like having a cosmic connection with and can relate immediately.

Mellifluous music and a small talk with an astounding singer, what can be a better way of signing off a weekend!

The 'historic' fourth post

Once upon a time there was a lady, precisely, happily married and mother of two, who one day got a call from her husband telling her that  their marriage has gone kaput without a substantial reason whatsoever. The envelope of her happiness is torn apart by the cruel hands of destiny and like any Bollywood flicks she vows into getting him back, her first love. After turning pages of unnecessarily created situations and hours of boring read, you finally find her husband returning to her with heart full of remorse (one thing that is most unlikely on the part of any man on this planet). Yes, I take pride being a feminist at times for in the end male chauvinism and feminism germinates from the same seed called emotion.Kindly do not misjudge my humble purpose behind bugging you with this expected climate of the most expected plot from a novel I’ve recently perused. No, I am in no mood to switch my profession from a journo to an orator nor was it a suggestion for you to read the book. It nowhere provided me a delightful time pass but helped me recognize my urge to reconcile with my first love, playing with words. I decided on the spur that now since it has been nearly an epoch of my divorce with creativity, I should mend things with the Eco-system of alphabet and provide some nutrition to my electronic diary with the food of another post, My fourth Post! Applause intended.  

From thought's casket

Thoughtful thought

It’s a coy night;
A dimly lit room obscure my sight.
Literature invade the bed lying helter shelter
Thoughts want to break into the dream world
Alas!  They fail to enter.
Grey cells race to a distant past,
Reminding the essence of memories-
Only thing perhaps, never lost.
It’s eerie, yet I love the silence,
Just the heartbeats audible;
Not often do you get this chance.
As sleep delude the eyes,
I ponder twice and thrice-
If thinking ushers in intelligence,
After an intense thought process night long,
Tomorrow shall I get wise?