Sunday 23 September 2007
Interesting Travelogue
Bawa, your stories are very interesting, but will be even more so if you embellished them with a few pictures.
A Wedding In Nandprayag
In the first week of October we went to Nandpryag for a long awaited wedding. Nandpryag is a sleepy village situated in the Hill State of Uttranchal, 400 kms from Chandigarh. I love the hills and since it is also the ancestral place of my in laws I love it a little bit more, the classic lampooning of in laws notwithstanding. Although the distance can be covered in a day I always prefer to make it in two. One can savor the beauty of the journey and lazily relax en route. So off we went on our trip armed with loads of potato chips and cold drinks determined to demolish any eatery along the way.
Our first halt was the beautiful city located in the Doon valley, Dehradun, the capital of Uttranchal. An old city, it came into its own during the British rule that established a big cantonment here as also the West Point of India known as the Indian Military Academy. Many a war hero has commenced his career here. A sizable number of my wife's relatives are settled here so a stay here even for one night is punctuated with everyone descending on one house. The result is always a merry chaos with everyone trying to update ones knowledge of the family gossip. Food is cooked for everyone but is never eaten together because someone gets lost, another gets drunk and yet another is sulking in a corner. If a fight breaks out among the younger males the sisters take it on themselves to negotiate a Peace Accord. While some these major problems of the world are getting resolved it gets very late in the night and the food invariably gets cold. While the lesser mortals get to eat it cold the Son in Law who is primarily I gets it served piping hot !! Three cheers for the in laws!
The next morning we set out early. The road is on the plains till Rishikesh, which is about 35 kms away. Rishikesh incidentally is revered as one of the holiest cities of the Hindus. A few kilometers away is Hardwar, which has even greater religious significance. The devout believe that by bathing in the river Ganga, which flows through Hardwar, their place in heaven is assured. Also the ashes of the dead are brought here from all parts of India to be immersed in the water to assure a heavenly destination for the departed soul. The river Ganga is one of the biggest and the most important rivers of India. The Hindus attach religious significance to almost anything but an ancient river is something else altogether. An entire civilization has flourished with and around the waters of Ganga. In fact the political history of the North India revolves around what has been historically known as the Indo Gangetic Plain. The source of the river is from a melting glacier in the northern reaches of India called Gangotri from which the name of the river is derived. However the name Ganga catches on at a later stage. Initially it is known as the Alaknanda. It hurtles down the mountains till it reaches Vishnupryag where it merges with the first of its major tributaries called Dhauliganga. Almost 80 kilometers down at Nandpryag, where we were headed, it merges with Nandnakini. Another 25 kilometers downstream at Karanpryag it meets the Pinder River, after which it heads on to Rudrapryag where the merger with the river Manadkini takes place. The biggest tributary of Alaknanda is Bhagirathi and they merge at Deopryag. It is from this point onwards that the name Alaknanda ceases and the better-known Ganga is used. The word 'Pryag' literally means a conjunction of rivers as must be evident from the repeated usage above. From here the Ganga flows down to the plains traversing the entire north India from west to the east before flowing into the Bay of Bengal. The political, physical and the sociological history of the North India are closely connected to the Ganga. Whenever it has been benevolent fortune has smiled on the people living around it. In anger it has wrought untold havoc.
But deeply etched religious beliefs being what they are, the water of Ganga is considered pure capable of making miracles. Ganga Jal (water of Ganga) is stored in vessels, which are placed in the domestic and public shrines. It is considered auspicious to give a few of its drops to people in their last moments of life. It is affectionately called Ganga Maiyya (Mother Ganga) and parents lovingly christen their daughters after it.
The road from Rishikesh is completely in the hilly terrain and narrow so the carefree driving of the plains gives way to a watchful eye. Almost the entire stretch of road till Nandpryag and beyond is alongside the Ganga. It takes a conscious effort to keep ones eye on the road and miss the beauty surrounding it. The first stop is a place called Byasi literally meaning 'eighty two'. It's beyond me to figure out why it was named so. Probably someone was marking the distance and the name stuck. A cold drink and a light snack later we pushed off to face the increasing gradient. Thirty kilometers later and a few thousand feet higher comes Saknidhar. Dhar is colloquial for a hill stream. Quite a few of them abound there and the travelers, tired and often motion sickness struck are treated to cool and sweet water, harnessed by the enterprising locals through small pipes. My favorite snack here is fresh Cucumber with lemon and black salt accompanied with sweet and sour lemonade. So our journey continued till evening passing through all the Pryags. The first view of Nandpryag is a few kilometers before one reaches it. As it happens in the mountains the destination keeps flirting with you visually till you actually reach it. It has always been a treat to come to this place and now was no different. Three thousand feet above sea level it is a place, which is kept warm by the elements during the day and by hearts during the nights.
A word about my wife's family here. Four immediate sisters and a brother, five cousin sisters and a brother from her paternal uncle and the family tree continues unabashedly with uncles and aunts once or twice removed making their generous contributions to the tree now turned into a wild mushroom growth. I am not counting their progeny of course. And such a pot pourri of widely different individuals always makes my day. It's fun unlimited. So the moment our car reached the door we were greeted with screams of little and old kids streaming out of the threshold. My children returned the screaming welcome with equivalent gusto. In a magical moment the fatigue of the journey was forgotten. Our luggage was quickly unloaded and carted off to some room. Home is a forty-room structure built about eighty years ago, burnt down forty years ago and then lovingly rebuilt. In the classical hill fashion wood and stone has been extensively used. The intrinsic strength of the building and I suppose the prayers of all of us who love the place saved it from being razed to the ground in a massive earthquake two years ago although it rendered all but a dozen rooms unlivable. It is built on a hillside so we actually drive to the third floor level and then climb down by stairs. The elders were expectantly waiting. We touched their feet in reverence and got their blessings. After the mandatory wash and refreshment commences the social visit to all the homes of the relatives nearby. Loud greetings, embraces, complaints for having come after such a long time, polite inquiries about the well being of my parents, the account of the journey, the state of the road, it all happens at the same time. Since by this time the night is nascent the male folk get together and out comes a bottle of whiskey. A few drinks later, the mood and the knee joints lighter raucous laughter reverberates throughout. A sumptuous meal is followed by much needed sleep.
The girl who was to get married is the first cousin of my wife and figuring sixth and the youngest in the order of seniority of the children of her paternal uncle. Well, the girl was in early thirties when she got married because Mr. Right hadn't come along in time. But now that he had I am sure she'll make him pay for making her wait for so long. Poor chap!
At the time of a marriage Indian homes wear a festive look. The doors of the house are decorated with mango leaves (it's believed that they keep out the evil spirits) and the walls and the roof with bright colored lights. The fairer inmates of course fiercely compete with the glitter of the lights. One of my sisters-in-law is the champion in this game. She tries on at least six different dresses thrice a day before deciding which shall upstage the decoration as well as the rest of her sisters. Sometime she wins and at other times she thinks she has won. But regardless we always make the appropriate clucking noises indicating approval. Lovely lass, she is.
Unlike Christen weddings our marriages are a very elaborate affair. Long lists of invitees are prepared and repeatedly revised to take care that no friend or relative has been omitted. After the cards have been sent, letters and telephone remind the more important in the invitation list. A few days before the marriage other arrangements like preparation of sweets, purchase of provisions for preparing the wedding feast, erection of tents, accommodation for the bridegroom's entourage has to be ensured. All this is quite a massive project but in Nandpryag it takes place without a glitch and read on to find out why. One of the most beautiful things of a village marriage is community participation, which, alas, is slowly dying. Without any specific invitation the village folk take it on themselves to organize and delegate duties for the various tasks involved in a marriage. The first day in Nandpryag started with the whole village descending on our house. It was quickly decided who is to do what. Big cooking vessels appeared along with the needed tools and the preparation of the sweets was underway. This is one the most important and elaborate jobs since after the marriage is over not only the bridegroom's retinue but also all the house guests have to be loaded with sweets and other eatables to take home. So a few hundred odd kilos of stuff has to be prepared and no professional help is solicited. It is entirely an in house thing with of course a little help from friends.
The evening of the first day was reserved for song and dance, which is preformed entirely by the ladies of the house, young and old alike. It’s called 'Jagran' which means a wake. Traditionally when the boy of the house went out to get married all the women were left behind. So to ensure that no untoward happening takes place in the absence of the men, the women would get together and sing loud songs so that no enterprising thief should come near the house. However now irrespective of who is getting married a day before the marriage this kind of a get-together is a must. The women sing traditional and bawdy songs and everybody dances to their tune. The men join in as soon as they are tipsy enough not to say no. It's a treat to see the hill men dance. The arms sway in a slow and languorous motion and the feet twist and turn in rhythm with the accompaniment of soulful strains of the folk music of the hills. The sound echoes in the neighboring dark hills. It's an ethereal feeling.
The D-Day was here and it commenced with a flurry of expectancy and activity. The bridegroom was not expected till the evening but the air was rife with excitement. In the morning of the day of the marriage there is a symbolic bathing ceremony called 'Mangal Snan'. The bride to be is dressed in some old clothes and made to sit on low stool, which is strategically placed at a site decided by the family priest. This place is first decorated with intricate patterns made with various colored powders. Four young unmarried girls cover her head with a long red piece of cloth. First there is long chanting of verses from the ancient scriptures and then the all the married women gather around the girl and apply a paste made of ground turmeric mixed with milk and songs wishing her a happy marriage are sung in unison. This, being the first overt step towards marriage, is always a moving experience for everybody. Tears inevitably flow from the eyes of the girl and the rest of the women follow suit. Soon as if from nowhere the turmeric paste starts flying everywhere and the men folk are smattered with it. The sons in law of the family are the special targets and their sisters in law the main perpetrators. Everybody is colored yellow amongst loud protests and louder laughter.
At last darkness fell and the time of arrival of the bridegroom drew near. He was supposed to come from a place about 70 kilometers away, which in the best of conditions does not take more than two hours to cover. But no bridegroom worth his salt has ever arrived in time. The more he makes the girl's family wait the more important he thinks he is. So even though we were informed that the marriage party, which is called a 'Baraat' had left their home at around 4 p.m. there was no sign of them till 7.30 in the evening. Every now and then someone would shout 'they have come' and get everybody up and about before it turned out that the spotted vehicle wasn't destined for our house. The food was ready, the music was blaring, the women were dressed to kill, the kids were screaming and the poor bride was getting bored to death. At last the Man arrived dressed in a three-piece suit and his head adorned with a bright turban and his face covered with streams of shining gold paper called a 'Sehera'. He is not supposed to reveal his face before he confronts the bride to be. The elders of the house lined up to welcome the bridegroom and his entourage with folded hands and the women again burst into welcome songs. The priest rattles off another prayer welcoming the groom and by affixing a red dot with a colored powder on his forehead honors him. The somber welcome is always accompanied with a critical evaluation of the guests. The eagle eyed younger and the unmarried ones exchange furtive glances. Who is wearing what? Who is walking with the exaggerated swagger? Ah, that one is drunk! She is looking terrible! Why is the bridegroom giggling? Ooh, that sexy walk! The saner ones take care to see that the guests are made comfortable and immediately served with water and tea and some light snacks. They soon settle down. The elders exchange some serious notes while the younger lot goes about searching for soda and water as the long ride has made them thirsty and only some copious quantity of liquor can quench that. The young always enjoy the good things of life more.
Well, soon it was dinnertime. The guests are always served first. There was a long repertoire of dishes, which are the classical delicacies of the hills accompanied with a variety of sauces and rice and unleavened bread. And as mentioned earlier none of the food was ordered from outside. It was a delicious result of the labor of love. The food was attacked as soon as it was laid and very soon hassled waiters were running to and fro to keep the tables from emptying lest the guests go hungry. It was a small miracle that the hungry stomachs were filled without many complaints. The groom of course is separated from the crowd and a special plate is prepared for him laden with all the goodies and then some.
The poor guy ate in silence, silently suffering the teasing which is supposed to be
the done thing. A light-hearted jibing contest was also going on simultaneously between the groom's and the bride's friends, brothers and sisters. According to the Hindu customs it is the family priest cum astrologer who determines the auspicious time of the marriage ceremony, which invariably is at around 1 or 2 a.m. So the appointed hour arrived. The place where the marriage takes place is called 'Vedi'. It is like a four-poster bed without the bed. The poles are decorated with banana leaves and the canopy with marigold. On the floor underneath colored powders are used to decorate the area around the vessel in which fire is lit. First the bridegroom was called and asked to sit on the left. The prayers started and after a while entered the bride. Looking resplendent in red clothes and gold jewelry she shyly sat on the right side of the groom. Another round of prayers and a fire is lit in the vessel in front of them. Since ancient times fire is regarded as the purest of elements for it destroys all impurities. So it is with the fire in witness that couples are betrothed to each other. A cloth is tied to the clothes of the married to be duo and with the chant of scriptures they make offerings of clarified butter and herbs to the fire and circle it seven times. After this they are considered married. Everybody throws flower petals, which signify blessings, on them. The bride and the groom then exchange seats with the bride now on the left. This is supposed to be her place by the husband throughout her life. The priest then explains the duties and responsibilities, which the marriage entails for the couple. Both dutifully listen to this and they make their vows to follow them. By the time this was over everybody except the couple and priest were yawning to high sky and falling over each other. The bride was spirited off to her room and the groom to another. They can be together only at the groom's home.
Next morning after a breakfast of deep fried bread and a spicy potato curry the grooms 'Baraat' got ready to go back. Just before the bride is sent off another ceremony is preformed. It is called 'Gai Daan' meaning the gift of a cow. This is again an ancient practice. Cows have always been considered sacred by the Hindus and hence valuable and anything sacred is worshipped. So the gift of a cow was considered the ultimate in the times when it was considered a holy currency. Now the actual gift is not made but the symbolism continues to honor the departing guest. The luggage of the bride was loaded on to the jeeps. She came out of the room, presumably full of apprehensions and the awareness of the impending loss of her protected and carefree life, the prospect of leaving the familiar surroundings, which had been with her for more than three decades. Indians are terribly sentimental and everyone has a decent cry when the bride departs. When she left a sense of loss engulfed all of us.
Marriages are always a bit of an anti climax. Everything builds up to a crescendo and then comes down with a crash when it is all over. The winding up, the cleaning up, payment of bills etc are always a bit of a pain. Of course the favorite son in law has no part to play in this so he relaxes. In the evening a large pot of mutton curry was prepared. And while it was being prepared all the men got together and got roaring drunk. The volume of conversation rose proportionately with every drink that was consumed. A fight broke out, another burst into tears and everybody fell on each other swearing undying love. We just about managed to have the mutton and rice for dinner and crashed to a deep slumber.
The day of leaving Nandpryag is always the day after the one on which we had decided to go. With much reluctance we packed our bags and set on our journey home after a fun filled week's holiday.
Our first halt was the beautiful city located in the Doon valley, Dehradun, the capital of Uttranchal. An old city, it came into its own during the British rule that established a big cantonment here as also the West Point of India known as the Indian Military Academy. Many a war hero has commenced his career here. A sizable number of my wife's relatives are settled here so a stay here even for one night is punctuated with everyone descending on one house. The result is always a merry chaos with everyone trying to update ones knowledge of the family gossip. Food is cooked for everyone but is never eaten together because someone gets lost, another gets drunk and yet another is sulking in a corner. If a fight breaks out among the younger males the sisters take it on themselves to negotiate a Peace Accord. While some these major problems of the world are getting resolved it gets very late in the night and the food invariably gets cold. While the lesser mortals get to eat it cold the Son in Law who is primarily I gets it served piping hot !! Three cheers for the in laws!
The next morning we set out early. The road is on the plains till Rishikesh, which is about 35 kms away. Rishikesh incidentally is revered as one of the holiest cities of the Hindus. A few kilometers away is Hardwar, which has even greater religious significance. The devout believe that by bathing in the river Ganga, which flows through Hardwar, their place in heaven is assured. Also the ashes of the dead are brought here from all parts of India to be immersed in the water to assure a heavenly destination for the departed soul. The river Ganga is one of the biggest and the most important rivers of India. The Hindus attach religious significance to almost anything but an ancient river is something else altogether. An entire civilization has flourished with and around the waters of Ganga. In fact the political history of the North India revolves around what has been historically known as the Indo Gangetic Plain. The source of the river is from a melting glacier in the northern reaches of India called Gangotri from which the name of the river is derived. However the name Ganga catches on at a later stage. Initially it is known as the Alaknanda. It hurtles down the mountains till it reaches Vishnupryag where it merges with the first of its major tributaries called Dhauliganga. Almost 80 kilometers down at Nandpryag, where we were headed, it merges with Nandnakini. Another 25 kilometers downstream at Karanpryag it meets the Pinder River, after which it heads on to Rudrapryag where the merger with the river Manadkini takes place. The biggest tributary of Alaknanda is Bhagirathi and they merge at Deopryag. It is from this point onwards that the name Alaknanda ceases and the better-known Ganga is used. The word 'Pryag' literally means a conjunction of rivers as must be evident from the repeated usage above. From here the Ganga flows down to the plains traversing the entire north India from west to the east before flowing into the Bay of Bengal. The political, physical and the sociological history of the North India are closely connected to the Ganga. Whenever it has been benevolent fortune has smiled on the people living around it. In anger it has wrought untold havoc.
But deeply etched religious beliefs being what they are, the water of Ganga is considered pure capable of making miracles. Ganga Jal (water of Ganga) is stored in vessels, which are placed in the domestic and public shrines. It is considered auspicious to give a few of its drops to people in their last moments of life. It is affectionately called Ganga Maiyya (Mother Ganga) and parents lovingly christen their daughters after it.
The road from Rishikesh is completely in the hilly terrain and narrow so the carefree driving of the plains gives way to a watchful eye. Almost the entire stretch of road till Nandpryag and beyond is alongside the Ganga. It takes a conscious effort to keep ones eye on the road and miss the beauty surrounding it. The first stop is a place called Byasi literally meaning 'eighty two'. It's beyond me to figure out why it was named so. Probably someone was marking the distance and the name stuck. A cold drink and a light snack later we pushed off to face the increasing gradient. Thirty kilometers later and a few thousand feet higher comes Saknidhar. Dhar is colloquial for a hill stream. Quite a few of them abound there and the travelers, tired and often motion sickness struck are treated to cool and sweet water, harnessed by the enterprising locals through small pipes. My favorite snack here is fresh Cucumber with lemon and black salt accompanied with sweet and sour lemonade. So our journey continued till evening passing through all the Pryags. The first view of Nandpryag is a few kilometers before one reaches it. As it happens in the mountains the destination keeps flirting with you visually till you actually reach it. It has always been a treat to come to this place and now was no different. Three thousand feet above sea level it is a place, which is kept warm by the elements during the day and by hearts during the nights.
A word about my wife's family here. Four immediate sisters and a brother, five cousin sisters and a brother from her paternal uncle and the family tree continues unabashedly with uncles and aunts once or twice removed making their generous contributions to the tree now turned into a wild mushroom growth. I am not counting their progeny of course. And such a pot pourri of widely different individuals always makes my day. It's fun unlimited. So the moment our car reached the door we were greeted with screams of little and old kids streaming out of the threshold. My children returned the screaming welcome with equivalent gusto. In a magical moment the fatigue of the journey was forgotten. Our luggage was quickly unloaded and carted off to some room. Home is a forty-room structure built about eighty years ago, burnt down forty years ago and then lovingly rebuilt. In the classical hill fashion wood and stone has been extensively used. The intrinsic strength of the building and I suppose the prayers of all of us who love the place saved it from being razed to the ground in a massive earthquake two years ago although it rendered all but a dozen rooms unlivable. It is built on a hillside so we actually drive to the third floor level and then climb down by stairs. The elders were expectantly waiting. We touched their feet in reverence and got their blessings. After the mandatory wash and refreshment commences the social visit to all the homes of the relatives nearby. Loud greetings, embraces, complaints for having come after such a long time, polite inquiries about the well being of my parents, the account of the journey, the state of the road, it all happens at the same time. Since by this time the night is nascent the male folk get together and out comes a bottle of whiskey. A few drinks later, the mood and the knee joints lighter raucous laughter reverberates throughout. A sumptuous meal is followed by much needed sleep.
The girl who was to get married is the first cousin of my wife and figuring sixth and the youngest in the order of seniority of the children of her paternal uncle. Well, the girl was in early thirties when she got married because Mr. Right hadn't come along in time. But now that he had I am sure she'll make him pay for making her wait for so long. Poor chap!
At the time of a marriage Indian homes wear a festive look. The doors of the house are decorated with mango leaves (it's believed that they keep out the evil spirits) and the walls and the roof with bright colored lights. The fairer inmates of course fiercely compete with the glitter of the lights. One of my sisters-in-law is the champion in this game. She tries on at least six different dresses thrice a day before deciding which shall upstage the decoration as well as the rest of her sisters. Sometime she wins and at other times she thinks she has won. But regardless we always make the appropriate clucking noises indicating approval. Lovely lass, she is.
Unlike Christen weddings our marriages are a very elaborate affair. Long lists of invitees are prepared and repeatedly revised to take care that no friend or relative has been omitted. After the cards have been sent, letters and telephone remind the more important in the invitation list. A few days before the marriage other arrangements like preparation of sweets, purchase of provisions for preparing the wedding feast, erection of tents, accommodation for the bridegroom's entourage has to be ensured. All this is quite a massive project but in Nandpryag it takes place without a glitch and read on to find out why. One of the most beautiful things of a village marriage is community participation, which, alas, is slowly dying. Without any specific invitation the village folk take it on themselves to organize and delegate duties for the various tasks involved in a marriage. The first day in Nandpryag started with the whole village descending on our house. It was quickly decided who is to do what. Big cooking vessels appeared along with the needed tools and the preparation of the sweets was underway. This is one the most important and elaborate jobs since after the marriage is over not only the bridegroom's retinue but also all the house guests have to be loaded with sweets and other eatables to take home. So a few hundred odd kilos of stuff has to be prepared and no professional help is solicited. It is entirely an in house thing with of course a little help from friends.
The evening of the first day was reserved for song and dance, which is preformed entirely by the ladies of the house, young and old alike. It’s called 'Jagran' which means a wake. Traditionally when the boy of the house went out to get married all the women were left behind. So to ensure that no untoward happening takes place in the absence of the men, the women would get together and sing loud songs so that no enterprising thief should come near the house. However now irrespective of who is getting married a day before the marriage this kind of a get-together is a must. The women sing traditional and bawdy songs and everybody dances to their tune. The men join in as soon as they are tipsy enough not to say no. It's a treat to see the hill men dance. The arms sway in a slow and languorous motion and the feet twist and turn in rhythm with the accompaniment of soulful strains of the folk music of the hills. The sound echoes in the neighboring dark hills. It's an ethereal feeling.
The D-Day was here and it commenced with a flurry of expectancy and activity. The bridegroom was not expected till the evening but the air was rife with excitement. In the morning of the day of the marriage there is a symbolic bathing ceremony called 'Mangal Snan'. The bride to be is dressed in some old clothes and made to sit on low stool, which is strategically placed at a site decided by the family priest. This place is first decorated with intricate patterns made with various colored powders. Four young unmarried girls cover her head with a long red piece of cloth. First there is long chanting of verses from the ancient scriptures and then the all the married women gather around the girl and apply a paste made of ground turmeric mixed with milk and songs wishing her a happy marriage are sung in unison. This, being the first overt step towards marriage, is always a moving experience for everybody. Tears inevitably flow from the eyes of the girl and the rest of the women follow suit. Soon as if from nowhere the turmeric paste starts flying everywhere and the men folk are smattered with it. The sons in law of the family are the special targets and their sisters in law the main perpetrators. Everybody is colored yellow amongst loud protests and louder laughter.
At last darkness fell and the time of arrival of the bridegroom drew near. He was supposed to come from a place about 70 kilometers away, which in the best of conditions does not take more than two hours to cover. But no bridegroom worth his salt has ever arrived in time. The more he makes the girl's family wait the more important he thinks he is. So even though we were informed that the marriage party, which is called a 'Baraat' had left their home at around 4 p.m. there was no sign of them till 7.30 in the evening. Every now and then someone would shout 'they have come' and get everybody up and about before it turned out that the spotted vehicle wasn't destined for our house. The food was ready, the music was blaring, the women were dressed to kill, the kids were screaming and the poor bride was getting bored to death. At last the Man arrived dressed in a three-piece suit and his head adorned with a bright turban and his face covered with streams of shining gold paper called a 'Sehera'. He is not supposed to reveal his face before he confronts the bride to be. The elders of the house lined up to welcome the bridegroom and his entourage with folded hands and the women again burst into welcome songs. The priest rattles off another prayer welcoming the groom and by affixing a red dot with a colored powder on his forehead honors him. The somber welcome is always accompanied with a critical evaluation of the guests. The eagle eyed younger and the unmarried ones exchange furtive glances. Who is wearing what? Who is walking with the exaggerated swagger? Ah, that one is drunk! She is looking terrible! Why is the bridegroom giggling? Ooh, that sexy walk! The saner ones take care to see that the guests are made comfortable and immediately served with water and tea and some light snacks. They soon settle down. The elders exchange some serious notes while the younger lot goes about searching for soda and water as the long ride has made them thirsty and only some copious quantity of liquor can quench that. The young always enjoy the good things of life more.
Well, soon it was dinnertime. The guests are always served first. There was a long repertoire of dishes, which are the classical delicacies of the hills accompanied with a variety of sauces and rice and unleavened bread. And as mentioned earlier none of the food was ordered from outside. It was a delicious result of the labor of love. The food was attacked as soon as it was laid and very soon hassled waiters were running to and fro to keep the tables from emptying lest the guests go hungry. It was a small miracle that the hungry stomachs were filled without many complaints. The groom of course is separated from the crowd and a special plate is prepared for him laden with all the goodies and then some.
The poor guy ate in silence, silently suffering the teasing which is supposed to be
the done thing. A light-hearted jibing contest was also going on simultaneously between the groom's and the bride's friends, brothers and sisters. According to the Hindu customs it is the family priest cum astrologer who determines the auspicious time of the marriage ceremony, which invariably is at around 1 or 2 a.m. So the appointed hour arrived. The place where the marriage takes place is called 'Vedi'. It is like a four-poster bed without the bed. The poles are decorated with banana leaves and the canopy with marigold. On the floor underneath colored powders are used to decorate the area around the vessel in which fire is lit. First the bridegroom was called and asked to sit on the left. The prayers started and after a while entered the bride. Looking resplendent in red clothes and gold jewelry she shyly sat on the right side of the groom. Another round of prayers and a fire is lit in the vessel in front of them. Since ancient times fire is regarded as the purest of elements for it destroys all impurities. So it is with the fire in witness that couples are betrothed to each other. A cloth is tied to the clothes of the married to be duo and with the chant of scriptures they make offerings of clarified butter and herbs to the fire and circle it seven times. After this they are considered married. Everybody throws flower petals, which signify blessings, on them. The bride and the groom then exchange seats with the bride now on the left. This is supposed to be her place by the husband throughout her life. The priest then explains the duties and responsibilities, which the marriage entails for the couple. Both dutifully listen to this and they make their vows to follow them. By the time this was over everybody except the couple and priest were yawning to high sky and falling over each other. The bride was spirited off to her room and the groom to another. They can be together only at the groom's home.
Next morning after a breakfast of deep fried bread and a spicy potato curry the grooms 'Baraat' got ready to go back. Just before the bride is sent off another ceremony is preformed. It is called 'Gai Daan' meaning the gift of a cow. This is again an ancient practice. Cows have always been considered sacred by the Hindus and hence valuable and anything sacred is worshipped. So the gift of a cow was considered the ultimate in the times when it was considered a holy currency. Now the actual gift is not made but the symbolism continues to honor the departing guest. The luggage of the bride was loaded on to the jeeps. She came out of the room, presumably full of apprehensions and the awareness of the impending loss of her protected and carefree life, the prospect of leaving the familiar surroundings, which had been with her for more than three decades. Indians are terribly sentimental and everyone has a decent cry when the bride departs. When she left a sense of loss engulfed all of us.
Marriages are always a bit of an anti climax. Everything builds up to a crescendo and then comes down with a crash when it is all over. The winding up, the cleaning up, payment of bills etc are always a bit of a pain. Of course the favorite son in law has no part to play in this so he relaxes. In the evening a large pot of mutton curry was prepared. And while it was being prepared all the men got together and got roaring drunk. The volume of conversation rose proportionately with every drink that was consumed. A fight broke out, another burst into tears and everybody fell on each other swearing undying love. We just about managed to have the mutton and rice for dinner and crashed to a deep slumber.
The day of leaving Nandpryag is always the day after the one on which we had decided to go. With much reluctance we packed our bags and set on our journey home after a fun filled week's holiday.
Goa-Paradise Regained
On the 29 Th Dec 2003 we beat the clock to reach Cochin airport on time only to find that the flight was delayed by an hour. So we waited and waited…it was tough as the anticipation of reaching Goa was strong and any delay was brooked with irritation and boredom. Any way the time passed, the plane arrived and off we went to paradise. I am not exaggerating but Goa was an experience to be cherished. Most of the flight was over the sea, which was uneventful, and we landed an hour later. My brother in law was there to receive us. And an hour’s drive later we were home where all the gang was waiting for us. The gang consists of my wife’s three sisters, their husbands and their brood. So the weeklong party commenced.
Goa has some of the finest beaches ever but that isn’t all there is to it. It is the ambience of the place, the people, the lifestyle, and the tourists which contributes towards making it an unforgettable experience. The Portuguese influence in the architecture and cuisine is obvious but the locals have a history of their own. The place was under the influence of the Muslim rulers and later the Maratha chieftains. In the 15th century St Francis landed here with his message of Christianity and through a long drawn process of proselytism managed to win numerous converts starting a change in the sociological character of the people. Some years later the Portuguese occupied the territory defeating the local kings and thus commenced the longest episode of foreign rule in a part of India ending with the police action in 1960 which has been captured in the movie Saat Hindustani, Amitabh Bachhan’s first foray in to cinema. With that bit of trivia I shall stop my History lesson.
On the first night we went to a place called the Vaga beach, which is supposed to be a most happening place. The beach dhabas or the shacks as they are popularly known proliferate all over the coastline and we went to a place called St Anthony’s. Fish being the preferred food, we did in Goa as Goans do. An Englishman was on the mike with a guitar and belting out old numbers of Don McLean, Jim Morrison and Mark Knoffler. Listening to soulful music with the sounds of sea waves and some good wine under the belt is always an ethereal experience.
I woke up the next day to venture forth in my expedition to the paradise. The first task of the day was to prepare a massive breakfast for the full troupe of tourists, a task in which I acquitted myself reasonably well as was evident from the low level of grunts from an otherwise vocal and critical crowd. The first hurdle of the day over, we climbed into our vehicles and headed south of Goa to the Ottoda beach. What distinguishes this place from other beaches is that the tourists less frequent this place.
Swimming in the sea is something I love! Looking into the water while swimming gives you a feeling of anonymity as well as the realization of the puniness of the individual existence in the face of the might of the nature’s forces. A good swim always makes one hungry. So after a big lunch of fish curry and rice, a nice sleep on the beach was just what the Doctor ordered. After the siesta the sand was washed off the hair and trunks and we trudged back home, a cool hour’s drive away.
Another day and another beach and this time it was the most happening beach of Goa. It’s called the Baga beach. It’s between the otherwise better-known beaches of Anjuna and Calengute. Nowadays however the daytime action is always on the Baga. There are the omnipresent shacks with their variety of seafood on offer but what one goes looking for there are the water sport facilities. Para gliding, water scooters, skiing, powerboat rides and what have you. It started raining when we reached the beach so what could we poor souls do except wait under a shack mournfully ordering one feni after another. The rain stopped before our heads started swimming and bravely I stepped forward to pay for my ticket for Para Sailing. Twelve hundred bucks lighter I could have flown without any assistance anyway! Unfortunately or fortunately someone started fighting with the ticket chap and all of us ticket holders raved & ranted about the delay caused and how we were so short of time and what has the world come to, so every body decided to go in for a refund. The money back in my pocket I came back to the shack to join the others in enjoying the good things of life.
Well, on to the saga of the beaches. You must have heard of the Anjuna beach. It was famous for its cluster of hippies during the days of the flower power and most popular among the desi tourists as the chances of spotting the nude white woman were the brightest here. The nudies are no longer there so apart from the must do visit the tourists steer clear of this place. The neo hippies are however still found and often you can smell the whiff of dope smoke. We reached this place in the evening when the sun was about to set. The sky was clear so the interplay of colors on the water orchestrated by the setting of the sun mesmerized me. Bright shades of orange turned into golden hues as the sun embarked on its journey to the bottom of the sea. As a child I often wondered if it came out from the other side still intact and unaffected by the water. Happily as it turned out the sun still shines bright. There may be an eclipse every now and then but it goes on. Isn’t that how life is supposed to be? Life on the Anjuna, however, changes by the evening. There is this massive shack; I forget the name, which houses a monstrous music system. It was playing some continuous techno music, which was driving an estimated crowd of over a thousand foreigners crazy into a foot tapping throng of dancers. The ambience was irresistible and the feet start obeying autosuggestion of the music.
The last of the famous beaches is the Calengute. The name is derived from a village, which has now grown into a small township. Essentially a fisherman’s village it used to be the hub of the social activity even in the days gone by. However the evenings used to be relatively quiet except for the loud groans of the perennially inebriated or the hushed gasps of frantic lovers lurking amongst the harbored boats and fishing nets. Tourism and the inevitable developmental growth has now robbed the village of its laid back demeanor and replaced it with the omnipresent commercialism.
Out to make a quick buck the place is sprawled with shops of sundry items costing a dime but sold for a small fortune to the unsuspecting foreigners. Of course there is no dearth of gullible Indians falling in the same trap. However the place still wears a colorful look and ironically the people who make it so are the pale faces of the west. What they lack in skin color they make up with their zest for life. Everybody hires two wheelers, Kinetic Honda being the preferred vehicle, and zips around everywhere, soaking in the sun and caressing the ocean breeze. The apparel they support is a tribute to comfort unlike the bashful & coy natives who spend half the time meant for enjoying in smoothing the creases of sarees & trousers. It’s the combination of all such people which keeps Calungute pulsating at all times.
The beaches of Goa acquire a new dimension on the New Year's Eve. In fact the whole Goa does. My celebration of the day started early. No sooner had I settled into a comfortable reclining chair than the owner of the shack inquiring about my plans for the evening accosted me. As it turned out every shack owner in the vicinity had something lined up for the New Year's Eve and was actively soliciting prospective customers. We had already planned to go to a casino in the evening followed by dinner. The day passed quickly and all of us set out to paint the town red. The casino owned by an NRI dentist is in Panjim and aptly named 'Chances'. Well, we took ours and came out none
the worse. No fortune was won or lost. From there we trudged on to a discotheque, which for everyone turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. It was a totally stag affair. I couldn't care less and merrily danced my heart out. After sweating for about an hour we settled for a leisurely meal. By then my old bones were protesting against the daylong torture I had subjected them to and prodding me to call it a day. I yielded to their demand and went off to sleep and woke up to the first day of the millenium.
Goa and no mention of churches!! One third of the Goan population is Catholic, so over the years egged on by the Portuguese resources and the natural Christian enthusiasm scores of churches dot the landscape of Goa. The older ones are more majestic and graceful to behold. The Basilica Bom De Jesus literally meaning the place of the infant Christ occupies the place of pride amongst all the churches. It is here that the mortal and embalmed remains of St Francis are still preserved in a silver casket, which is perched atop a tall pedestal. The casket is brought down every ten years and a multitude of humanity converges for a glimpse of the revered Saint. Since our visit was a few years early we were denied the privilege.
Right opposite is the Se Cathedral, which built in the 1st quarter of the 17th century houses the statute of St Catherine among beautifully crafted golden panels. It’s from the main gate here that Sir Francis Albuquerque; the conqueror of Goa is reputed to have made his triumphant entry. Goa incidentally is short for Gomantak, which was the ancient name of the place.
Another beautiful church is the St Andrews, which is situated in the main market of Panjim. It’s a familiar sight because of its depiction in a number of Bollywood movies. From there on Donna Paula was the next place on the itinerary. Donna Paula is to Goa what Romeo and Juliet are to rest of the world. And these two also met the same fate reserved for all legendary lovers. The point from where the two jumped into the sea now has a memorial overlooking what is perhaps the most unclean part of Goa. On another side of this place is where water scooters are available for the interested. We had our lovely rides while my vertigo prone wife waved to us from the safe confines of the pier.
A few kilometers from Panjim is the Aguada fort perched on the top of a hill, to reach where one has to drive through meandering hilly roads. In the days yonder this place made fresh water available to the passing ships. An old lighthouse, which is still functional, warned the approaching vessels of the land ahead. Today a part of the fort has been converted into a prison, where as the local grapevine says, the favorite pastime of the inmates is to periodically and successfully escape eluding the sleeping guards.
There are many places of Goa, which I missed but that shall not remain so for long. The people I met and the places I saw have left an indelible impression on me, which has only whetted my appetite. My short visit has simply left me craving for more and ever indulgent to my whims and desires that I am I shall return to the place I have come to love, Amen.
Goa has some of the finest beaches ever but that isn’t all there is to it. It is the ambience of the place, the people, the lifestyle, and the tourists which contributes towards making it an unforgettable experience. The Portuguese influence in the architecture and cuisine is obvious but the locals have a history of their own. The place was under the influence of the Muslim rulers and later the Maratha chieftains. In the 15th century St Francis landed here with his message of Christianity and through a long drawn process of proselytism managed to win numerous converts starting a change in the sociological character of the people. Some years later the Portuguese occupied the territory defeating the local kings and thus commenced the longest episode of foreign rule in a part of India ending with the police action in 1960 which has been captured in the movie Saat Hindustani, Amitabh Bachhan’s first foray in to cinema. With that bit of trivia I shall stop my History lesson.
On the first night we went to a place called the Vaga beach, which is supposed to be a most happening place. The beach dhabas or the shacks as they are popularly known proliferate all over the coastline and we went to a place called St Anthony’s. Fish being the preferred food, we did in Goa as Goans do. An Englishman was on the mike with a guitar and belting out old numbers of Don McLean, Jim Morrison and Mark Knoffler. Listening to soulful music with the sounds of sea waves and some good wine under the belt is always an ethereal experience.
I woke up the next day to venture forth in my expedition to the paradise. The first task of the day was to prepare a massive breakfast for the full troupe of tourists, a task in which I acquitted myself reasonably well as was evident from the low level of grunts from an otherwise vocal and critical crowd. The first hurdle of the day over, we climbed into our vehicles and headed south of Goa to the Ottoda beach. What distinguishes this place from other beaches is that the tourists less frequent this place.
Swimming in the sea is something I love! Looking into the water while swimming gives you a feeling of anonymity as well as the realization of the puniness of the individual existence in the face of the might of the nature’s forces. A good swim always makes one hungry. So after a big lunch of fish curry and rice, a nice sleep on the beach was just what the Doctor ordered. After the siesta the sand was washed off the hair and trunks and we trudged back home, a cool hour’s drive away.
Another day and another beach and this time it was the most happening beach of Goa. It’s called the Baga beach. It’s between the otherwise better-known beaches of Anjuna and Calengute. Nowadays however the daytime action is always on the Baga. There are the omnipresent shacks with their variety of seafood on offer but what one goes looking for there are the water sport facilities. Para gliding, water scooters, skiing, powerboat rides and what have you. It started raining when we reached the beach so what could we poor souls do except wait under a shack mournfully ordering one feni after another. The rain stopped before our heads started swimming and bravely I stepped forward to pay for my ticket for Para Sailing. Twelve hundred bucks lighter I could have flown without any assistance anyway! Unfortunately or fortunately someone started fighting with the ticket chap and all of us ticket holders raved & ranted about the delay caused and how we were so short of time and what has the world come to, so every body decided to go in for a refund. The money back in my pocket I came back to the shack to join the others in enjoying the good things of life.
Well, on to the saga of the beaches. You must have heard of the Anjuna beach. It was famous for its cluster of hippies during the days of the flower power and most popular among the desi tourists as the chances of spotting the nude white woman were the brightest here. The nudies are no longer there so apart from the must do visit the tourists steer clear of this place. The neo hippies are however still found and often you can smell the whiff of dope smoke. We reached this place in the evening when the sun was about to set. The sky was clear so the interplay of colors on the water orchestrated by the setting of the sun mesmerized me. Bright shades of orange turned into golden hues as the sun embarked on its journey to the bottom of the sea. As a child I often wondered if it came out from the other side still intact and unaffected by the water. Happily as it turned out the sun still shines bright. There may be an eclipse every now and then but it goes on. Isn’t that how life is supposed to be? Life on the Anjuna, however, changes by the evening. There is this massive shack; I forget the name, which houses a monstrous music system. It was playing some continuous techno music, which was driving an estimated crowd of over a thousand foreigners crazy into a foot tapping throng of dancers. The ambience was irresistible and the feet start obeying autosuggestion of the music.
The last of the famous beaches is the Calengute. The name is derived from a village, which has now grown into a small township. Essentially a fisherman’s village it used to be the hub of the social activity even in the days gone by. However the evenings used to be relatively quiet except for the loud groans of the perennially inebriated or the hushed gasps of frantic lovers lurking amongst the harbored boats and fishing nets. Tourism and the inevitable developmental growth has now robbed the village of its laid back demeanor and replaced it with the omnipresent commercialism.
Out to make a quick buck the place is sprawled with shops of sundry items costing a dime but sold for a small fortune to the unsuspecting foreigners. Of course there is no dearth of gullible Indians falling in the same trap. However the place still wears a colorful look and ironically the people who make it so are the pale faces of the west. What they lack in skin color they make up with their zest for life. Everybody hires two wheelers, Kinetic Honda being the preferred vehicle, and zips around everywhere, soaking in the sun and caressing the ocean breeze. The apparel they support is a tribute to comfort unlike the bashful & coy natives who spend half the time meant for enjoying in smoothing the creases of sarees & trousers. It’s the combination of all such people which keeps Calungute pulsating at all times.
The beaches of Goa acquire a new dimension on the New Year's Eve. In fact the whole Goa does. My celebration of the day started early. No sooner had I settled into a comfortable reclining chair than the owner of the shack inquiring about my plans for the evening accosted me. As it turned out every shack owner in the vicinity had something lined up for the New Year's Eve and was actively soliciting prospective customers. We had already planned to go to a casino in the evening followed by dinner. The day passed quickly and all of us set out to paint the town red. The casino owned by an NRI dentist is in Panjim and aptly named 'Chances'. Well, we took ours and came out none
the worse. No fortune was won or lost. From there we trudged on to a discotheque, which for everyone turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. It was a totally stag affair. I couldn't care less and merrily danced my heart out. After sweating for about an hour we settled for a leisurely meal. By then my old bones were protesting against the daylong torture I had subjected them to and prodding me to call it a day. I yielded to their demand and went off to sleep and woke up to the first day of the millenium.
Goa and no mention of churches!! One third of the Goan population is Catholic, so over the years egged on by the Portuguese resources and the natural Christian enthusiasm scores of churches dot the landscape of Goa. The older ones are more majestic and graceful to behold. The Basilica Bom De Jesus literally meaning the place of the infant Christ occupies the place of pride amongst all the churches. It is here that the mortal and embalmed remains of St Francis are still preserved in a silver casket, which is perched atop a tall pedestal. The casket is brought down every ten years and a multitude of humanity converges for a glimpse of the revered Saint. Since our visit was a few years early we were denied the privilege.
Right opposite is the Se Cathedral, which built in the 1st quarter of the 17th century houses the statute of St Catherine among beautifully crafted golden panels. It’s from the main gate here that Sir Francis Albuquerque; the conqueror of Goa is reputed to have made his triumphant entry. Goa incidentally is short for Gomantak, which was the ancient name of the place.
Another beautiful church is the St Andrews, which is situated in the main market of Panjim. It’s a familiar sight because of its depiction in a number of Bollywood movies. From there on Donna Paula was the next place on the itinerary. Donna Paula is to Goa what Romeo and Juliet are to rest of the world. And these two also met the same fate reserved for all legendary lovers. The point from where the two jumped into the sea now has a memorial overlooking what is perhaps the most unclean part of Goa. On another side of this place is where water scooters are available for the interested. We had our lovely rides while my vertigo prone wife waved to us from the safe confines of the pier.
A few kilometers from Panjim is the Aguada fort perched on the top of a hill, to reach where one has to drive through meandering hilly roads. In the days yonder this place made fresh water available to the passing ships. An old lighthouse, which is still functional, warned the approaching vessels of the land ahead. Today a part of the fort has been converted into a prison, where as the local grapevine says, the favorite pastime of the inmates is to periodically and successfully escape eluding the sleeping guards.
There are many places of Goa, which I missed but that shall not remain so for long. The people I met and the places I saw have left an indelible impression on me, which has only whetted my appetite. My short visit has simply left me craving for more and ever indulgent to my whims and desires that I am I shall return to the place I have come to love, Amen.
Kerala- My Sojourn To God's Own Country
In the winter of 2000 we spent our holidays in Kerala & Goa. We started off by driving to Delhi and spending the better part of the next day in the flea market of Sarojni Nagar hunting for casual clothes and some serious chat and golgappa time. The early morning flight to Trivendrum was commanded by my first cousin. As a result we were transferred to the business class and soon we were enjoying all the goodies denied to lesser mortals. The real thrill was spending the better part of the flight in the cockpit and watching the clouds change their hues and colors. From the cockpit the experience of take off and landing is really unique. After the four hour flight we arrived at Trivendrum where another cousin of my mine who is a Doctor in the Air Force, was waiting to pick us up. Oh yes, from the air Trivendrum looks like an enormous coconut grove. One can barely see the city. Coconut being an essential ingredient of the staple diet, every house has at least four trees. The first evening in Kerala was spent on the Kovalam beach where of course the kids went mad in the water and I went mad looking at the variety of the seafood on the offer. There are these dozens of sophisticated dhabas called shacks that put various kind of raw seafood on display. One can choose what one wants to eat and the same is prepared before you. I chose to have a Kingfish grilled. Prepared with the fiery Keralite masala it was a mega hit.
The next morning we went to the Padmanabhaswami temple which houses the reclining Vishnu and is said to have been erected in the first years of the
Kaliyug. That’s 5000 years for you. I am sure the carbon dating tests do not match up to the claim but the thought of standing in a building that old is nice and humbling. The fact however is that the construction of the present
building is approximately a thousand years old and was made with the help of Chinese workmen. Their influence is unmistakable in the sculpture. The most remarkable feature was the floor, which is made of vegetable dyes and egg white and feels like soft rubber. The main entrance of the temple, which is called the gopuram, is entirely made of powdered sea shells and featured with incidents of Hindu mythology in paintings as well as sculpture.
Kanyakumari was next on the tour plan. We started early, which means as early as 10 in the morning, what with the kids screaming, the lunch getting packed and general chaos all around. Great fun nevertheless! So off we went in the Sumo we had hired. No sooner had we crossed the city that it started raining. Amidst the traffic there was a sudden screeching of brakes and an auto rickshaw rammed into the back of our Sumo. We got down and confronted a sheepish looking Keralite fellow. Unable to speak Malyalam I gestured with my hands’ Kya hua’. The fellow just stuck out his tongue and smiled and the matter ended there as there was not much damage to either of the vehicles.
The road to Kanyakumari is specked with small villages and towns which one keeps crossing with such frequency that one never really gets the feeling of being on a highway. The empty spaces are lush green in the classic Kerala style. Of course the cloudy day made the journey pleasurable. Our first stop
was Padmanabhapuram, the capital of the Travancore kings. The present lineage is of the Verma royalty. The Keralite family system is matriarchal. Hence the King (poor chap) is not allowed to marry. But he can have as many concubines as he wants (lucky dog). So it is the son of the sister who succeeds the King and the sister is regarded as the Queen. The palace of the King at Padmanabhapuram is different from the opulent variety of the north. It is the grandeur of exquisite wood craftsmanship, which captures the eye. The floors of some of the rooms have been made as I explained earlier. Even the bed of the King is made from some kind of wooden contraption having medicinal properties. The tour of the palace over we had a quick lunch of aloo poories and departed for Kanyakumari.
I had been to Kanyakumari once before in 1984, during one of the training courses while under probation in the Bank. In 16 years the face of the place has changed beyond recognition. What was once a laid back place lazily receptive to curious visitors has now become a concrete monster dotted with street smart vendors of curios at every step of the way. We quickly made our way to the ferry that takes one to the island of Rock Memorial, where Swami Vivekanand is reputed to have meditated at one time. Right next to it is another island where a massive statue of the Tamil poet Perivayoor( I hope I got the name right) has been erected. The Rock Memorial has lost some of its exclusivity after the statue’s installation. The quick pilgrimage over we headed back to Trivendrum. A few kilometers away is a place called Suchindran, which as per legend was rediscovered about 500 years ago. It houses a unique multi deity temple. The triumvirate of the Hindu gods is represented by a single figure of stone. There is also an eighteen feet high statue of Hanuman, which the devout cover, with offerings of fresh butter and betel leaves. There is another temple where it is believed that the God of Rain, Indra comes every night to take a bath. Why he needs to bathe at night puzzles me? Probably the daytime water availability is poor.
The piece-de-resistance however are the pillars outside the sanctum sanctorum. Carved out of single blocks of stones these pillars are a combination of smaller pillars, which are hollow from the inside. On beating them one by one the seven basic musical notes can be distinctively heard. On another set it is the different sounds of drums. We were in time for the Aarti so we stayed back. They had this mechanical contraption which when turned on played the drum and cymbals together to a pre determined rhythm. It was an effective accompaniment to the Vedic chants of the black clad priests and the blaring of conches and pipes. The experience is deeply moving. We went back to Trivendrum merrily playing Antakshri aided with much needed beer.
As per our original plan we were supposed to fly to Cochin but wiser counsel prevailed and we decided to drive the 500 kms from Trivendrum covering Kerala at a stretch. As it turned out it was terrific choice, thanks to my cousin’s insistence. The first stop was a Place called Varkala Beach. Well,
one has to go up a cliff before going down a rocky path to the sea. The wind ruffles your hair and makes those crazy sounds and one has a beautiful view of the sea stretching for endless miles. Calm and serene… remember the movie “EK DOOJE KE LIYE”. The last scene where the star-crossed lovers die falling from the rocks. Well this place was something like that … only I did not slip. From there we went onwards about 15 kilometers down road and arrived at a fishermen’s village be the sea side. There was a small restaurant where we decided to eat. Since we were the probably the first customers in the past few weeks the Matre De grandly announced that the table will be set in about an hours time. Hunger taking precedence over anger we politely asked him if a boat could be rented to cover the backwaters (Backwater incidentally is seawater locked by land due to breaches in the coast or high tide spilling water overland). The Matre De regally told us that that was just what he had in mind. He blew a whistle and Lo & Behold a long boat arrived to take the hungry souls on an hour-long trip. I suspect these guys had an arrangement where he would calmly delay the arrival if the food was not ready in the allotted time. Anyway the backwater experience was not bad at all. This particular place was full of the Portuguese Man of War, which for the uninitiated is a jellyfish. It’s a poisonous creature but beautiful to look at, just like half of the fairer sex. So everybody merrily sang and got photographed and tried to forget the hunger pangs. The hour passed quickly, the Matre De took pity, the boat returned and the ravenous group attacked the food and took no prisoners. The chicken, Dosas, Rice etc. vanished at an alarming rate. The Matre De wore a harried look and was panting, running to and fro from the kitchen. Served him right! From there to Cochin was a long ride between the lush palm trees and green, green, green all around. The place gets to you. We reached Cochin late in the evening. Arrangements for our stay had made in the mess in the Southern Naval Command HQS. So everybody crashed after a leisurely Chinese Meal where a lobster was added to my considerable gastronomic repertoire. The next morning we quickly took a round of Cochin, which included a high seas ride to an island where in solitary glory, is the Buggati Palace. This place was built in the 18th Century by a Dutch trader and later taken over by the British who used it as the Residency till independence. It's being restored to its former glory and then would be used as a Hotel.
On the 29 Th Dec we beat the clock to reach Cochin airport on time only to find that the flight was delayed by an hour. So we waited and waited…it was tough as the anticipation of reaching Goa was strong and any delay was brooked with irritation and boredom. Any way the time passed, the plane arrived and off we went to paradise. But more of that later.
The next morning we went to the Padmanabhaswami temple which houses the reclining Vishnu and is said to have been erected in the first years of the
Kaliyug. That’s 5000 years for you. I am sure the carbon dating tests do not match up to the claim but the thought of standing in a building that old is nice and humbling. The fact however is that the construction of the present
building is approximately a thousand years old and was made with the help of Chinese workmen. Their influence is unmistakable in the sculpture. The most remarkable feature was the floor, which is made of vegetable dyes and egg white and feels like soft rubber. The main entrance of the temple, which is called the gopuram, is entirely made of powdered sea shells and featured with incidents of Hindu mythology in paintings as well as sculpture.
Kanyakumari was next on the tour plan. We started early, which means as early as 10 in the morning, what with the kids screaming, the lunch getting packed and general chaos all around. Great fun nevertheless! So off we went in the Sumo we had hired. No sooner had we crossed the city that it started raining. Amidst the traffic there was a sudden screeching of brakes and an auto rickshaw rammed into the back of our Sumo. We got down and confronted a sheepish looking Keralite fellow. Unable to speak Malyalam I gestured with my hands’ Kya hua’. The fellow just stuck out his tongue and smiled and the matter ended there as there was not much damage to either of the vehicles.
The road to Kanyakumari is specked with small villages and towns which one keeps crossing with such frequency that one never really gets the feeling of being on a highway. The empty spaces are lush green in the classic Kerala style. Of course the cloudy day made the journey pleasurable. Our first stop
was Padmanabhapuram, the capital of the Travancore kings. The present lineage is of the Verma royalty. The Keralite family system is matriarchal. Hence the King (poor chap) is not allowed to marry. But he can have as many concubines as he wants (lucky dog). So it is the son of the sister who succeeds the King and the sister is regarded as the Queen. The palace of the King at Padmanabhapuram is different from the opulent variety of the north. It is the grandeur of exquisite wood craftsmanship, which captures the eye. The floors of some of the rooms have been made as I explained earlier. Even the bed of the King is made from some kind of wooden contraption having medicinal properties. The tour of the palace over we had a quick lunch of aloo poories and departed for Kanyakumari.
I had been to Kanyakumari once before in 1984, during one of the training courses while under probation in the Bank. In 16 years the face of the place has changed beyond recognition. What was once a laid back place lazily receptive to curious visitors has now become a concrete monster dotted with street smart vendors of curios at every step of the way. We quickly made our way to the ferry that takes one to the island of Rock Memorial, where Swami Vivekanand is reputed to have meditated at one time. Right next to it is another island where a massive statue of the Tamil poet Perivayoor( I hope I got the name right) has been erected. The Rock Memorial has lost some of its exclusivity after the statue’s installation. The quick pilgrimage over we headed back to Trivendrum. A few kilometers away is a place called Suchindran, which as per legend was rediscovered about 500 years ago. It houses a unique multi deity temple. The triumvirate of the Hindu gods is represented by a single figure of stone. There is also an eighteen feet high statue of Hanuman, which the devout cover, with offerings of fresh butter and betel leaves. There is another temple where it is believed that the God of Rain, Indra comes every night to take a bath. Why he needs to bathe at night puzzles me? Probably the daytime water availability is poor.
The piece-de-resistance however are the pillars outside the sanctum sanctorum. Carved out of single blocks of stones these pillars are a combination of smaller pillars, which are hollow from the inside. On beating them one by one the seven basic musical notes can be distinctively heard. On another set it is the different sounds of drums. We were in time for the Aarti so we stayed back. They had this mechanical contraption which when turned on played the drum and cymbals together to a pre determined rhythm. It was an effective accompaniment to the Vedic chants of the black clad priests and the blaring of conches and pipes. The experience is deeply moving. We went back to Trivendrum merrily playing Antakshri aided with much needed beer.
As per our original plan we were supposed to fly to Cochin but wiser counsel prevailed and we decided to drive the 500 kms from Trivendrum covering Kerala at a stretch. As it turned out it was terrific choice, thanks to my cousin’s insistence. The first stop was a Place called Varkala Beach. Well,
one has to go up a cliff before going down a rocky path to the sea. The wind ruffles your hair and makes those crazy sounds and one has a beautiful view of the sea stretching for endless miles. Calm and serene… remember the movie “EK DOOJE KE LIYE”. The last scene where the star-crossed lovers die falling from the rocks. Well this place was something like that … only I did not slip. From there we went onwards about 15 kilometers down road and arrived at a fishermen’s village be the sea side. There was a small restaurant where we decided to eat. Since we were the probably the first customers in the past few weeks the Matre De grandly announced that the table will be set in about an hours time. Hunger taking precedence over anger we politely asked him if a boat could be rented to cover the backwaters (Backwater incidentally is seawater locked by land due to breaches in the coast or high tide spilling water overland). The Matre De regally told us that that was just what he had in mind. He blew a whistle and Lo & Behold a long boat arrived to take the hungry souls on an hour-long trip. I suspect these guys had an arrangement where he would calmly delay the arrival if the food was not ready in the allotted time. Anyway the backwater experience was not bad at all. This particular place was full of the Portuguese Man of War, which for the uninitiated is a jellyfish. It’s a poisonous creature but beautiful to look at, just like half of the fairer sex. So everybody merrily sang and got photographed and tried to forget the hunger pangs. The hour passed quickly, the Matre De took pity, the boat returned and the ravenous group attacked the food and took no prisoners. The chicken, Dosas, Rice etc. vanished at an alarming rate. The Matre De wore a harried look and was panting, running to and fro from the kitchen. Served him right! From there to Cochin was a long ride between the lush palm trees and green, green, green all around. The place gets to you. We reached Cochin late in the evening. Arrangements for our stay had made in the mess in the Southern Naval Command HQS. So everybody crashed after a leisurely Chinese Meal where a lobster was added to my considerable gastronomic repertoire. The next morning we quickly took a round of Cochin, which included a high seas ride to an island where in solitary glory, is the Buggati Palace. This place was built in the 18th Century by a Dutch trader and later taken over by the British who used it as the Residency till independence. It's being restored to its former glory and then would be used as a Hotel.
On the 29 Th Dec we beat the clock to reach Cochin airport on time only to find that the flight was delayed by an hour. So we waited and waited…it was tough as the anticipation of reaching Goa was strong and any delay was brooked with irritation and boredom. Any way the time passed, the plane arrived and off we went to paradise. But more of that later.
Saturday 22 September 2007
Movie Review-RGV'S Aag
| Powered by: Chakpak.com | Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag |
Lets get this straight, I am a Ram Gopal Verma fan. His movies are slick, interesting and gripping. But this time it is none of the above. It was always an uphill task to live up to the rep of Sholay but our man Verma didn't even put up a decent fight.
Let's start with the basics. The entire ensemble of actors is miscast. Every one in the movie should have been doing someone else's role or none at all. Devgun is a weak Veeru ( His take on the Dharam's sharabi scene on the water tank is rank terrible. In any case he has walked thru the movie like a zombie). Who the hell is this Prashant Raj a-la Jai? The man's only USP is his height. The rest is nothing to write home about. The portly Mohan Lal lives the role of an overfed, over nourished Thakur/Narsimhan. I am sure the dosa shop in the neighborhood did roaring business during the shooting. The poor fella must have been so tired by the end of his gastronomic adventures that his dialogue delivery is worse than a literary recitation by a 5 year old. Nisha Kothari looks cute but then I have always been partial to Pahari women aur woh bhi Uttarakhandi, so you guys can form your own opinion. She did chatter dime a dozen but Hema bhabi ki yaad bahut ayee. Finally the Boss. Mr Bachhan after 40 odd years in cinema ought to learn that hanging his mouth like a lap dog and giving blank looks of his forest pool eyes is not necessarily good acting. I thought that his cub in his now-I-am-here and now-I am-gone did a better job in his two minute special appearance. Sushmita has always been, was in this movie and will always be outstanding. Sush baby I dig ya.
The good news is not because of Verma ji but despite him. Occasionally you are transported back to the good ol 70s Sholay by the background music, hints of the original dialogues (Holi, kab hai holi…..only this time it is Diwali). All in all ladies and gentlemen watch it for the curiosity factor and for a subject matter for bitching all Sunday afternoon before or after the beer and bar-b-cue.
Movie review-The Bourne Trilogy
The Bourne Trilogy
A certain Madam Revamp of the Chicago Random House had commissioned me to write the review of The Bourne Ultimatum but the same wasn't possible without refreshing my memory of the first movie of the series and having actually seen the second one. (For the cinematically challenged it ought to be clarified that The Bourne Identity was released in 2002 followed by The Bourne Supremacy in 2004 and the latest, The Bourne Ultimatum in the current year). Now I had missed the 2 nd one when it was released in Chandigarh and the 3rd one hasn't been released here yet. So I committed the cyber crime of downloading both the movies from a P2P network and watched them in succession.
Each movie can be seen in isolation and enjoyed which good moviemakers aspire to achieve. The action is high voltage, relentless and breathtaking. The 2 nd & 3rd are however similar and at times repetitive in this respect. At times it looks more like the action director's baby than anything else. Its made to look believable so can be enjoyed by all movie buffs. Now this is where the purist in me starts flapping his wings. Apart from the opening sequence of Jason Bourne's retrieval from the sea in a shot up, half dead state the story doesn't even bear a passing resemblance to the book series. So guys like me who read the Robert Ludlum classics in their college days have a problem. The emotional trauma of an amnesic who suspects that he is an assassin is missing. The hero of the books is constantly at war with what he doesn't want to be and what he instinctively is. I still remember the Korean war cry "Che Saw" which JB utters in the first unarmed combat.
The books carried the romance of the world of espionage in the era of cold war. "Carlos The Jackal" evoked awe and inspired guys like Ludlum to weave spellbinding stories around him. But Gorbochov played spoilsport and broke up The Evil Empire. Illych Ramírez Sánchez aka Carlos lost his steam and got arrested by the French. Therefore it's understandable that in the current context the original story may not receive cinematic acceptance by the audience. The motives of Carlos and the importance of his capture would simply be lost on the MTV generation. So instead of unraveling the intricacies of global espionage of the 70s, now it's a greedy Russian oil billionaire who is to be neutralized.
The love story of Bourne and Marie St Jacques also never really takes off. They are constantly on the run in the first two movies and the lady is conveniently bumped off in the beginning of the third. No titillating scenes which is good but no emotional development of the love interest which is disappointing. Just raw, heart thumping action. Great to watch but I will not remember the movies after sometime.
TRIVIA
The Bourne Identity was rated as the second greatest spy novel.
Two of the greatest fictional undercover agents James Bond and Jason Bourne share the same initials. Coincidence??
The 1987 Tamil movie Vetri Vizha starring Kamal Haasan is a loose adaptation of the Bourne Identity.
A recommended watch is "The Assignment" featuring Aidan Quinn and Donald Sutherland (one of my favorite actors). It's about the mission of a CIA operative trained to capture Carlos. Watch it for all the things I missed in the Bourne series.
A certain Madam Revamp of the Chicago Random House had commissioned me to write the review of The Bourne Ultimatum but the same wasn't possible without refreshing my memory of the first movie of the series and having actually seen the second one. (For the cinematically challenged it ought to be clarified that The Bourne Identity was released in 2002 followed by The Bourne Supremacy in 2004 and the latest, The Bourne Ultimatum in the current year). Now I had missed the 2 nd one when it was released in Chandigarh and the 3rd one hasn't been released here yet. So I committed the cyber crime of downloading both the movies from a P2P network and watched them in succession.
Each movie can be seen in isolation and enjoyed which good moviemakers aspire to achieve. The action is high voltage, relentless and breathtaking. The 2 nd & 3rd are however similar and at times repetitive in this respect. At times it looks more like the action director's baby than anything else. Its made to look believable so can be enjoyed by all movie buffs. Now this is where the purist in me starts flapping his wings. Apart from the opening sequence of Jason Bourne's retrieval from the sea in a shot up, half dead state the story doesn't even bear a passing resemblance to the book series. So guys like me who read the Robert Ludlum classics in their college days have a problem. The emotional trauma of an amnesic who suspects that he is an assassin is missing. The hero of the books is constantly at war with what he doesn't want to be and what he instinctively is. I still remember the Korean war cry "Che Saw" which JB utters in the first unarmed combat.
The books carried the romance of the world of espionage in the era of cold war. "Carlos The Jackal" evoked awe and inspired guys like Ludlum to weave spellbinding stories around him. But Gorbochov played spoilsport and broke up The Evil Empire. Illych Ramírez Sánchez aka Carlos lost his steam and got arrested by the French. Therefore it's understandable that in the current context the original story may not receive cinematic acceptance by the audience. The motives of Carlos and the importance of his capture would simply be lost on the MTV generation. So instead of unraveling the intricacies of global espionage of the 70s, now it's a greedy Russian oil billionaire who is to be neutralized.
The love story of Bourne and Marie St Jacques also never really takes off. They are constantly on the run in the first two movies and the lady is conveniently bumped off in the beginning of the third. No titillating scenes which is good but no emotional development of the love interest which is disappointing. Just raw, heart thumping action. Great to watch but I will not remember the movies after sometime.
TRIVIA
The Bourne Identity was rated as the second greatest spy novel.
Two of the greatest fictional undercover agents James Bond and Jason Bourne share the same initials. Coincidence??
The 1987 Tamil movie Vetri Vizha starring Kamal Haasan is a loose adaptation of the Bourne Identity.
A recommended watch is "The Assignment" featuring Aidan Quinn and Donald Sutherland (one of my favorite actors). It's about the mission of a CIA operative trained to capture Carlos. Watch it for all the things I missed in the Bourne series.
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