Life-altering journeys have less of an itinerary and more intent. To leave behind. To start anew. It is reminisced and written about as a spur-of-the-moment thingy which it is not really. But the apparent recklessness adds to the romance, gives it an edge. So be it. Anteceding it is usually years, if not decades, of unfulfilled living. It doesn’t always have to be one fraught with frustrations and disappointments but ironically could even have been one of material surfeit and sensory saturation. The long road beckons. Take it till the horizon and drop it all over the edge. And return like the rising sun. Sounds easy but the glory demands its mean pound of grit and grind. More so if you are a white collar worthy. And a mother. Much more if you are overweight. And carrying on with the boss.

Her hedonistic highness

As in-charge of the human resource department of an organisation till about a decade ago, Liz Earls sat behind a desk, a plump, almost-matronly figure, poring over appointment letters and employee training manuals.  A divorcee with two teenage daughters, the only event in an otherwise non-happening life was the occasional clandestine tryst with her married boss – who inspired her to follow her dreams and who remains that special ‘one’ in her life. She gave up her job at the company and began to work as an erotic photographer – something she always wanted to do. Soon she began basking in all the attention from the men and women she was shooting and gladly gave in to their sexual overtures. She was hitting 40 and she knew there was a lot to make up for. She didn’t want to dwell into the past but asseverated to herself that she would make the most of every moment that lay ahead. Raffish dreams but they were hers anyway. And for her to take care of.

‘Days of the cougar: The outrageous visual diary of sexual adventurer Liz Earls’ chronicles her carnal voyage that lasted over two years across several countries. Her explicit sexual encounters with men aged 19 – 32 years, from all walks of life, shot either by herself, her companion or on timer, fill 250 glossy pages accompanied by inspired write ups. A coffee table book you may not exactly want to leave on the coffee table. “This is what I am, this is what I always wanted to do,” Liz makes no bones about her passion which has become a profession – her company Fantasy Capture in Los Angeles specialises in erotica and fetish photography.

Liz Earls, in a no-holds-barred chat with Wanderink.com.

‘Days of the Cougar’ made waves for the explicit sexual content. Understandably little has said about the years of travel that went into it. What was more liberating – the sex or the sojourn?

I think both are very liberating and they go hand in hand – it’s a bit like a package. Traveling opens you up to different cultures and meeting people that you wouldn’t otherwise meet. Travel has always been a part of my life from a very young age – so it comes very natural to me and I enjoy it very much.

So fa, so good

Travel liberates, brings one close to different cultures, people. How else does travel work for you?

Travel reaffirms my spontaneity. For example, I had a New York trip booked, and then three days before the trip I got an invite to an erotic party in Paris. I booked a flight to Paris the day I was to leave for NY. And not only did I go to Paris, but I stopped over in Istanbul for three days, completely on a whim. Had an amazing time. I ended up missing the connection to Paris for the party and staying in Istanbul an extra day. It was quite an experience. I met a rug shop owner while walking down the street after a beautiful dinner and ended up dry humping him in the shop.

How much does the sex mean to you?

It really varies. I would say, 90 maybe 80 per cent of the time I only have sex for the art of it. Other times it can be like the rug guy – or the guy I met in a Sydney hotel elevator where we said almost nothing to each other. It was 2AM and I was wearing only a white furry Four Seasons bathrobe. He came into my suite and we fucked each other all morning. He left around 9AM and I never even asked his name.

What else do you look for other than sex when you travel?

I know I probably come across as a sex fiend but I really enjoy the scenery and culture and just generally getting to know a place. I look for models to shoot as well as new scenes to shoot myself in. I do want sex but it’s not all I want. I’m all about the experience, the journey, and if it happens to lead to sex, that’s cool, but I’m not an addict, I get plenty of it, so don’t feel the need to go after it, it just sort of comes to me.

Which all places have you been to, countries, in the course of your work?

(Laughs) Okay. Yes, I have been all over the world: Australia, Norway, Portugal, Spain, too many places to list quite honestly. I tend to travel continuously for a year, putting everything in storage, and going ‘nomadic,’ literally, just hopping on a plane and figuring it all out as I go along. I am leaving again this April and will be travelling for about eight months. I like to leave myself open because often times I will get an invite to a place I had not even considered on my radar like Poland or Columbia. I must have been around the world five times or so. There are still places I haven’t been to like many countries in Asia and Africa including India. It’s easier to list places I haven’t been to than the countries I have visited. There really isn’t a place I would not want to go. Every place is unique though unfortunately not all countries are safe to go to.

Tick…tick…tick…click

Has your sexual quest landed you in any potentially threatening situation?

No, I have been lucky, I suppose, but also I think I am very intuitive. There have been maybe two or three people at most that I wouldn’t want to see again. None of them dangerous, but they got too attached is more the issue. This one person, one of the three I wouldn’t see again, was an interesting situation. He came in and seemed super nervous, put money in a drawer for me, which is really unusual. It’s generally just, “Here you go for the photos.” We had an interesting session, not rough, but definitely edgy Afterwards, we ended up talking for over an hour, maybe two. It’s not unusual for sessions to become like therapy as I am genuinely interested in each person I am with, even if it’s just for a few hours. I could tell he felt close, and he hugged me for the longest time as he was leaving. He was genuinely moved, and I could tell he felt bad that he gave me counterfeit money. Yes, the money in the drawer wasn’t real. I knew it even before the session began, just a feeling. But something in me said to let it go. And I’m glad I did. It’s not always about money and I honestly know that that night changed him.

How do you turn down somebody you are not interested in without risking getting raped?

I don’t know if there is a certain behavior or attitude a woman can have to ward off potential rapists – that’s a whole different ballgame. I think it can happen and does to all kinds of women, confident or not. It’s dangerous to say, ‘If the woman had been more confident or did something different then she wouldn’t have been raped.’ It’s really more the rapist that we should be asking: what can be done to teach these men how to treat women (and people in general) with respect and not use your cock as a weapon? Rape isn’t sex – it’s a power trip and a pathetic one at that. I turn down many men, but I do it gently and respectfully.

What turns you on in somebody?

I’m not a cougar in the sense of going on the ‘prowl’ and looking for young men to buy things for or take care of. I’m actually quite the opposite. I like men of all ages and I am more about them taking care of me.

Is it all about making love or is there a love angle too…in that old-fashioned romantic sense?

I really only have one person I am in love with and it’s totally separate from the guys that I play and shoot with. It’s totally different and hard to explain. Not that I don’t care about these other men but it’s just for the time we are together. I play with a lot of people to be honest, I don’t even remember most after about a week. I know that may sound very slutty and possibly shallow. But if I recall each encounter or try to hold that memory in my head I think my head would explode. Just too many, really. Some have become friends for sure but not in the romantic sense.

Room service with a twist…and a twirl

How random are these hookups?

Besides this one true love of mine, the others are there for artistic reasons only, not that I don’t feel something in the moment for them but it’s not at all a love situation. The only requirement I have for photo play is a mutual respect, and it’s a paid situation, so a photo play client needs to have financial ability to pay – and of course be respectful. Open-minded is always a plus. In the case of the random hookups, it’s just pure chemistry and unique situation, and almost always instigated by me or it’s mutual. If a guy is the one pursuing it can be a turn off for me. Not that it’s not flattering but I lose interest. Best is when somehow we just connect, like the rug guy in Istanbul. Or the pilot I met in a bar that never experienced a strap-on, whom I took him up to my room and showed him my toys and one thing led to another.

You were a disillusioned corporate worker, overweight and distraught, before you decided to follow your dream. What was the makeover like?

I lost 75 pounds thanks to a programme called Jenny Craig, somewhat like Weight Watchers, with prepackaged food. But on top of that I worked out like crazy – just somehow got fixated and determined to lose the weight. I fell in love with my boss and it just made me want to jump back into life – to feel sexy and alive. I wanted to feel good and look good. And I had to do surgery afterwards, to remove excess skin after losing so much weight. Doing it so fast didn’t give time for my skin to bounce back. Everything sagged, so I had my boobs done – they look and feel extremely natural, as I had implants through the belly button, and a tummy tuck, the works. It was a rebirth, like I finally had the body that was meant to be me.

It’s a constant struggle for me to stay fit. I go from working out every day to taking months off. I don’t know why it’s such a difficult thing for me to stay on a regular routine. I am on top of it but sometimes better than other times. I am fasting this week, just drinking protein shakes and working out.

Looking good is important in your line of work.

It’s extremely important. I want to look how I feel – sexy. Not to mention the energy you have when you take care of yourself. A person’s sex drive also increases when you work out regularly. If I feel like I look good, I feel sexier. I think how you look is a reflection of how you feel about yourself.

With Baywatch star Pamela Anderson

Besides shooting raunchy fantasies, would you take up something tamer, say like a wedding ceremony? Or will you insist they throw in the nuptial night as well? Ha ha…

I joke about that too. I would be happy to do the honeymoon. I have only shot a wedding once, for a friend and hated every second of it. I do shoot quite a few musicians and music videos, however. And before I shot erotic I worked for a newspaper and magazine, shooting current events, sports, and real estate. The magazine was a sound-related publication that introduced me to the movie and music industry in LA. I think music is a lot like sex – it’s raw and soulful and revealing.

How important it is for you to immerse in – by being a participant – what you are filming?

I discovered pretty early on that I am not a voyeur. I would go to swinger parties and while sometimes the guy I was with was content on watching I was much more about participating. That’s why when I started shooting erotic photography I put myself in the photographs almost right away. I felt almost immediately that I wanted to tell a story or immerse myself in the eroticism – it was my own photo therapy maybe.

Your family, friends and relatives. And that one-and-only. Are they supportive of your work?

My family has been very supportive. I am appreciative and somewhat surprised, quite honestly. My dad and sister and her family are very religious but we just don’t really talk about it much. I visit them and they visit me and we are close and I know they are happy for me. My nephews are about the same age or older than some of the men I have been with, so it got a little weird when I last visited them about a year ago. I went to a party and all my nephews’ friends were hitting on me. My nephews were very protective of their ‘Aunt Liz.’ I also have two daughters, who are now 22 and 25. I wasn’t doing the erotic photography and play when they were young and living with me. They are very supportive as well. But there have been some difficult situations, like when one of my younger daughter’s boyfriends asked her to introduce him to me. My daughter responded by saying, ‘I’m not her agent,’ and then broke up with him. But overall they know I am doing what I am meant to be doing, and that’s the greatest lesson you can teach your kids.

Deeogee – among the few true loves

The one I was most worried about was my ex-boss, the one I had the affair with, the one that motivated me to lose the weight. I’m very much in love with him and worried that it could potentially really hurt him. For sure it shocked him. We went through a rough patch around it. But it’s all good now. We have been together for 14 years. To be honest, even if I hadn’t had the support or approval of my family or friends it wouldn’t have stopped me. I would have been a little bummed, maybe, but I’m doing what I love, it’s a passion. I feel it’s my path, to say it’s a calling may sound a bit odd but I can’t imagine not living this life. This is who I genuinely am.

You have, what comes to my mind is how Thoreau put it, ‘sucked out the marrow of life’ for over a decade. What’s left?

I look forward to every day. I still love everything I do, and feel extremely lucky that I am in the place that I am in. I am not even close to feeling burnt out. I love new experiences, and meeting people. Maybe, just maybe, when I am 70 I will get married or live with someone and hope I’m still shooting. Even if I’m not in the shots.

A joke I just came up with: when the cougar travels everybody goes places. Do you like it?

Very funny.

Decollement beneath Uttarakhand provides a coherent fault… warned two recent studies. In simple temblor-ese, a devastating earthquake could knock Uttarakhand off the mountain ledges into oblivion. The ‘fault’ which is a curved fracture has been forming for around 700 years – making it ripe for a rupture – the earthquake can strike anytime.

In all my eight years in Delhi, I have been to the salubrious Uttarakhand every summer for the usual reasons – trekking and rafting. It was like visiting an aunt because she made the best appam and mutton stew; now it was time to visit her because she was ailing, her days numbered. The aunt of course, as it turned out, was not meekly resigned but merrily defiant about tectonic fates. Plates.

The Kosi gurgles next door

The sun that lights up the world struggles to be seen in Ghaziabad; construction once the sunrise industry of this migrant Eldorado today blocks out the sunrise itself. Everywhere is hazy; fluidic dust and concrete particles mill about the air – big ones like those after a hessian shakedown. It is gnawing watching the fighting orange of the rising sun getting reduced to fading ochre as it struggles through the mortar skein. There is nothing more you want to do in Ghaziabad than exit it ASAP; the brilliant strategy would be to start early before the city rises and swamps itself. This ‘gateway to UP’ also marks the beginning of a series of tolls – at least three collection plazas and two hundred rupees by the time you reach Rampur, 250* km away. The 12 km from Rampur to Rudrapur which marks the UP – Uttarakhand border is a strong contender for the most bone-wracking, shock-creaking stretch in the country. Makes you wonder where our road tax money is going (the toll money at least we know – in high-security vans to the bank every evening).

Wood denser, birds chirpier…

‘Equine Breeding Stud’ peeps out in bold white letters on neelam blue as you whiz over the flyover in Babugarh, 45 km from Ghaziabad. A gentle reminder, if you bother, of the sights and histories passed over in the name of haste and convenience. The EBS, established in 1811, provides the Indian Army with horses and mules used to transport supplies and ammunition to inaccessible mountain regions. Its main stable at 193 metres is reportedly the longest in the world. From Babugarh traffic clears considerably and once you pass Hapur a few kilometres away, wind down for some fresh countryside air. The 140 km from Babugarh to Rampur takes just about two hours. The road is decent and double-lane in stretches and the trucks are also cruising comfortably – un-budging from their hegemonic right lanes. ‘Wait for side’ is a highway myth – the realisation is now embedded in your instinct. As you overtake them from the left make sure those tassels are not signalling limbs. Not that it matters anyway as you are stepping on it.

A Nestle nightmare…free water

One or two from a group bunched around a hookah gazed up with disinterest from a distant veranda as we entered Rampur. There was no one on the road – a quietude soon rectified by numerous cantankerous tractors piled high with timber juddering along at high speeds. There are a couple of dhabas – both ‘Punjabi’ – along the Haldwani bye pass. Breakfast time: Paneer parathas washed down with rose-flavoured lassi and topped with one or two kadak chais. Don’t let the swarming armies of gnats dissuade you from trying the pickled lemon locally grown – they are A-delish! Top tip: Ditch that bottled water, fill your canisters instead with water from the hydraulic pumps – it is potable. Though you are still in UP, a few more kilometres is Rudrapur the border. In fact, there are hand pumps almost every few kilometres of the Kumaon region through which we will be traversing. Mineral-rich water.  And free. A Nestle nightmare. From Rudrapur you pass through the warehouse-suburbs of industrial Pantnagar; turn right at the bifurcation for Haldwani. (It is marked but with arthritic-stricken arrow marks.)

Call the diesel supply officer

Faraway hills provide the scenic balm for the otherwise nervy traffic of Haldwani. The congestion is so concentrated that the entire town looks like an extended carnival set. Branded shops line both sides of the narrow main road, vehicles go wherever there is space and traffic cops have devised their own hand signals including one that could have meant ‘one minute’ – I’m not sure as I saw it too late. No whistles, no number-noting, just another signal which might have meant ‘how could you?’ There are a couple of liquor shops just outside the city in case you forgot to bring your own. The zonked-out exhilaration of the drive begins from Haldwani – the road begins to loop all the way up to Nainital, at 2000 metres. Nainital is a favoured getaway from Delhi and the lakeside road is teeming with families on a leisurely post-lunch stroll. A match is on at the cricket ground flanking the water and a bigger crowd is roaring at the proceedings than what was seen at many IPL matches.

The Baijnath Temple complex

It is a pity that for most Nainital marks the end of the drive. The woods become denser and the birds chirpier from here. Multihued gulmohar blooms are strewn everywhere, cheering you from above are jacaranda canopies. The road climbs and dips sharply; if you have an altimeter on the readings change with a compelling rapidity. You can either head straight to Almora and from there to Kausani if you want to take the shorter route (shorter by 40 km) or save it for the return leg like I did. About 15 km short of Almora, there is a sharp banking to the left – so sharp you are almost retracing your route – which is the way to Ranikhet (Nainital to Kausani via Ranikhet is 115 km). The rest of the way you will be playing peekaboo with the Kosi River – mostly dry bed and stones this time of the year or fruit and vegetable patches. Ranikhet is a cantonment area and a small fee of Rs 20 is charged for passing through. On both sides of the road there are quaint bungalows – remains of the Raj. And other buildings from the era so decrepit that they have been abandoned but so pretty that probably no one had the heart to pull them down. Yet.

Kausani ‘town’ is just one junction teeming with local lads who will waylay you with offers of ‘Himalayan view rooms’; in these parts anything bigger than a knoll is ‘Himalayan.’ There are accommodation options for all budget brackets. The in-house restaurants of most of the bigger properties are hygienic and have a delectable spread, mostly north Indian. Authentic Kausani preparations are few, mostly dal-based, but should be ordered in advance. Fish preparations are avoidable though. Alcohol is not officially available but any demand is usually met with the Indian winner ‘ho jayega’ (‘can be arranged’).

Anashakti Ashram

Another commodity that is not officially available in Kausani – not to outsiders, not easily, not in plenty – is diesel. After almost 500 km, I was touching reserve. I had just enough for sightseeing the next day. We went to Baijnath (18 km from town) and found the fuel outlets deserted; were turned away from two more. But surely where scores of jeep taxis were plying, there had to be diesel somewhere. We decided to ask some cops who directed us to a grocer who in turn jotted down the number of the DSO on a newspaper. The go-about: Call up the DSO, tell him the predicament (indignation works better than screaming or whining). He will in turn direct you to a fuel pump; he sent us to one in Bageshwar, 20 km further away from Baijnath. When we reached the station, the DSO had called up the pump attendant with our car number. Diesel was in short supply in Kausani and the system apparently ensured that everybody got enough for a day’s fare. And made hoarding impossible. Yeah. And all black money stashed away in Swiss banks would be brought back for hospitals and roads. Psst: If you are in Kausani and out of gas, call Mr Kandari (who sounded very genial and helpful) at 9997210874 for help. In case the number has changed, you know the drill.

The system did have some undeniable highlights though, like the drive from Baijnath to Bageshwar it mandated. The winding road was serenaded by a gurgling Kosi just a stone throw away. The air was crisp, punctuated by the sweet sting of eucalyptus in places. A clear sunlight dappled through the pine trees. The kind of road where songs are written; the kind of road about which songs are written. There was heartbreak too: trees had been trussed up into uniform-length logs which lay by the road awaiting their final journey.

The last laugh: Deepak

On our way back from Bageshwar, we stopped by the Baijnath Temple. A group of temples from the 9th to 12th centuries in the typical Nagara style assigned to the kings of Kartikeyapura. Though the main ‘shikhara’ or spire had collapsed, many of the 17 subsidiary temples have withstood time – recommended if you are a heritage buff. The Anashakti Ashram in Kausani where Mahatma Gandhi meditated for three weeks has some rare photographs from his life. I particularly liked the one of his with the petite Indira in a frock. The Ashram was renting out rooms to families and newlyweds. “We don’t ask for money but you can pay Rs 300 or 500 depending on your capacity,” the caretaker informed. Other attractions around Kausani include the Sarla Ashram, Rudrahari Waterfalls, Sumitrananadan Pant Gallery and the tea garden. The suggested alternative would be to curl up with that book in your hotel balcony facing the hills. If you have the time you could trek to the origin of Kosi: a 2 km, moderate trek from Someshwar which lies 10 km along the Almora road.

On our way back we stopped for breakfast. With a curvy, bushy moustache and a personable air, Deepak Singh Mehta could pass for a Bhojpuri movie star. Did he know that? He just laughed. Uttarakhand is a very seismically active zone and an earthquake could be just round the corner. How about that?

“I know we are in zone five,” he replied, holding my gaze unblinking. “If there is an earthquake in the big cities you will run from one crowded street to another. Or you may not even reach the ground from your apartment. Here at least we have vast open areas to run to.”

He laughed again.

Maybe he caught me wincing.

*The distance is with reference to Dwarka, about 30 km southwest of Delhi. By the time we reached Kausani from Delhi, it was 470 km and 12 hours including breakfast and lunch time. Coming back via Almora, is about 430 km. 

Those who waited on the Sahib at the Sukh Mahal in Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Letters of Marque’ (Nov – Dec, 1887) have remained so, at least in spirit. The twitchy munshi today mans the reception – one eye on the fax machine; the eager-to-please chowkidar is still at your service – but once the babu has been fed and tucked in for the night at the tile-clad air-conditioned wing next door.

Going by how Kipling describes the Sukh Mahal – ‘delightful spot to rest in’ and ‘beyond the city’ – I am safely assuming these ‘houses’ ‘open to the winds of heaven and pigeons of the Raj’ were the illustrious predecessors of the circuit houses today. As the city continues to reach out they might no longer be far from its limits but are nevertheless delightful places, mostly nestled in viridian seclusion. These are the remnants from the colonial days where high ranking officials would stay while on inspection tours of their assigned provinces; the route was known as a ‘circuit’ and hence ‘circuit houses.’ These temporary residences were usually cosy Victorian cottages with colonnaded porticos, lavishly decorated rooms, spacious and high-ceilinged with fireplaces, sprawling bathrooms and enjoyed envious views. They are not incredibly comfortable to stay in, not today, even by a long lanyard. But I will lie, beg, fight or cheat – do whatever it takes for a trot back in time that comes with staying in one.

There are other marvels as well.

Marvel # 1: It’s magic but the fax never arrives

The fax hadn’t arrived and I was told to wait. While I waited I was given chai – so brown and sweet that it might have been made entirely of unrefined sugar.

“Made for the minister.” I was informed.

I smiled with what I hoped was adequate gratitude.

“Specially.”

I now yawed my head with all the solemnity I could muster for this act of mega benevolence. The place was swarming with lackeys and babus, security personnel and private armies who kept entering and exiting rooms randomly. The laughter was cautious, the bonhomie guarded. They were all sipping the same chai from the same shot-capacity plastic cup given me.

“Who did you say sent it?”

“The tourism department,” I replied. “Secretary,” I added for impact.

He took it like SFX to Avatar.

Just as the graveyard shift was about to begin I got my room.

“We don’t have any rooms in the new building,” I was informed. “But we can accommodate you in the old circuit house next door.”

I tried to look suitably miffed while harrumphing off. Difficult considering it was exactly what I wanted. From experience I knew it’d work out this way: with no fax in hand they would allot only rooms in the old circuit house next to the spanking new, multi storeyed structures. Nobody wanted these decrepit, dilapidated derelicts rebuilt annually with fresh chuna and paint. And renovated with cheap roadside aquarelles. They were usually guard-and-driver quarters. But they were the original circuit houses. Laden with history, seething atmosphere, you’d turn sahib more organically than the pumpkin-coach. Step into an era, live the period, at least for one night. Watch your car turn into a gleaming white mare under the moonlight.

It’s magic. But the fax never comes because I never asked anyone for it.

Marvel # 2: Goli khaa…

“You cannot switch on the geyser.” Sanju, who opened the room for me, said.

“Doesn’t matter – there’s a geyser at least.” Me, the wise-ass.

“No, I mean it is never switched off.”

The collector of the next door district was staying with wife and kid in the bigger room across the hallway. I was sure it was grander than mine: peering inside I had espied ancient fretwork furniture and a huge antelope horn on the spandrel. The family didn’t notice, too busy as they were bonding over Balika Vadhu. So save for the jug of water Sanju was unable to feed me anything else. He was sorry if it was almost midnight. Maybe I could try the Goli nearby.

For the first time in my life I had three different vadapavs with whiskey as hors de oeuvre. And three more for dinner.

The bathroom was a bigger epic: there were both eastern and western commodes in a direct face-off. Straddling both worlds was never easier.

Marvel # 3: Rs 50, Rs 500, not much different

Because I am such a prevaricating pig while getting in, I am a bag of neurasthenics at check out. The ledger-keeper is not much better off either: figuring where to slot me is more challenging that finding out the paternity of a Flower child. The rates are different for government officers on duty – and those who are not, who want AC – and those who don’t, journalists – on state or on self-invitation. And there are the guests – for each of the above. Extricating us from our pits of respective ambiguities are the same contradictory Indian traits that confounded Jack Gibson, the famous Doon School teacher: the magnificence in the squalor, the pride in the subservience.

“Since the fax is lost, we have to figure where to fit you in.” He looks at me squinting.

“Who is charged the lowest here?” I ask giving my best rascally wink. The cray Circuit himself could learn a thing or two.

“Hmmm…we usually don’t charge ministers but you don’t look like one.” He says, we both laugh.

Game on.

I confess: The green building shown here is not technically a circuit house but was a rest house that originally belonged to the irrigation department from the colonial times. Its design sensibilities and history however make it good enough to feature in the story. It is now a tourism property by the Tandula Canal in Balod, Chhattisgarh.

Rarely did such splendid hyperbole live up to promise. ‘The best job in the world’ went the headline: concise, all caps, XL font. Nothing clever. The position advertised was that of island caretaker; cleaning the pond, feeding the fish and collecting mails were among the job description. Perks included accommodation in a million-dollar villa, free transportation around the island and a pay package of A$ 100,000. Anyone could apply. Everyone did.

Chai wallah in the Himalayas

The 2009 campaign garnered about 40,000 applications from 200 countries. As far as the JD and perks went, it was indeed the best job in the whole world. The accompanying website was a drool, conjured up images of a modern-day Crusoe; probably the closest RL Stevenson would attend as office instead of being a bargee. But the bigger surprise was when the campaign was revealed to be a marketing gig for Queensland Tourism of Australia. Nevertheless it went on to become a rockstar in tourism promotional activities – generating over USD 200 million worth of publicity worldwide and carting away many coveted metals including a few from the Cannes. It has been the subject of documentaries and marketing studies since. And the reason behind some leaping off bridges for that eye-grabbing, list-shorting ‘why me’ video submissions; what if they were charge-sheeted.

Over the years the ‘best job’ has only gotten bigger and better: the campaign of 2013 saw six openings including the most-in-demand ‘Chief Funster,’ and ‘Taste Master’ and the applicant number swelling to nearly 10 times from the first edition. From just Queensland it has come to cover most of the continent-country.

In India tourism there have been a few marketing initiatives that went beyond your average print-and-television thinking. The Kerala Blog Express is a rare good one. But for most other states tourism marketing does not go much farther than press conferences, hosting bloggers for an event or the occasional photography and other contests organised through social media pages. Why creating some ‘best jobs’ for India would be a good idea. After all, nothing amplifies interest or enhances interactivity like a potential job offer: one reason attributed to the success of the original ‘best job’ campaign was its timing – the world was reeling under a recession in 2009. Not much has changed in the global scenario since then and ‘make in India’ is still underway.

Of course, it’d be possible only if the respective state tourism departments or the umbrella Incredible India body can chip in with the necessary permissions and some remuneration. This list is not comprehensive by any means – just consider it as a take-off point from where some really rad and effective ones can be landed.

All positions also require the winner to mandatorily update the designated page on the tourism website / blog with daily accounts and photographs.

Chinese nets manager

Priced catches

Position: Chinese fishing net manager  

Responsibilities: Aid visitors’ understanding of the 500-year old cantilevered heritage with the help and support of locals. Collect pre-determined charges from tourists who want to sponsor a ‘dip’ and ensure that they get the catch. Alternately reimburse them adequately if they don’t want anything to do with the fish. Or hold yourself back if they just want to throw it back into the Arabian Sea.

Work area: Fort Kochi, Kerala

The World Wonder is just one

Position advertised: Guide to the unseen Agra

Responsibilities: Find out for yourself that there is more to Agra than the Taj Mahal. Some cues include the Red Taj and Mariam’s Tomb. Talk about them. Give directions to interested travellers, maybe even escort some of them personally. And see the added amazement in their eyes.

Work areas: Agra, Uttar Pradesh.

Why trek past when you can set shop?

Position advertised: Chai wallah in the Himalayas

Responsibilities: Sell tea, biscuits and other snacks to trekkers and locals. Ensure everyone uses the designated bins for trash. Instilling the habit would be handy. Organise weekend clean up drives with nearby villagers and tourists at hand.

Work areas: Popular trekking routes of Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand.

River guides

What floats your boat…

Position: River and waterfall guide

Responsibilities: Taking tourists across picturesque rivers and waterfalls with the help of local boatmen. Involve locals in assigning rates to different types and duration of trips – and convince the community about the long-term benefits of a cohesive tariff plan. Nicely make everyone adhere to it. Put together task forces to comb the banks and beaches for plastic and other waste.

Work areas: Wherever there are rivers and waterfalls.

Calling modern day explorers  

Position: New interest and itinerary developers

Responsibilities: From unearthing little known destinations or developing 3D bas relief programmes or devising new safari and trekking routes, you will be part of an elite team helping the central and state governments in designing new tourist interest activities and discovering new destinations.

Work areas: All over India

The regulars, but with a twist: For those looking to swell the ranks of nine-to-five, replete with pretty packages, there are the usual openings in IT or ITES across major metro cities. The lux-abnegating, selfless (read ‘unpaid’) voluntourist too has many options in a global south like India. But his stints with the rural communities has to be tweaked a bit to add some lustre to a fast fading sheen – and meaning – of voluntourism. Thus community teaching can be conducted in classrooms that are lying unused, or being used for anything but study – one can find plenty of them in Himalayan and central Indian hinterlands. This way attention can be brought to the plight of students in villages with schools where the teacher never turns up but draws his salaries sitting comfortable in his kirana store in the nearby town.

Voluntary construction of village halls and other public amenities has to be undertaken with earthquake-resistant materials – throwing light on the seismic danger that seems to strike at random these days. Being tucked away in the Himalayas is no more a guarantee for safety from furious temblors. Those good-hearted adventurers who ride motor bikes and camels into interior mountain and desert villages to donate medicines should try and find the wherewithal to set up proper clinics even if basic. Doctors from towns and cities should be attracted with opportunities to volunteer. This will not just bring primary healthcare to long-neglected areas but also ensure the safer disbursement of medicines.

Sounds like another ‘best job’ btw.

The best operate anywhere. 

This devta is out on a picnic

The palanquin bearer winced as he stiffened to an abrupt halt. You could see he was under untold duress; cold beads of sweat broke out from his forehead, his eyes bulged out from their sockets like those of the shikhara-supporting bharavahakas. He started again, squirming and with swaying steps. He convulsed as if invisible lassoes tugged at him in different directions. At one point his eyes became hooded – all you could see were the whites – and he made off for the trees. The small crowd – consisting mostly of men – panicked and ran helter-skelter; they had seen it happen before but the first, most natural thing you do when a palanquin bearer bears upon you is jump out of the way. With an almost superhuman effort he managed to stop his own blind charge. His knees buckled beneath and he keeled. And just as he was about to topple over, scores of hands reached out to steady him. Even then none dared to hold him onto the path or guide him in any particular direction. After all, it was the devta himself inside the palanquin – who was giving the orders and making those last moment changes in the route plan in his own whimsical, animated ways.

The emerald green waters at the Beas-Tirthan confluence, Aut

‘Balkameshwar.’ Locals made our hasty acquaintance with the deity. His silvery ornate parasol jangled a merry ‘howdy.’ He was off on a picnic, probably to some spot by the banks of the Beas River next door in Sundarnagar outskirts. A few were carrying boxes robed in sequined saffron-colour fabric, specially prepared viands for the celestial appetite. This is a familiar sight in Devbhoomi (‘land of gods’) Himachal Pradesh: deities being taken for a ‘stroll’ along the countryside, or to make a casual call on a fellow-deity, visit a troubled area or house – all under the strict watch of the local oracle, who is also the medium. The oracle’s interpretations range from high pitched shrieks to highland patois rendered in a mumble. The cues picked are mostly contextual. These devtas are very much a part of everyday life – there is at least one for every region in the state. And they have become everyday – there are cases pending against devtas in courts filed by other devtas. Balkameshwar seemed to be in a hurry to reach wherever he was headed to and with good reason.

The route to Tirthan Valley: From Chandigarh there are two options. The one which I took on my way up: Chandigarh – Rupnagar – Kiratpur – Swarghat – Bilaspur – Sundarnagar – Mandi  – Pandoh – Aut – Larji – Gushaini – Tirthan (280 km)

And the more scenic one on my way back, so scenic I’m mulling a separate post on it: Tirthan – Banjar – Shoja – Jalori Pass – Khanag – Ani – Narkanda – Shimla – Kalka – Chandigarh (290 km)

Both the routes take anywhere up to 10 hours on the road.

Shocks, spans and sweetmeat

Pretty facades, on their way out fast

By the time we reached Mandi continents of clouds had massed overhead and started crossing shiny sabres. The daylight around us was fading and everyone rushed to get indoors. A kid skipped – yes, he skipped in that playground-jolly kind of way – across the road barely missing our car fender.

‘Did you brake or was the kid just lucky?’ Timorous taunts filled the air. The trip is taxing but the scenery that unrolls from Aut Tunnel (200km; you don’t take the tunnel but follow the right exit) onward makes it worth every cringing tailbone and creaking shock.

Other near-existential questions also rear a querulous head if you are driving.

We know that cement companies have deep pockets; our cricket captain is a namesake veep in one. Another one which has built and maintained a 165 km long expressway connecting Delhi and Agra has a factory in Kiratpur (76 km), Punjab. Why doesn’t anybody tell this multiple-business behemoth to build a similar one – concrete pavement, actually – around its own factories? Nearly half the running time is consumed bumping across and wading through monster potholes that dot most of the 100 km to Swarghat (Himachal Pradesh). As wiser writers suggest, the other option would be bussing overnight – popular with those getting into Himachal Pradesh from Delhi. The closest to this I can think of is a blindfolded romp with a Victoria’s Secret Angel. You know it was an Angel only after the romp.

Down-to-earth practical gods

The hydro power project coming up in Larji has mucked the road from Aut upward, most of the way till Banjar and Gushaini. Caterpillar trucks dashing from construction site to dumping site kick up white gravelly dust; centipede-wheeled, machinery-moving, snail-paced lorries get your bleating goat. But the scenery will keep your mind from plunging into abject misery beginning with the confluence of the Beas and Tirthan. Emerald green waters amble unhurriedly while the verdurous valley looks on. As you begin to trace the Tirthan River the landscape gets progressively lusher, houses fewer and quainter. Old multiple-storeyed dwellings with brightly coloured doors and windows, wooden porticos and creepers for awnings fringe orchards in bloom. Construction activities are on full swing in most of them which would render the facades – to start with – unrecognisable with the rest of the rich country design. You feel lucky that you are here, now. The solitude and the stillness are accentuated by the riverine peekaboo around the corners followed by the whoosh of the water carried by the breeze. In some parts the road goes through trees so thickly together that you can actually smell the green.

Tip: At Larji T point, you have to turn right for Gushaini; a little to the left is a petrol pump which might be handy especially if you intend to head out via Jalori Pass.

A ‘span’ while not at work

As we climbed higher, ‘spans’ began to make their appearance – iron pulleys fitted on sturdy wooden beams with industrial strength metallic cable used for ferrying goods from the road to houses high above and far below. Commodities including grocery articles were lying unattended next to loading cages – recently dispatched from passing vehicles. These were the mountains; clean air and clear sunlight nurtured unadulterated trust among the inhabitants. There is nothing you can do but marvel at it all. Local devtas draped in shiny, tessellated burgundy textile stood atop short platforms next to sharp curves. The oblations comprised solely of discarded automobile parts – these were drivers’ deities, protecting them on the highway. Surely around the more dangerous corners. You marvelled more.

Gushaini is a bunch of gulag-styled concrete shops huddled together. Like most mountain villages here too was a delegation seemingly assigned to permanently wait for the bus. There is a bus here that plies / flies along the vertiginous routes. It is blue in colour. And it buzzes towards you with all the ferocity of an agitated queen bee. Take shelter at the nearest shoulder. Maybe there is more than one – I didn’t notice as I was always scurrying for cover. Kids sauntered to or from school – it didn’t make any difference – chomping on popsicles and multi-coloured sweets. Wild berries by the roadside and the early hangings in the orchards weren’t even ogled at, unlike passers-by, who did so with unadulterated lust.

Trouting, trekking, Tirthan

Don’t miss the drive by bussing overnight

‘After a good woman, and a good book, and tobacco, there is nothing so agreeable on earth as a river’ said Robert Louis Stevenson in ‘An inland Voyage.’ How about a river with trout? It doesn’t alter the order but definitely makes the journey halcyonic.

Tirthan Valley is the gateway to the Great Himalayan National Park and its many fabulous treks. There are some very pretty and moderate ones around the Valley too – most of which can be covered over the course of a day provided there is the extraordinary willpower for a matutinal headstart. The morning I woke up in Tirthan, there was a magnificent hailstorm which bade me back to bed and to some of Stevenson’s ‘agreeable’ stuff.

Several resorts and homestays flank the riverbank – some accessed through zip line – that suit most budgets. More are on the way. The building spree is also in part due to the state government earmarking Tirthan River as an angling reserve; meaning, no hydro project is permitted along its 45 km course. Trout, originally from European waters, was introduced in the Himalayas as the English were fond of angling. Anglers along the Tirthan River have to take a licence and follow a ‘catch and release’ policy. Being more an eater than an angler I found ordering trout to be less heartbreaking. A staple fare in most dinner menus across the hospitality properties, it comes pan fried or coal grilled, barbecued or pecan crusted with the freshest salad and seasonal fruit organically grown.

Trek, trout, Tirthan. New world order.

Quiet a night

Night descended on the Tirthan Valley without much ado. The shrilly, tremolo notes of swamp toads and crickets did not besiege us from all around but piped up sporadically, almost like an afterthought. Tiny rounded silhouettes rustled between the deodars by the side of the narrow road. The moon waning into Ramadan-crescent shone brightly above the overarching forest canopy. Beneath it was pitch dark and we had to use the flash lights from our mobile phones. Mountain peaks traced billowy outlines against the pearly grey sky before lumping downward and walling the river from either side. The river itself spangled silver, snaking around the chalky white of the boulders. The chirping and cheeping of wild avifauna could be heard from afar. Electric bulbs glowed like lanterns in the houses that deliquesced into the cliff side of the distant rising horizon. Around us was a yawning valley snuggling into the blanketing night.

The joy was infectious and the walk worked wonders for our appetite. We were invited for a dinner of scrumptious trout, salad and fruits by a friendly resort owner and soon enough we were all drunk. So drunk that our host revealed his secret stack of yarsagumba, a prohibitively expensive and potent aphrodisiac found in the high altitudes and offered to make us all soup from it. And I almost took up somebody’s offer to teach me shirshasana when somebody else pointed out that the two-litre whiskey canister was nearly empty. Even without standing on my head the world had gone ahead and done a turtle on me. And a hazy, whirly one at that.

Brooke songs

On our way back from dinner, which redefined the world order, a sprightly shower fell for a short while which left the trimmed swards around the resort glittering. Each blade of grass reflected the moon, a shimmery shard. Or maybe it was my out-of-focus vision. A dog slithered away into its own shadows to resurface somewhere else as part of a barking choir. Some locals walked by wafting over us tangerine breaths, by-product of ‘Kullu No. 1,’ popular local liquor. Our slurry attempts at friendship were met with deference going back to ostlers of yore. Maybe it was their way of showing respect to tourists from big cities. Or maybe they were thoughtfully giving a wide berth in case we fell headlong. Vehicles that brought in trekkers and cyclists from the cities were parked on either side of the road looking as incongruous in the shady glades as a chaise in Gurgaon.

The road through heaven…

After a symbolic hailstorm early next morning, the valley stood robed in sparkling sunshine. A cool wind laden with fragrance of the rainwashed forest and fresh earth crept broadly down the mountaintops through the French windows and into my room in Dehuri. I lay in bed, unmoving, staring out through the window marvelling at the beauty that surrounded me. Did we as a race of miners and lumberjacks and dam builders deserve to be pampered by so much natural beauty? Is nature really so forgiving – giving us so many second chances? Or just keeping a straight face till apocalypse? A lone eagle flew far above the promontory that overlooked my room, circling around its eyrie hanging from a leafless bough of a half-burnt oak. It seemed to be eyeing me from so high above. Were our designs outed? When I was almost sure that our eyes locked a knock at the door announced breakfast.

I fled from the room.

Hellish ride, heavenly tide

There is only so much – and so many – a sedan can take. True. And to make matters worse, one of the passengers had crested the Jalori Pass a few months ago when it was iced over in an SUV pumped up with plenty of adrenaline and prepped with silicone that it looked – and performed – like a freak hybrid between a Mars Rover and a Hummer.

“Are you sure you can take the car over the Pass?” I was asked many times.

“Remember it’s only a sedan.” I was told too, many times.

White ocean

Till Dehuri I just had to make sure I followed the basic etiquettes of mountain driving and crept along close to the hillside and dove into shoulders when the more experienced Himachali drivers tore down upon me at breakneck speeds. But now looking at the photographs of the exploits of the Hummer-Rover up in the Pass it looked like I also had to sluice across slush a few feet deep, pound through waist-high snow or swish by with half the tyre jutting over the ledge making way for the bus. Why not drive through a few snowmen too? Just the kind of stuff cut out for a city-slicker sedan with a Delhi driver (for whom ‘off roading’ means ‘stopping on pedestrian crossings and cutting over footpaths’). But must say for the sedan, save for a few underside-whuppings it managed without event. Thanks also in part to an early start which saw to it that the usually crammed Banjar market (15 km from Dehuri) through which the main road cuts across at an unholy angle was nearly deserted. At eight o’ clock in the morning it lay there, a shiny, slippery vein, vehicles parked on either side with just enough space for me to slide through. I felt like doing a Pope – gleefully smackering an alien land.

Jalori, in passing

Happiness and good humour had settled in from Dehuri itself – a tiny hamlet serenaded by brooks and streams, with a stout deodar doubling up as the transformer, where every man and his dog is friendly and the one liquor shop around for miles. Not much was spoken among the travellers save for smiles and nods pointing out the scenery – which was getting incredible with every turn. The sun contended itself to lacing the clouds with a jagged sheen. Tall, ancient trees stood unmoving against a powerful gale with just the leaves rustling – probably how they laughed when tickled. As we continued to ascend, the wind got only stronger – and louder, the only sound that broke the silence of the sylvan surroundings. We reached a freshly showered Banjar which meant wet roads and overflowing drainages. Homestays and restaurants occur with an increasing frequency from Banjar to Jibhi and onward, all the way to Jalori, another 10 km away. In between as you pass through Bagi, Ghayagi and Shoja you spot some droll ones too – discreet behind wild creepers and watching over organic farms. The amenities are basic but the views are priceless.

Trekkers note: Chehni Kothi, a 1500 year old castle, which belonged to Rana Dhadia, once-ruler of Kullu, is a short detour between Banjar and Jibhi. Sort of conical in shape, this castle is made along traditional lines of architecture using wood and stone. The devastating earthquake of 1905 reduced the original 15 storeys to 10 today. The ancient pagoda-styled Rishi Temple at Bagi is another popular sight around Banjar; the deity here is believed to possess powers that grant sons. The Sirolsar Lake is a moderate, hour-long trek from Jalori, doable even if you are only passing through.

Notes to remember

Whatever that ran for a road dissolves into an impossibly craggy gradient from Shoja, five kilometres from Jalori Pass. But before you peer over that precipice, park your vehicle by a shoulder – it would be a while before you resumed your journey. Clouds hemmed in the valley from all around. The frothy sea had lapped up the landscape. Hilltops rose like little Atlantises, mysterious, shrouded by the cotton sea. Taller trees stood stoic like the mastheads of doomed ships. What added to the sublime quality of the scenery we beheld was the utter stillness of the clouds and their opacity. They looked as if they had been dropped into their respective places by a divine hand. The universal jigsaw puzzle, solved. Stunning beauty of any variety has that strange emasculating power usually ascribed to the knee area. But for us it was the powerlessness to move. We just stood there transfixed till a French guy wearing WW II goggles, riding a fancy bike with a sidecar juddered by. ‘Ten years on the road’ or something to that effect was written across the hood frame.

His passage elicited different yearnings in each of us. We watched him disappear around the next corner and reappear from the one farther below. By the time we turned back a mild breeze had massed the chops into a swirling swell.

Strangers have always mistaken me for a holy or an army man. Something which has boggled me and not little – while one means soft eyes in a serene face the other mandates a severe one with stiff deportment. Save for my mother – who thinks I am the accumulation of all features nice and wonderful – the rest of my blood relations have likened me to wanted criminals and soft porn movie stars. When it comes to forming an opinion on looks, or most things for that matter, it is safe to go by numbers. Ladies requesting confessional, even when I was not in cassock, were thus gently dissuaded with once-overs; the persistent ones with skeezy sneers. The priests themselves were dealt with disquisitions on the need for the church to register divorces and same-sex love. Either way Sodom had it coming.

But when it comes to introductions on the road I am more or less faithful to those I meet as some of them stick around longer than the journey itself. So I have been a student, a journalist, filmmaker, footloose (heading for a divorce) and fancyfree (fresh out of divorce). In short, what I was at the time. I say ‘writer’ rarely as almost instantly I am endowed with an intellect I do not possess and am expected to have an opinion on everything on earth – which I do anyway, but which has this tendency to lay bare my lack of intellect. Saying ‘writer’ in the Kerala-bound Rajadhani Express hence can turn out to be more traumatic than a chance meeting with (Lalit) Modi in London: everyone on board not just has an opinion on the ISIS but knows how it can resolved, who killed Diana and the real price of (Narendra) Modi’s pinstripe suit. I can relax only at quaff-time – late evenings when everyone crowds the toilet area with pint bottles clearly outlining their shirt and side pockets. There, over the clackety clack, everyone pretends to hear what the other is saying. So when the bespectacled aunty asked me as soon as we rolled out of Nizamuddin station if I was in the army I replied in the affirmative. Maybe she judged me a tad too early.

“But you don’t look like the typical army.” I knew what she meant – the killer looks.

“I’m not. I’m in the intelligence wing.” I claimed before anyone could take it away.

The aunty was happy in a ‘I-knew-it’ way and threw around a triumphant ‘Didn’t-I-say-so’ look. A newly married, stylish deal-snapping couple looked suitably impressed – more at the aunty’s divining powers than at my own licence to kill. The other passengers were a father and daughter returning after a national inter-school chess championship in Delhi. Busy settling his kid into her top berth who was busy setting up her chessboard, he turned around and smiled at me. I returned the pleasantry with an imperceptible nod. Usually gregarious and feeling quite punchy when making new friends, I felt sick at my newfound need for taciturnity and general solemnity.

“This uncle is in the army.” The father told the daughter. “Intelligence.” He added gravely.

She looked down from above with so much awe I felt sick to my pit and almost cried. I stared out through the window stoically at the gleaming asses that marked every granite coloured chaparral as we chugged out, gathering speed and momentum. Thankfully around lunchtime I felt better: the kid was looking at the guy distributing bread sticks with the same amazement. She was a real wonder kid.

One of the perks being in army intelligence is that you are privy to classified information with such cataclysmic consequences that your mind has steeled and you do not get excited at anything less than a personal phone call from Kim Jong-un. I’d be giving myself away if I was any of my usual self: this was one of the prettiest routes of the Railways and I am forever enamoured by it. So I had to glaze my eyes in order to stop them from lighting up as Arcadia rolled in soon after Rajasthan; with Ratlam along the Madhya Pradesh – Gujarat border, we were officially in viridian heaven.

The most gorgeously located school I had ever seen was in Bamnia – right in the middle of unending meadows and undulating knolls whose slopes I imagined would transform into slides when school was on. Cattle hurried home after a long day in the fields leaving little boys with goads fashioned from boughs far behind. A few agile ones tried to jump onto the harrow and bum a ride. An otherwise non-descript Panch Piplia stood out with the ghastly sight of hillsides adjoining the tracks daubed over with concrete. ‘Goldfinger’ was the first thought that crossed my mind. And origami seemed a much lesser depravity. Dark smoke clouds floated over a factory in Meghnagar announcing approaching night. Exodus began of the able and feeble-bodied males alike, loo-bound, with barely concealed brandy bottles.

Keralites are generally understanding of drinkers, sympathetic of drunks but are confounded if you are not any of these and claim to be in the army. The aunty was a gem when it came to this endearing trait of my state-people. She came over to me after dinner. The couple went about making bed and tucking each other in. The chess whiz peered intently at the black and white squares mulling some complex move against an imaginary opponent. Her father snored beneath her berth. The aunty leaned close to me over the din and queried after my housing arrangements in Delhi. Then she told me about her niece a doctor. I showed her an article in that day’s DNA ‘Unethical medical practice rampant in India’ written by a sprightly, upright doctor Himmatrao Bawaskar. A cursory glance at it and she was back to telling me more about her niece-doctor.

“Does your niece take commission for referring diagnostics and prescribing medicines?” I asked. I just wanted to go to sleep.

“I don’t know,” she replied with a sort of coy authority. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Now this was yet another quality that marked a Keralite: they all knew someone you could marry. Actually somebody you should marry. It didn’t really matter how unsuitable you were. The next day passing through Maharashtra the tunnels became more frequent as we approached Ratnagiri. The juxtapositioning of pitch dark with bright, crispy sunlight made me bleary-eyed. I squinted and glanced in aunty’s direction. She sat staring stonily ahead behind oversized shades. At Madgaon in Goa I got out to get Bibinca, the gummy sweet with ‘cavity guarantee’ stamped on it.

“Why did you lie to me about being in the army?” The aunty who never got out at stations was right behind me.

“Who told you I wasn’t?”

“You only!”

I remembered years ago there was this old lady who greeted me ‘father’ and expressed a desired to confess. I gestured a go-ahead.

It was all coming back.

The legendary Buick Super

The once-happening entrepot Alleppey in Kerala is popular today for backwaters, boat races and beaches, houseboats and homestays. Its immense historicity has been relegated to some sprawling warehouses bearing Victorian names and presiding over hyacinth-laden canals, a handful of ancient temples and a vastly retrenched coir industry. Missing from the milieu of ‘modern’ experiences was the museum – both as a beacon to an era past and a sensory-offensive like the V&A with its mind-dazzling array of decorative arts. The existence of the ‘crystal museum’ as it is commonly known thus came as both a surprise and relief.

“There is no such museum.” The autorickshaw guy assured us at a busy intersection, one wary eye on the traffic signal. Luckily a wrinkly hand shot out from the tarpaulined dark of the backseat and thwacked him across the back of his head.

“What do you have in your head? Cow dung?” Point made, an ammachi with wide, mischievous eyes behind shell-frame eyewear proceeded to give us the directions. The driver kept an averted gaze, having decidedly found the downpour more interesting.

Arya – theme of the year

The Revi Karuna Karan Museum is among the biggest privately held collection of crystals in the world but has managed to tuck itself away within an oyster shell of anonymity for nearly a decade. Even though I hail from the neighbouring district of Kottayam and over the past years as a resident of Delhi have come again for at least three instalments of the annual Nehru Trophy spectacle as a tourist propah, it was only recently I came to know about it. But from a very likely source – my mother. Like most women in the world she lusts after Lalique and Lladro and goes moony over Moser. And I suspect for a piece of Swarovski she’d happily disown me. There are plenty of these at the RKK Museum.

The Prodigal Son by Philipe

One of the reasons why not many know of this glittery cornucopia is a telling pointer to the evanescence of tourism ethos that historically marked Kerala’s hospitality culture itself – the generosity and contentment that came from giving gratification, treating the guest as god. “The cabbies ask for commission to bring tourists,” says Suraj who shows visitors around the museum. “We do not subscribe to such under-the-belt tactics to bolster footfalls nor do we believe in blowing our own trumpet.” Betty, who founded the museum in the memory of her late husband Revi is also sure that the museum need be visited only by the discerning, those genuinely interested in art and heritage and of course crystals and serious watchers of beau monde legacies.

A fresh take on Shakuntala

It all began with the Hedgehog almost a quarter of a century ago. Compulsive world trippers as Betty (real name ‘Subhadra’) and Revi were, it was during one of their international sojourns in 1982 that this spiny, shiny creation became Betty’s first crystal possession. Five years later when Swarovski formed the Swarovski Crystal Society she was one of the first to sign up. Over the years her collection grew to nearly 1,000 pieces which includes some of the rarest Swarovski ever made: the Silver Crystal Mouse which was the first ever figurine in the brand’s silver crystal collection, a coffee bean grinding machine – one of the two ever produced (the other one is in the company museum in its headquarters in Wattens, Germany) and a crane which is one of the only three pieces ever made – a gift from the company when the museum opened in 2006. The limited edition pieces – made for SCS members numbering just three lakh all over the world – made annually have also found their way into the museum. Of these, the India-inspired items are not merely exotic but exceedingly gorgeous probably for their familiarity – the sinewy tiger Sabu and this year’s theme, the peacock Arya of the most flamboyant green you’d ever see. In addition to Swarovski, the museum also flaunts some of the most dazzling creations from Daum, Desna, Stuben and Tiffany. On the first floor of the museum you realise all that really glitters got to be crystal and maybe they’re all here.

A family collection

Setting the tone for the collectibles rare and extraordinary – not to mention exorbitantly expensive – is ‘The Prodigal Son’ a seven-footer in bronze by the celebrated Israeli sculptor Sam Philipe. Although this was a gift from Pave the Way Foundation, which aims to, among other things, remove all non-theological obstacles between faiths, the museum boasts many more of the widely acclaimed creations by Philipe including ‘Old Jerusalem’ in silver and gold, ‘Abraham’s Sacrifice’ and a haunting depiction of a Holocaust survivor, a child, clinging onto her meagre worldly possessions and maybe the last vestiges of her innocence. The ‘Madonna and Baby Jesus’ is one of the seven pieces by the sculptor and the story goes that Betty had to really put her foot down to procure this one. Finally Philipe himself intervened and brought it over to Kerala personally.

Old Jerusalem

The centrepiece of the grandeur on the ground floor is without doubt the Buick Super. The C-body with a straight-eight engine was a legend in its own time; now preserved in pristine condition. Though requests for a peek under the hood are turned down, we are assured that it is still up for a spin preferably on a clear day. Magnificent Tanjore paintings and a door frame with some of the finest intricate carvings on the lintel are among the highlights here. Towards the right side of the hall are family photographs with some relevant history. Revi’s grandfather Krishnan was a doyen of the coir industry in Kerala and was also the first Indian to establish a handloom factory which was a monopoly of the English. Besides attending to the rigorous needs of a burgeoning business, Krishnan took time out to collect and preserve whatever items that caught his fancy. Among others the Nettoor Petti, Theyyam headgear, an Aranmula Mirror slightly sub-fusc from old age, a single-occupant canoe all preserved in the Kerala section point to a mind keen on preserving traditions and culture. “It is not just great joy and pride but I am awash with absolute respect for my ancestors when I see these,” says Betty.

Petite in porcelain

The ivory scrimshaws on the first floor are also one of the largest individually owned collections in the world. Besides the numerous religious icons rendered in tusk, the one of Shakuntala by artist Vishwam who won the President’s Award for the creation will take your breath away. A refreshing take on the babe in the woods – with another doe-eyed denizen of the forest. Giving contest to the contours of Shakuntala are the nude Ethiop figurines by Lladro in porcelain. Other truly breathtaking artistry courtesy of Dresden, Meissen, Rosenthal, Limoges line the shelves – floral awnings with birds perched on top, gambolling couples, picnicking women with parasols, bedecked chariots, Ganesha, Lakshmi and Shiva.

An oxide-paved corridor – traditional Kerala – takes one to the state gallery and on to the hall with the Sam Philipe works. Another section of the hall houses travel knickknacks from Revi and Betty’s trips like liquor flasks given by KLM. At least a hundred of them featuring traditional Holland houses are lined up unopened – from the numerous trips made in the ‘Royal Dutch Airlines’; Revi’s mother was German.

“They didn’t get the tiles like we did,” I tch-ed to mom, reminiscing our own early flights.

“The liquor flasks are for first class fliers,” Suraj said. “But there are some tiles too,” he added with a striking politeness.

The guy on the Mayan calendar stuck his tongue out probably chagrined at the turn of events. I guess I knew how he felt.

More useful museum details

Timings: 9 AM to 5 PM; Tuesday to Sunday

Entry fee: Rs 150 for Indians; Rs 350 for foreigners

Tip: The museum staff will not switch on air conditioning unless specifically requested.

Land proprietorship in Kerala is classified under three broad no-need-to-quantify heads: muttam (yard), parambu (farm) and estate (estate). The lack of need to quantify arises from an everyday fact – nobody gives out actual figures and everyone assigns everyone else acreage inversely proportional to the degree of familiarity. And everyone is happy: while the meagre holders bask under the enhanced share – of property and thereby social standing, it helps the muthalali, the big fish, hide from taxmen, credit-seeking relatives and of late, extortionists and kidnappers.

The recently announced rubber subsidy by the government mars this happy ecosystem as it requires applicants to reveal their titles to the t – possibly a reason for the dismal farmer response to the Rs 300 crore bailout package. Not to say it is bereft of political criticism (‘a panchayat election gimmick’) and general detractor tirade over the need to navigate through a seemingly labyrinthine process of uploading bills and other fiscal and commerce data after dedicated log in. The drop-down boxes in the dummy site evoked as much comprehension and interest as sari pleats. Whatever, the announcement of the minimum support price of Rs 150 per kilogram saw everyone scampering for a sliver of this relief. Including me.

In Kerala on holidays which got extended on account of losing out an assignment, I decided to pursue the subsidy ardently. Armed with information gleaned from newspapers and rubber-dealing friends (many of whom were understandably still in bed at 11 in the morning) and encouragement from neighbours and general well-wishers (the last lot my parents actually who, with an eerie sense of foreboding found only in parents, told me to check out a new movie instead) I set out on an adventure rendered Homeric by a two hundred and twenty seven organisations and offices related to rubber, a confounding insistence on part of my fellow natives in answering my Malayalam queries in English, Hindi even, an inclement monsoon and a disobedient mundu that kept de-knotting itself and flopping down.

Information. My analyses follow in italics.  

The subsidy is limited to produce from two hectares. I am eligible.

The subsidy is applicable only to those with five hectares or less. I am still eligible.

There are around 12 lakh farmers engaged in rubber cultivation in Kerala. I must hurry.

The earmarked funds are enough to support just a quarter of the state’s total produce. I must really hurry.

In areas not covered under rubber producers’ societies (RPS), the planter could register through cooperative societies or service cooperative banks. The key to registration must be a form. My first stop was thus the service coop bank to where money used to be debited once the dry rubber content of the latex we sold was determined. For the past two years accruals into the account have been like an amoebic reproduction – the growth in numbers the effect of nothing extraneous.

An orange-coloured building with a wide portico and a single room office, there was ‘bank’ written thoughtfully above the sole entrance. A fair price store next door remained cheerfully shuttered. Dusty stacks of files piled up in old wooden shelves that lined the wall; when the transaction details of the last few years were handed to me as an e-copy I was floored. In the air hung a camaraderie found only between those on the same sinking boat. A ready-to-smile guy picking on a keypad nodded me to a chair.

“We don’t give forms here,” I was informed cheerfully, apologetically. Tea glasses were strewn all over, some still had tea in them, all had houseflies moving in staccato along the rims.

“Would you like some tea?”

“I just ate breakfast.”

“Maybe you should try your latex collection depot.”

Government and cooperative jobs are hugely sought-after in Kerala being sinecures and safety nets immune to agricultural upheavals like the one we were going through now. The manager of the depot had gone to Kottayam, 30 km away, on an official visit. He would be back with more information on how to avail the subsidy. Till then I could join the hearty country-talk that dissected issues from building apiaries to complement rubber incomes to the strings attached to central government loans. The discussions were so animated and genuinely interesting I nearly forgot what I was there for.

“We don’t give forms here,” the assistant manager said later. He was sadder seeing me leave the group discussion than at his inability to help.

“Try the rubber marketing office.”

Probably portending the outcome were hundreds of empty, desolate barrels I noticed only as I headed out – piled up like the triangular acrobatic formations during Republic Day celebrations in Delhi.

Even if you are going around in circles after a while each step feels like a definite progress from the last, bringing you a step closer to goal. By now I had an inkling of what I was into – I should have listened to my folks and gotten in for Premam, the highest grossing Malayalam film of the year. But while at the marketing office I actually felt glad at having embarked on the subsidy-seeking journey. A modest library with mildewed tomes welcomed me as I stepped inside the spacious, sunlit interiors – borrowed old and the uncertain new, in the words of Teju Cole.

By now I had begun to eagerly look forward to learn where to go next; getting the form itself had begun to take on the contours of a sublime act I was unworthy of. I remember feeling happy when the marketing chairman directed me to the rubber board office. Going by the sound of it things were definitely getting bigger; it didn’t matter whether I was getting any closer.

An affable (same boat?) guy took me through the dummy website the government was setting up for the purpose of subsidy disbursal. He took immense pride at the creation and beamed as one drop-down led to a dozen others as if bidding me to applaud. He showed me where to upload the bills and how to log in. He told me what details to fill. Then in the typical pedagogical idiosyncrasy, hallmark of a Keralite, he went through it all over again. And again.

A colleague called out to him lunch hour. Before he left he gave me the number of a person, some bank president, who would tell me where to get the form. This bank president, I was assured, was a puli or tiger, who knew everything I’d ever want to know.

Raring at the opportunity to meet the tiger I bounced down the stairs of the rubber board office where I bumped into an old acquaintance. After exchanging pleasantries and catching up I told him what I was doing there.

“See that photostat shop over there?” He asked pointing across the street. “You’ll get your form from there.”

I must have looked visibly crestfallen at the turn of events.

“It is just two rupees per form,” he said.

Now I felt like crying.

Footnote: The figure in today’s newspaper (July 31, 2015) peg the total number applied so far at close to 50,000; half of them have been approved. Instead of wasting my time writing this I should’ve filled up the form. 

Seldom do we have a say in the situations we find ourselves in. But where we do is whether we come out of them. And how: Shaking like a dry leaf in a harmattan but unscathed, barely scraping through and lucky to be alive. Or what we make of them: Wiser, more patient, better streetsmarts, a newfound appreciation for life. Even as wellsprings of opinion on everything under the sun or a screaming expert on national television. Every recount accords a reinvention: Apoplectic juddering and sweaty brows of a private reminiscence can take on a dismissive conviviality during public narratives without diminishing the event. After all it is the profound incident that makes everyman a showman.

It is both a profligacy of the media-ridden world and the proliferation that issues from it that we have come to take acts of heroism and feats of daring in our stride. The drama, we realise, is missing from the Drama in Real Life of old Reader’s Digests. This watering down is a handiwork, a requirement, a proverbial expectation even, of Time. So when my dad told me about his kidnapping in Lagos many years ago when it was still the Nigerian capital my first reaction was ‘boy, it must’ve been some adventure’. The sizeable sum he lost, a chunk from our final remittance was ‘some real rotten luck’. But when he told me about the passport he got back because he demanded it be returned from his gun-wielding assailants I saw that shiny, gritty constituent that makes an evergreen adventure: balls. And an amazing presence of mind that saved his glasses as they readied to lob him from the moving car.

No one else seems to worry, as I do, that the money demanded by someone whose finger hovers over the trigger of an AK-47 is less a tip than a ransom. (From ‘Every day is for the thief’ set in Lagos, Nigeria by Teju Cole.)

It was the final year of our stay in Nigeria; the Christian-Muslim tensions that were to eventually erupt into widespread clashes leading to death in thousands had begun to simmer. We were in the extreme northwest state of Sokoto and were spared of the frequent tribe-specific chest-thumping and tyre-burning of northern Kaduna and Kano, flashpoints where many friends and colleagues of my folks from back home in Kerala were quartered.

In a rare instance of forward-thinking, education was deemed integral to development in the nationalistic years post late independence in 1960 and teachers from India were enticed with high remuneration packages and attractive remittance policies. Hundreds, on leaves of varying durations from the educational institutions of Kerala, descended on Sokoto state which itself was carved out seven years later and every prepossessing Sultan and pretending Ozo (a local title of respect which is invariably bought) started a school.

Since the bigger, faster aircrafts were rare then my dad took a regular Cessna one morning from Sokoto and landed in Lagos almost four hours later. He remembers a loquacious tyro in command who made it a point to introduce himself personally to everyone who boarded – as if according a note of thanks for trusting him with their lives. After extended vacillations through ominous nimbostrati they landed in the humid aridity of Lagos in the southwest tip. Old remittance hands had cautioned him against using the popular public carrier, the danfo – a 14-seater decrepit mini bus of peeling yellow. My dad, an avid watcher of people and life even today – the prettier the better – decided to save the danfo for later, maybe for getting into Onikan, the heart of old Lagos. He was also planning to visit the National Museum there in the afternoon after his bank work where a friend would meet him. Till the bank on Victoria Island it would be a cab then. The bulk of Naira bundles were in his overnight case while one – dedicated to douceur; Nigeria was and continues to be openly corrupt – was in his trouser pocket, discreetly outlining temptation, probably.

A cab pulled up as soon as he exited the airport and the driver declaimed dad to climb in without even asking where he was headed to.

“Victoria Island,” said dad as they sped away from the bustle of the airport. The cabbie screeched to a halt as if he changed his mind about the fare. Before dad could ask what was going on a stocky and an incongruously dressed pair got into the backseat – one in a fancy tux with a tribal headgear and the other in a more suitable singlet. They got in from either side of the car, squeezing dad immovable with their bulky musculature.

“I was actually thinking about changing my mind on taking the danfo – if a cab was so bad, imagine a public carrier – when the guy in the suit took out a gun and pointed at me.” Dad recounts with amused eyes and an even-keeled voice – from probably reliving the incident a thousand times in his mind since that day. It still hadn’t occurred to him that it was a robbery. So he turned to look at the singlet guy as if the tux’s unfinished business was with him. The singlet had to pull out a switchblade for dad to realise that he was the business.

‘Ahmadu Bello Way’ dad remembers seeing a roadside signage while travelling thus transfixed. The name was familiar as it was the address of some embassy he had to go to the next day. The over and under dressed duo had relieved him of his overnight case – flung it over to the front seat – and also pulled out the wad of cash from his pocket. Many oneiric minutes passed before he realised that they were looking for a secluded spot to defenestrate him. That was when he asked for his passport back; he remains clueless at what made them return his document. He, possibly rightly, subscribes it to the whole lot of money that had just come their way. All in less-than-a-day’s work.

“Were you ever worried that they might have killed you?” I asked.

“If they wanted to they would have by now, right?”

Now, that was some cool-headed thinking. Yes, this guy had every right to ask for his passport back.

“Not just that, they even gave me money to catch a danfo to the National Museum.” His nonchalance only compounded my incredulity.

As they slowed the car down the singlet moved across the seat over to where the tux was and dad immediately got wind of what was about to happen. He removed his glasses and cupped it tightly in his hands and tucked his head hard against the chest.

“Even before they pushed me out I had curled up into the safe rolling position of the foetus,” he said.

“How did you know going foetal was the safest?”

“I taught zoology, remember?”

The twinkle in his eyes belied the straight face.

My sincere gratitude to ex-colleague, great friend and immensely gifted artist Harikumar for the superlative rendition of an episode – almost as if he was there.

Sunny explaining his connect with the iconic HMV logo

On the day of the museum’s inauguration in January this year one of the invitees, a prominent local politician, said to Sunny’s wife Josia “This is sheer craziness.” It was, one can imagine, only in the course of faithful disbursal of his duties as a democratically elected representative of the people – the vox populi. Because that was exactly what most of those who had gathered there thought: Sunny must be off his rocker to sink his entire retirement funds into a no-return venture like a museum. Many months later, as the buzz around it grew, the general take on ‘Discs & Machines – Sunny’s Gramophone Museum’ hasn’t changed much. The reason is that here in Kerala, my home state, both status and social cohesiveness is measured in terms of financial prudence: Gratuities and pension benefits are invested wholly in chits and gold, insurances and income plans. But a little time with Sunny is all it takes for a long hard relook at age-old priorities, traditionally approbated parameters of happiness and, on a more subliminal note, probably the purpose of living itself.

“I really had to borrow more money to finish the work,” Sunny confides with a childlike enthusiasm which is quite infective. The museum – built right next door to his residence – doesn’t dazzle you with its design nor does it stagger with an opulent spread. But what it does is, besides informing one about the world of vintage records – those released between 1890 and 1960, approximately – like nowhere else in the country, there also is a moving realisation that it is the fruition of a childhood passion and the culmination of a near-Messianic pursuit to spread happiness. At least the way Sunny knows it.

Nipper listening to his master’s voice in the legendary HMV logo – an early version of which adorns the entrance to the museum – is in fact evocative of Sunny’s own earliest memories of the gramophone. “When my father used to play his records I remember walking around the gramophone wondering if someone was inside.” His father, Mathew, taught at a nearby school and Sunny remembers him coming home with a new record every other day – which would also be shared with music aficionados nearby. “If some new record was released during holidays, the peon was assigned to get a copy and deliver it to our house.”

Discs number over 100,000

The father’s obsession grew into a compulsion with the son: Sunny’s eventual employment with the forest department – and the fallouts with authority that ensued – ensured his posting to the farthest wooded crannies of the state. The quietude of the sylvan surrounds only served to make music further indispensible. “The first thing I would pack following a transfer order was my collection of records.” Music and records became the cornerstone which held the rest of him in place, transmitting a tranquillity which helped him put together a capacious tome on his family history. For the same Sunny even developed an ingenious indexing system – the name followed by a series of letters in upper and lower cases which spelt out the exact degrees of separation between relatives and their gender. “The life of a ranger during the 80s was much less exciting than what it is today,” he says referring to the episodes of horrendous poaching that has been wracking the state forest department recently. “On most days I could return to my quarters as dusk fell, to the embrace of my records.”

Discs

Over the years his pile of records grew into hundreds and thousands. Today it tallies at over a lakh and takes up the first floor of the museum in neatly labelled stacks. After the HMV hoarding with the forlorn Nipper there is also a signage of Odeon, leading music distributors in India once upon a time; this was one of the only two remaining boards in the country. Sunny narrates exuberant not just on the hardships endured in the procurement of his collections but also on the history behind each. Though the Deutsche Grammophon Company had produced an album in 1908 it went largely unnoticed. It was when Odeon released Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite a year later that the concept of album came to be noted by the public; popularity sought it several years later.

Music in squares and circles, translucent, vinyl and shellac

By a corner are some man-high flex standees featuring essential information which goes a long way in phonographic initiation – and exploration. As a kid though my dad had a collection of ‘vinyls’ mostly Hindi movies and English albums and some German symphonies – what I remember most vividly was my godmother twisting to Dum Maro Dum from Hare Rama, Hare Krishna. Here I was introduced to shellac, one of the earliest disc record materials, which was in vogue till the less abrasive vinyl came in the way. I was also caught agape by the sheer diversity of the shapes and sizes they came in. The smallest in the museum was five inches in diameter and the biggest was 16 – both of which I had never seen or knew existed. There were also seven and 10 inch ones, square-shaped, made of paper and of translucent vinyl. The different rpms – rotations per minute – was yet another facet of the gramophone’s technical history I was introduced to; 78 rpm which was more or less the norm till the second World War was eased out by 33 1/3 rpm popularised by Columbia Records and the 45 rpm favoured by RCA. Both had their own benefits, hence takers: The home record player, a rage in the 50s, featured three or four-speed players which could accommodate different rpms.

Emile Berliner’s seven inch discs are the oldest records in the collection; Berliner was a German immigrant in America who first patented sound recording in 1887; and I thought it was Edison all the way. Other priceless recordings from the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries include those of artistes like Gauhar Jaan (1902), Narayani Ammal, Coimbatore Tai, Banglore Tai, Salem Godavari, Nagaratnam, the entire works of MS Subbalakshmi and KL Saigal. Speeches made by Mahatma Gandhi in India and abroad, ‘Ab Dilli door nahin’ and other exhortation clippings of Subhash Chandra Bose, sound bytes from Sarojini Naidu and Jawaharlal Nehru’s first speech to an Independent India lend the archives a patriotic flavour.

Sunny – the walking, talking encyclopedia of vintage records

At ‘The role of gramophones in Indian Independence movement’ talk organised at the Gramophone Museum on August 15 this year Sunny played for the audience different versions of the Vande Mataram – from the one set to tune by Tagore to a brisk version specifically for Chandra Bose’s legions, a stirring one in Bengali and a somnolent one in Tamil. Apparently the song was slated to be the national anthem till it ran into a spate of controversies including one which claimed it was actually singing paeans to the gora. Besides the evergreen Rafi and Lata, Asha and Kishore, Mukesh, Ghulam Ali and Bismillah Khan, there are also regional rarities like sound tracks of old Malayalam, Tamil, Kannada and Telugu movies and dramas. The museum – and Sunny himself – is a treasure trove of music and cinema history. “In 1915, depending on the popularity of the singer, records were sold for anywhere between Re 1 and Rs 5 – also the price of an acre of land!” Serious researchers and ‘vinyl travellers’ might soon be provided boarding and lodging within museum premises.

Machines

Pointers to an era – the machines, over 250 of them

As you walk in through the door of the second floor hall an array of shiny and slightly subfusc metallic clutter meets your eye like the leftovers from a lorimer workshop – these are spare parts for the 250 odd gramophones arrayed here. The earliest ones date back to late 19^th century and the newest are from the 80s. From portables to table tops and cabinet models, ‘at least 80 per cent’ are in perfect working order. Some of the most famous models from HMV, the Swiss-made Mikiphone considered the smallest in the world, several horn gramophones from Czechoslovakia, early portable models from Germany with the distinct front crank, toy and plastic and pencil box gramophones are all displayed in functional shelves of three rows each.

The perspicacious collector that he is, Sunny trawls the ‘chor’ and other backstreet bazaars everywhere from Delhi to Mumbai, Mangalore and Calicut for gramophones as well as discs. Besides, it also helps to have a network of ‘informants’ who will tell you of a potential windfall – an old bungalow being razed somewhere or a bored or in-need collector selling. Mannadiyar from Palakkad and Abdul Salam from Calicut have given Sunny some his most fortuitous leads. The floor also features an eclectic collection of valve radios, old tape recorder decks, wire recorders and the earliest compact disc Walkman of the 80s – which sounded the death knell of many magnificent instruments. Ancient Singer sewing machines, most of them still working, throw light on the upwardly mobile Keralite from over a century ago. In case one is missing the macabre there is an executioner’s sword made of the heaviest iron featuring a finely engraved edge.

A toy gramophone, but for real

When the politician said – only semi-jocularly – that her husband was crazy Josia replied that the world was an interesting place because of people like him. It was not a pat answer to maybe a scabrous statement but faithfully reflected where she stood in Sunny’s scheme of things – right by his side, as his friend and confidante and sometimes even lending a much needed hand with, say the cataloguing. At an Indian Association of Sound and Audio Visual Archives seminar organised in Delhi in 2012, Sunny presented a paper on the limitations of the private gramophone collector; the most debilitating of which was lack of spousal or familial understanding and support.

“I have a friend, also a fellow collector, who had to lie to his wife that he paid only Rs 300 for a rare record whereas he actually paid Rs 1000,” Sunny says. The truth would have led to a showdown which he was trying to avoid. Then like most lies this one too came at a price. “When my friend was not home the wife sold it to somebody who offered Rs 500.”

Others

Josia is just back from work; she is a senior officer at a bank in nearby Pala. We are all having garden fresh juice with home-grown bananas.

More than records at the gramophone museum

“What about the vintage cars?” I ask her probably sounding too bent on poking a hole at the mature modern day fairy tale. “What do you think of them?” There are five of them parked in makeshift garages in the front yard – an Austin from 1933, a Morris, couple of old Fiats and a Montana, which I remember was big news for the fibreglass body when I was in school – a feat quite ahead of its time, perhaps.

“Oh I like them actually,” she replied and asked “Can you imagine the consternation it caused in the countryside when one of our relatives went to church for his wedding in the Austin?” Yes I could and I could also see quite clearly where she was coming from. Sunny is obviously a very lucky guy. And he knows it.

“I still don’t know whether this is all real or I’m living in a dream,” he says. “I’m just immensely happy when I am in the midst of my gramophones and records, cars and bikes. And I hope I am able to share some of that happiness when I take people around.”

I told him what I found: Both his enthusiasm and happiness were infectious.

“Did you know that the Rajdoot GTS came to be known as ‘Rajdoot Bobby’ after it appeared in the movie Bobby?” He asked me sitting astride the motorbike which resembles a moped with muscle.

No I didn’t. Was the one next to it a Jawa?

Sunny on ‘Bobby’

“Yes, the precursor to the iconic Yezdi.”

As I leave I know that there are paintings and wood carvings done by Sunny which I haven’t yet seen – we both have prior appointments for which we are already late. And of course there is the well-stocked library of which I take a fleeting glance as I flee – mouldy, leather-bound oldies proudly announcing their erudition in refulgent letters.

One good thing about the singular discovery right in my own backyard – I hail from nearby Pala – is that I could always be back, for longer. Yet another was that I found it at all – we never expect to find humdingers in the humdrum of our homes.

The museum is open on weekends from 2 – 7PM; weekday entry is through prior appointment with Sunny. Call +91 8137020285. Website: www.sunnysgramophonemuseum.com. Entry is free.

How to reach: The nearest rail head is Kottayam. Pala is 30 km from here along the state highway and Plassanal, where the museum is located, is another 8 km from Pala. You pass through Bharanaganam, a Christian pilgrim centre, and in three kilometres reach Ambara from where you have to take a panchayat road to the left for a kilometre. Directions to the museum are clearly marked here.

“We the people…” Das shouted over the staccato din of his rear engine auto rickshaw “are full support of the port.”

Das and I were on our way to Mulloor, few kilometres from Vizhinjam, a flashpoint in the elaborate and controversial land acquisition exercise for the much touted Vizhinjam Port developed jointly by the state and central governments and infrastructure major Adani Group. “Only the priests and politicians have a problem.”

The rubbled desolation of Kuriathy

At the Kuriathy Beach in Mulloor resorts stood in rubbled desolation; while some acquiesced without fight, many waged court battles against the state machinery which they expectedly lost. “Some of them were demanding up to one crore rupees for a cent of land,” a surveyor at the specifically set up ‘Office of the Special Tehsildar – Land acquisition, Vizhinjam International Sea Port’ told me later, wide-eyed, still supercilious from an obvious whopper. “Of course they had to settle for less, way less.” Traditional Kerala ceilings with wooden beams and ornate corbels, decorated door jambs and window frames had been pried off and carted away; concrete walls remained roofless and burrowed out, stucco strewn all over. A buxom Kathakali dancer stood with folded arms and downcast eyes artfully resigned to fate; the peeling plaster of the caryatid portending a not very propitious one.

Coconut grove with the Azhamala Temple

In the midst of a coconut grove slanting out of a laterite hill next to an Ayurvedic spa and resort which was curiously still taking in customers, stood the Azhimala Temple, briefly a most raucous spoke in the wheel of the ambitious land deals. Fears were allowed to suppurate that it might be razed which had local religious and civic organisations up in arms. Several baits were cast into the troubled waters but none came up trumps: Assurances were issued promptly enough allaying fears that the temple would not be touched. “This is India,” Das reminds me. “Nobody bulldozes a place of worship.”

“What if the 25,000 jobs promised by the port authorities were at stake?” I wondered.

“Not even then.”

This is India and I knew I had to believe.

—

Plenty of seclusion once you pass the lighthouse

The touristy Kovalam is next door – a 20 minute walk north from Vizhinjam along the beach. Many years ago as a student I have traipsed south from Kovalam with dates looking for secluded spots – plenty once you pass the lighthouse. This time I walked alone, the other way, nothing to stop me marvelling at the towering hillocks and boulders that jutted out into the sea. Some which were removed from the beach but still reachable had become standalone islets proper. The Arabian Sea stretched unending into the farthest southern and western horizons in the glistening virid of high noontide and dispatched walloping breakers over my feet. The powerful ebb scooped out copious quantities of sand from beneath my stride and threw me off-kilter. While the bigger motorised fishing boats had returned to harbour and arrayed themselves into neat bobbing rows, several smaller ones could be spotted out in the sea, little piddling flecks.

A parking in progress

Not all boats were docked at the harbour. As I passed by a secluded stretch of the beach I saw some men waiting; weather-beaten faces anxiously following a pinnace fitted with an outboard motor tracing a wobbly path towards them. It stopped just short of the beach while expert hands tilted the motor on its mounting bracket just in time to prevent the propeller from scraping the sandy bottom. Sounds of dismay emanated from the onlookers who peered over the gunwale – the nets were empty, again. But they were soon back to work beaching the boat in cadenced heaves to the flow of tidewater. I was beckoned to lend a hand; trust me it is easier to park your car in Nehru Place during peak hours.

“Ports have historically sounded the death knell of fishing,” a wizened one with restless eyes told me lighting up an extra potent beedi specially rolled for seafarers. He offered me one and I was soon doubling over, cough-wracked.

A happening port from 20 centuries ago

The hackathon continued till I reached an exceptionally large hillock bordering Kovalam. From a distance the sea spray had it gleaming like a stranded colossal cetacean. Boulders and hillocks like these while protecting the coastline to an extent from erosion, are also instrumental in the sea gaining more depth – making it a fine natural harbour. Even sailors from centuries ago noted this feature of the area which made it safe for ships to come as close to the shore as possible enabling faster freight movement. Excavations carried out here by the Department of Archaeology of my erstwhile University of Kerala have thrown up ancient pottery, amphora and potsherds that point to trade relations with the Far East and even beyond. This led to the widely held belief that Vizhinjam could be the ‘Balita’ which is mentioned in The Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, a periplus for use by captains and traders written in Greek covering ports, coastal landmarks and commerce opportunities along the Red Sea, dating back to the mid first century.

—

A town sought-after

Over the centuries with trade and commerce booming Vizhinjam became a prosperous port town. It also came to be sought-after by fortune-seeking kings and chieftains. Several sieges were laid on it by successive generations of rulers of the Pandya, Chera and Chola dynasties. Stone inscriptions found on a 10^th century rock temple on the banks of the Thamirabarani River (‘Thamraparni’ in the olden days) in Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu, have faithfully recorded the exploits of the Chola kings Rajaraja and his son Rajendra; the latter also called Gangaikonda Cholan for his military feats: He went as far as Malaysia, Sumatra and Sri Lanka and annexed large swathes of northern India as well. The earliest recorded military conquest of Vizhinjam was by the Pandya king Maravarman in the seventh century who then handed over the administration of the region to Ay chieftains renowned for their loyalty as well as building prowess. They constructed many forts in Vizhinjam including an ‘island fort’ for which the sea itself was the moat. References to this era can be found from the inscriptions on copper plates kept in the Chennai Museum dating back to the eighth century during the reign of the Pandya king Nedunjadaiyan.

Travancore kings developed it into a fishing harbour

Rajendra Chola conquered Vizhinjam from the Ay chieftains and the Pandyas in the 11^th century and renamed in ‘Rajendracholappattinam.’ Before Rajendra Chola attacked, it was not just the Cholas who had designs on Vizhinjam but the valorous Cheras too. However since the Cheras were related to the Cholas by matrimony, they decided to hold peace. The alarms bells in the Chola camp were set off when the Cheras tried to enter into a strategic alliance with the Pandyas prompting Rajaraja Chola to attack first. Rajendra fortified further the Chola hegemony over Vizhinjam. The Pandyas regained Vizhinjam from the Cholas in the 13^th century but couldn’t hold on to it for long. Several regional kings besieged the port town over the following centuries.

In 1505 the Dutch opened a pepper factory in Vizhinjam and forayed into gold, pearls and corals besides spices. Lured by the lucre, the British too set up shop here in 1644. However these were the final glorious years of Vizhinjam as an active trading port; the trading and the economy collapsed when they left. It was the Travancore kings who developed it into the fishing harbour as we know Vizhinjam today.

—

I reached Vizhinjam, 15 km from the Thampanoor bus terminal in Trivandrum on a sultry afternoon; no signs of the hyetal season which was to be underway. Posters featuring state chief minister Oommen Chandy with his trademark helter skelter hair and the delicately featured Shashi Tharoor who is the local area MP adorned every available space on the walls that led to the harbour. The message was a self-pat on the back for making the port happen, finally: Work is all set to commence November 1, Kerala Day. It had gone through several political regimes in the state but ran aground mostly over contentious land acquisition issues. The threat it posed to the livelihoods of fishermen was another.

An emunctory invasion

The Port Action Council formed under the aegis of the Latin Church has laid the number of fishermen who depended on the Vizhinjam harbour at 35,000; 25,000 of whose livelihood it claimed would be affected by the development of the shipping channel. Besides rehabilitation packages running into several hundreds of crores of rupees, the state government has also promised around 25,000 jobs. Other carrots include a more advanced fishing harbour and a seafood park and basic facilities like drinking water. My beach expedition was marred in several places by emunctory invasions which made me hope if only the basic facilities would include toilets too. In a rehabilitation process that began years ago, many who lived in hutments and shacks on the beach were already shifted to hastily put up colonies peering over cliffs. These labyrinthine assortments of lean-tos and ramshackle dwellings have open drainages, shared taps and rarely proper toilets. Scatting in the open continues not as a matter of old habit but necessity.

Sports clubs galore – a colony

A dearth of living area does not come in the way of play: Sports clubs can be spotted at every alternate corner. Here youngsters were seen bent over carom boards while older ones snoozed under the protective cover of the day’s edition of Deshabhimani and Mathrubhumi. Trophies – polished to a severe shine – lined the walls. These clubs were not all play either; but these are rooms where agitations are hatched, slogans devised and placards designed. These are also waiting rooms where those promised jobs at the port waits, weaving dreams.

“Most of the jobs are that of manual labourers – loading and unloading,” said Shahid, a sprightly young lad wearing green cigarette pants and cheap chequered cloth boat shoes. “But with my ITI diploma I hope to get a technical job.”

“I just hope to get any job so that I can marry my girlfriend before her father marries her off to somebody from the Gulf*,” said another.

*’Gulf’ in colloquial Malayalam comprises the countries of the Middle East – traditionally a hot job destination for Keralites. 

Some tough calls are easy to make because we were just waiting, having known all along. I could have stuck to the brief and brought out my book on time. Or I could talk about tribal dislocation, warn about traffic conditions, mull over Maoists, their lives and death and burial traditions, ponder over poaching that went on unhindered in the ‘protected’ biospheres – inviting the sponsor’s wrath and editorial anguish and thereby also bring upon myself the inevitable and frustrating publication delay. Though there is not much to show for it – not an entirely unexpected eventuality for which I had made anticipatory amends through a series of posts – I did opt for the second route. Then I must say surprisingly enough a lot of stuff I laid out expecting to be butchered was retained, quivering Isaacs, thanks to a fantastic edit team at the publishing house who fought a valiant Battle for Editorial Integrity against the might of the allied forces of Misinformation and Myopia.

Was I pandering to a conscience? I was on the road for more than a month working on the guidebook during which I became friends with many people warm, welcoming and remarkably naïve – a trait almost always found at the root of most insurgencies. I believed theirs was a tale which had to be told. Theirs was a culture worthy enough to be documented. Being at loggerheads with authority wasn’t a good enough reason to subject someone to slight or oversight; in fact this very (rebellious) quality made them more intriguing as well as interesting. I met at least two western travellers, including one woman, who was staying with the Gonds and the Baigas, in their homes, keeping a journal of their own experiences and discoveries, their hosts’ convictions and contentions. They weren’t planning on bringing out books but were fully realising the tribal way of living and believing. How I envied them!

Having a dislike bordering on the breathless for guidebooks that are structured so rigid leaving no room for context I wanted to make my guidebook both a guide and a book. I loved the reader and I wanted her to love me back for what I said and how I said it. This made me lace background with humour, intersperse historical perspectives with factious nuggets, people route descriptions with, well, people and ethos. I wanted to show her places she never knew – places that were panting to be uncovered. I was willingly prolix over prosaic, some charged. For others it was facetious and otiose information. But my loyalty lay only with my reader.

While not many venture beyond the salubrious Tibetan settlement Mainpat near Ambikapur, I went to great lengths in every sense to include Dipadih, 80 km north-east, a place I described as ‘possibly the best archaeological site in the state.’ For whatever reason – I was told accessibility – the destination is not promoted the way it should be. Save for a passing mention culled out unimaginatively from an entire chapter I devoted to this delightful temple complex, the guidebook doesn’t even have a single picture of the excavation. This is nothing short of an aggravation. It hurt me and more so the site itself – I witnessed and wrote about a new construction within the site flouting archaeological norms.

Reachability should never be a measure of merit, for that matter popularity even. ‘Nobody goes there anyway’ is no reason to relegate a destination further into oblivion. Karkabhat was another site which really caught my fancy. Fearing a similar fate for this prehistoric burial site, I wrote about it on my blog and reviewed it on Tripadvisor to really good response. Centuries from today our blogs might pop up in some kind of cyber excavation and we would want them to be valued for what it is worth, right? Karkabhat made its way into the guidebook, pictures and all; Dipadih I will have to bring out as a later post. Travel writers should owe more to the places they write about than to the people who sent them there. Your writing will read better and you will look better that way when your blog and articles come up centuries or many millennia later.

While many place and event have been scissored by the edit team out of their own volition and otherwise there are many that remain untouched by dint of being in my ‘heart and not in the hard drive’ to borrow from a recent commercial. It spoke about the best of memories. Yes, the best of them are always tucked away in our minds till Alzheimer starts chiselling away; the second best are in password-protected folders and drives. The best memories from my 40-day road trip in Chhattisgarh are captured in hastily-shot mobile camera photographs that are burnt or bleary at best.

Chhattisgarh has been covered as four main nodal points in the guidebook – capital Raipur and industrial Bilaspur, Ambikapur in the north and Jagdalpur in the south. The rest of the places are under ‘drives’ from these cities – a minimum of four and maximum five from each.

The laughing tribal / Ambikapur

Cabbies in Ambikapur warned me that the sedan a friend lent me wouldn’t make it to Jashpur via Kailash Gufa and Samarbar with its delightful Sanskrit Mahavidyalaya. The road, as I quoted Robert Fulton Jr. from his book One Man Caravan, is recommended if you are tired of the ‘disadvantages of good roads’ – high speed and the lack of that inspiring factor in travel, the welcoming hand of the interested stranger. Hiring an SUV I set out from Ambikapur through the harshest of roads I encountered in the state save for the 25 km from Baloda Bazaar to Kasdol rigged up by cement factory trucks. The young driver was only too happy to hand over the wheels to me; he went recumbent on the backseat and embarked on an effusion of susurrated amorous assertions broken only when we had to ask for directions.

The tribal in a yellow checked shirt and a sling bag totally ignored me in the driving seat while deferentially giving directions to the driver in the backseat. He reluctantly agreed when I asked him if I could take a photograph and asked a tad irritated why I wanted his photograph. “For memory sake,” I charmed him. As we rolled on I heard a shout from behind and saw the same tribal running after us. Thinking he forgot to collect his baksheesh – as has become the norm of photographic subjects in touristy India – I stopped the vehicle. “Now I understood,” he panted in pidgin Hindi. “You are not the driver, but he is.” He said pointing at the Majnu back on the mobile phone.

He actually ran after us just to share the revelation and a good laugh.

Night safari / Bilaspur

Achanakmar Wildlife Sanctuary is one of the drives from Bilaspur. As with the more popular Barnawapara, here too the animals were playing coy though linked to the large contiguous forest tract that is part of the Kanha-Achanakmar tiger corridor. Tiger sightings were more regular in the part of the reserve that fell in neighbouring Madhya Pradesh. When I whined to the jeep safari boys they rebuked me with a gem: You city dwellers should start considering the jungle as the primary sight in a jungle safari. Being otherwise wonderful, I was invited to go on a midnight outing in the jungle.

Fortified suitably on everything local and potent we set out around 2 AM. We bounced over sandstones, schists and granite outcrops; the ancient Gypsy lights serving to illumine them just in time to grip the anti-roll hard so that I stayed within the vehicle. After an hour of barely missing the sal and saja trees, we reached a waterfall that cascaded down, silky white under a bright moon. Nature was a camera set to very slow shutter speed.

Cockfight / Jagdalpur

Though I have waxed out of whack about the cockfights I saw and went to in the southern Bastar region, even made a short film for YouTube, I still can’t help get over the feeling that I could have made some real dosh had I been a little less cocky. By the time I attended the Chingitarai haat with its scenic cockfight arena with Dokra artisan Hari, I could distinguish a pandri from a chokha and knew to some degree of certainty that agility was more important than strength. Imagine the first few rounds of a kickboxing match but with the combatants wearing spikes. My money was doubled to Rs 1000 in the first go itself – all of which I placed on a bout immediately after returning from a round of celebratory mahua with newfound friends. I still remember the cockle-nuking glee on the face of the withered old man who plucked the note from between my fingers.

First impressions / Raipur

The opening lines on the capital city were crystallised from the observations and experiences, interviews and learning over the course of my stay and travels in the state. Though they didn’t find a place in the final product for reasons of brevity or whatever else, they still remain my impression of the people and the place:

There is an unmistakable sense of urgency in the air. But amidst the cacophony, the confusion and chaos there’s also a sense of change, an eagerness to grab opportunities as well as to pry open new ones. Raipur, like any other capital city, has succeeded in attracting those with immeasurable reservoirs of ambition, the restless ones, those with little time and patience for conventions and beliefs. It is not just the town that is undergoing an elaborate facelift but the entire fabric of the society is being reworked and newer policies framed, alliances struck, promises made. Compromises chalked. Progress has become the buzzword of the capital city of the (now, second) youngest state of the Indian Union. There is the occasional mayhem – a consequence of too much too soon; the lawlessness – appendage of immense prospects and unbending will; there is the confusion and disappointment that comes from impractical goals and monumental dreams. But there is positivity, vibrancy and faith.

And so it went, not very far though.

The word ‘archaeology’ is Greek in origin and has nothing to do with monuments or heritage but simply means the ‘pursuit of ancient knowledge.’ While few of us pursue ancient knowledge ardently – or any knowledge for that matter – while on holiday, there is a certain joy we experience while visiting heritage sites – treasure troves of prehistoric civilisations, acmes of ancient creativity, epitomes of thought and design from an era gone by. More so when they are not overrun by tourists or hidden beneath unseemly structures erected in the name of preservation. Dipadih is one of those delightful anomalies where lack of visitors has paid put to development funds which in turn has meant less visitors.

The site is an ancient temple complex and possibly the best archaeological site in the whole of Chhattisgarh. With not much footfalls, in large part due to its remote north location (read ‘route’ later in the story) the site has remained pristine. The best part is that the fruit of the archaeological dig has been preserved not in museums but on the open ground; and thankfully no claustrophobic awnings either. Excavated stone pillars have been erected along the path next to the entrance on which are exhibited the mythical creatures and religious figures that were unearthed at the site. A walk through the path leading to the main Shiva Temple breathes life to an almost visceral connection to our past and the rich heritage. Exploring the site is like walking through a live excavation site – only that here the sculptures have been lined up neatly, washing off the grime and the mud, for an exclusive premiere. Pardon the Hallmark sentiment, but you feel truly special here. The main findings in the region include six major temples and 74 smaller ones dating from the 7^th century onward, when the region was under the Kalachuri kings.

The main Shiva Temple is revered by the locals in the memory of King Samant Sarna who lost his life in battle centuries ago. The temple itself is quite unique in its craftsmanship, a celebration of perfection in everyday life. Thus there are images of the typical nayika (‘heroine’ literally) women characterised in sculptural art by alluring embonpoint – voluptuous breasts and well-rounded thighs. All around the complex are images of these nayikas in interesting postures – waiting for a lover, dancing, looking at themselves in the mirror. Keep an eye out for the one wearing a dissimilar pair of earrings. These nayikas are trendsetters, in stone: While mismatched earrings are popular with the tribal women of Sarguja even today, pop culture nayika Miley Cyrus wore one to a red carpet event last year.

There are regal-looking creatures roaring in alert sentry duty and the more pacific images of swans and beatific peacocks. There is a very unique statue of two lions with one head which can be seen on the adhisthana, the raised platform, of the temple. On the entrance doors to the temple there are the river goddesses Ganga and Yamuna, epitomising feminine grace and charm wearing jewellery and daintily coiffured. A magnificent Lord Shiva has been etched on to its arches. Around it is the Kalpavriksha (a wish-fulfilling tree in Hindu mythology) and a band of soldiers. A stroll around the temple will reveal grimacing men with severely twirled moustaches, the lower lips merging with the beards and tucked into the corners of the walls – their mouths are actually the exit for the drainage system. Creativity at its playful best.

Other notable sculptures among the excavations here include the images of a dancing and an unmoving Lord Ganesha. The statue of Uma Maheshwar (Shiva and consort Parvati) is the epitome in sculptural art – there is a clearly discernible smile across the face of Uma Maheshwar. The hair on their heads as well as the jewellery worn by Parvati has also been etched out brilliantly. The statue of Rudra Bhairava or Shiva in his destructive avatar, with a garland of heads around his neck is more feral than elsewhere for it is grinning as if enjoying the annihilation. There is Lord Brahma with facial hair, apparently not seen anywhere else in India. Most nook and enclosure lead to a Shivalinga ranging from five feet to a behemoth and an architectural marvel made from 108 smaller Shivlingas. The macho soldier, in a marked departure from his usual gallant stance, plucking out a thorn that has pricked the tender feet of his paramour is an enduring one as it is endearing. Chivalry was always in fashion!

At the time of visit towards the end of last year I saw some labourers laying the foundation for a building without any sort of supervision within the site obviously flouting all conservation norms.

“Whom are you guys working for?” I asked.

“Babloo contractor.”

Expecting an ‘ASI’ or ‘state archaeology department’ I could only gawk at them.

“You don’t know Babloo contractor?” They asked, unbelieving.

“Mmmhhhh,” I mumbled unable to cover my feeling of inadequacy.

It could be just a matter of time before the true heritage experience of Dipadih is obliterated by more of such recent arrivals. But till then truly a life enriching experience.

The route and snacking suggestions: Dipadih is best done as a day trip from Ambikapur. Take the exit to Rajpur 38 km away. The road is a well maintained double lane though it tapers in many places to a narrow strip. Like the rest of Ambikapur, you don’t encounter much traffic here either. But do keep an eye open for tractors or other vehicles that are obscured by hayricks stacked up by the side of the road. Vast open fields, ochreous-yellow stubs in the post-harvest season, embrace the tarmac from both sides. Sal trees cuddle over clusters of adobe houses many of which are under lock and key; with not much of work left in the fields, the villagers have moved to cities looking for work.

Locals vouch for the quality of the food one gets at the dhabas along this route; there are a few as you near Rajpur which serves some seriously appetising stuff. The samosas from these shops are a must-try; the potato used in the filling has a certain je ne sais quoi which can be said only for those coming from Mainpat nearby. Have it with the pathaka (literally meaning ‘firecracker’) or imli (tamarind) chutney. Though the road traces a blazing straight track most of the time, there are severe half-moons and blind inclines. From Rajpur, Dipadih is 42 km and the scenery only gets better. A very memorable drive made further enjoyable by relative emptiness of the road. Once you reach Dipadih town there is an unobtrusive turning to the left which cuts through unending fields till the excavation site marked by sprawling arboreal glory.

Distance: 80 km / Time: 1 hr 30 min

You can wipe out a generation of people, you can burn their homes to the ground and somehow they will still come back. But if you destroy their achievements and their history then it’s like they never existed. Just ash floating.

George Stout / Frank Stokes played by George Clooney in the true life drama ‘The Monuments Men’

(Except for a few minor additions, the above article is largely from a chapter in the guidebook ‘Experience Chhattisgarh on the road’ written and photographed by me for the Times Book Group.)

The building yard

Like any legendary lot the Khalasis too determinedly deplores and disses any attempt that plebeianises a hard earned reputation. Following the Perumom Tragedy of 1988 when modern cranes and other power tools failed it was the Khalasis who lifted the sunken train compartments out from the depths of the Ashtamudi Lake in Kollam employing just their age-old pulleys, hawsers and rollers. EK Nayanar the then chief minister requested them to lend a hand. Today ‘Service and Khalasi’ is a frequent signboard in and around Kozhikode (Calicut); exiting the city for Beypore 12 km away I saw many. Diversification? No, it wasn’t, I was told. But a misinformed generalisation by the publicity-savvy new gen entrepreneur who has clubbed vehicle servicing with tow job.

Coming up – uru

“The youngster today has no idea what the Khalasi does or how he does it,” said Suleiman Haji as we walked towards the Chaliyar River. I had just emerged from the towering open air outhouse where two urus were underway. An assistant mistri who took me around with a uniformed security guard introduced me to the Haji who had stopped by to check on the progress of the uru. A Khalasi himself, Suleiman told me that not many know the Khalasis come into the picture only once the construction of the uru was over. Till then at the helm are the ‘raj mistris’ or master craftsmen like Sathian, Narayanan Mistri or Andikutty Mistri with around 50 shipwrights under their command.

A model

“A customer when placing an order usually specifies just the length,” Sathian told me when I met him at his house earlier that morning. He then showed me an uru, a scaled down model, features replicated to the minutest detail. This one which takes anywhere up to three months to make and costing around a few lakh rupees is what goes to the client for approvals. Suggested changes – usually design-related – are incorporated into the model itself before actual work begins. Some publications talk about Khalasis building urus with not even a blueprint to refer to – which would be going overboard with faulty information and hyperbole. The Khalasis do not built boats and those who do work to perfect miniatures.

“With the kind of monies involved it would be insane even to think that we’d build in such an offhand manner,” said Sathian.

When I visited the site on the banks of the Chaliyar River in Beypore, there were two urus being constructed. While the smaller one was a 250-tonner, the bigger one was over 300 and cost three and four crore rupees respectively.

Work in progress

The sweet pungency of freshly sawn timber wafted around. Wood in neatly cut slabs was stacked up everywhere. Because of lack of availability or exorbitant prices or both, I am told the wood comes from Malaysia and Burma. There is round-the-clock security to ensure no pilferage. The scaffolding, a grid work of customised iron railings and wooden platforms, had been erected around the hull which looked like it was holding it together. “Only about 10 – 15 per cent of work remains,” I was told. Not a superyacht with fantastically clean lines and taut, smooth surfaces, these are dhows in spirit and in design. I took the steep stairway that went up the starboard to the expansive deck, the designated social hub, the sun deck. The forecastle was skeletal still and a beam was still attached to the bow. I traced my path around the deck from the port side, along the gunwale russet with and smelling of varnish. I twitched my nose.

“You don’t like the smell?” The mistri asked.

“Well, it’s not exactly nice.”

“In the olden days when there was no varnish fish oil was used,” the mistri said. “Especially along the hull.”

Now I squirmed; I used to be force-fed cod liver oil as a kid which used to bring up patricidal thoughts in me.

“Yes, it smelled nasty. Then the wood lasted for several centuries too.”

Now I was caught in a serious dilemma: Fish oil or varnish on my yacht?

Sathian mistri

The master cabin was sizeable with supersize windows allowing a lot of natural lighting. There was a smaller deck that opened towards the stern, a hub for cosier get-togethers perhaps. A flight of steps went down to the lower deck which was the engine room. The cavernous hollow resonated with the steely hum of an old fan – engines would be fitted later in Dubai. As would the rest of the interior works too. The owner, an emir from Qatar, wanted it in time for the FIFA World Cup. There was enough time for renowned yacht designers from Italy or France to weave their magic; the uru itself would be ready for its first ride in December.

“Till the ride to Dubai we will use a temporary outboard engine.” The mistri informed me.

“Then you will bring it back?”

“No, it’s usually disposed of to some big fishing company there only.”

“So where does the real launch take place? Beypore in December or later in Dubai? Or…” I was curious.

“We will break coconut and launch it here first and then they will probably break champagne over the bow and do another one there. And…”

Sathian, Narayanan and other mistris will travel in the uru as far as Gujarat where it will be handed over to licensed seamen who will be delivering it to Dubai.

River Chaliyar

Suleiman Haji and I walked towards the Chaliyar River. Two boats were moored there, we sat in one and lit up. His eyes wandered over the wooden rollers fashioned out of tree trunks which extended from the workshop yard till the water.

“We slide the boats over these,” he said pointing at them.

“It’s a sight to watch, you should try and come,” he said. “It’s not all about physical strength, you know,” he added maybe a little pointedly.

I told him I’d try and I had taken down the relevant phone numbers for updates.

“Then you can’t really blame the boys also, you see,” he said looking at the glowing end of his cigarette.

I was lost for a moment and looked at him questioningly.

“They cannot be just sitting around waiting for urus to be launched, right?”

Beypore town

How to reach: Kozhikode to Beypore is 12 km. Two kilometres short of Beypore is the BC Road Junction. About a kilometre down the BC Road, past some timber mills, you will reach an unmarked right turn. A narrow road snuggly fitted with houses and vegetable patches on both sides, it reaches the Chaliyar River banks and you can spot the workshop amid a coconut grove from a distance.

Traditions with fabled moorings are still sure-footed in Varanasi. Kushti, Indian wrestling, goes back 5000 years in this old old living city. The origins of kushti akharas* where training in kushti is given has been attributed to Parashuram who plays a stellar role in the Indian epics Ramayana and Mahabharata as mentors to exemplary warriors Bhishma and Drona. Today despite grappling with paucity of patronage and dwindling public interest these akharas are brimming: mud-splayed muscles heave nimbly, entangled limbs before pummel, submission holds choke out grunts, thigh slaps sting the air, shrilly stern whistle of the danda-bearing instructor mark bouts.

Not in the distant past there were close to 200 akharas in Varanasi and most of them were around the famous ghat area. The prominent ones today – numbering less than a tenth – still are. One can walk into any of these without prior permission – despite burly physiques and intense lineaments these gladiators are quite friendly and camera savvy. One even showed me the best way to shoot the mace – placed across his fine toned pectorals and biceps. Win-win. While the rest of the A-team continued their warm up sessions without missing a beat: lithely scaling the lanyard hung in the courtyard with the ease and pace of a lizard. Not one succumbed to that galling display of jocose jostling or self-conscious ribbing when surrounded by cameras and pretty faces (I wasn’t the only tourist).

Training in the akhara I visited progressed in two floors, spanning two schools – traditional kushti on the ground floor, on the specially prepared mud and on the first floor where novices skidded and thudded across a shiny yellow mat along modern freestyle Olympic moves. With renewed government interest in the sport there are financial incentives and youngsters are drawn if not exactly flocking to the akharas. The two who sat along the fringes of the mat weren’t gawking gawpuses but were gathering their breath.

Promise hung in the air.

The layout

The vehicle stopped right by a bustling street. We were going to an akhara, I was told. All around me were un-budging cows and a cacophonous traffic weaving its way around them. But once I passed through the gates, things took an irenic turn. Some middle-aged men sat a little removed from all the action. No, they hadn’t come to see the tourists but were doing their own thing: reading the day’s paper and sipping cutting chais. Not saying there are no hangers on who come to peer closely, rudely, at the tourists. Guests are like our gods; don’t we look at our gods lingeringly – and that bit needily?

The akharas are supposed to exude tranquillity and peace and are generally surrounded by trees with access to free flowing water. This one had large shady pipal and neem trees and right next to the gate was the ruling deity of every akhara – Hanuman. Disciples offer obeisance upon entry by touching his feet. Shiva and Ganesha, Ram and Sita can also be seen in some akharas giving company to the monkey god with his mace in one hand and the Dronagiri mountain on the other. The fragrance of freshly watered earth hung in the air – like the first showers of monsoon. The wrestling pit itself is filled with soft earth refilled at regular intervals from nearby fields. The akhara mud is believed to have powers to cure minor ailments including some skin diseases.

Ghee is reportedly used to soften the mud in the wrestling area – which I was told was not so anymore. There was a time when majority of the akhara patrons were from the Yadav community, who are predominantly milk merchants. Some akharas here have deep wells from which only the guru is allowed to draw water – used only for drinking. This water is believed to be akin to tonic – with secret powers. Rarely offered to visitors as consumption is not in dainty glasses but by litre mugs.

The life

Someone – who was taking the most perfect dolphin dips I’d ever seen – nearly crossfaced me when I asked him whether he smoked or drank. Disport and venery are off bounds to these guys. At least till they get married. Even afterwards conjugal rights are temporarily suspended for weeks before important contests. Inter-akhara competitions are a matter of immense pride and champions become stuff of local lore. Trophies and plaques are displayed proudly in every akhara. Most symbols of modernity are viewed with askance including fancy hair styles: closely cropped hair massaged with mustard oil is the norm.

Kushti is not a pastime but a way of life. At least that is the way it is intended to be. Exercise, health and diet regimens dominate your life once you join an akhara. There is yoga in addition to the vyayam or workouts with dumbbells and gada (mace). Push ups and squats – by the hundreds – are just warm up. Diet continues to remain a controversial issue though: vegetarians maintain that meat adds to excitability and aggression. For the meat eaters it is a small price to pay for the dollops of protein.

“A pehalwan (wrestler) doesn’t even take chaat for its spice and salt,” a city expert told me. “He avoids tea because it contains caffeine.”

I stood no chance.

“Consumption of alcohol and smoking showed moral – and physical – weakness.”

It was time to go.

A wrestler is enjoined to wake at three in the morning, when the air is pure and cool. After drinking a glass of water with lime juice, he is to go out into a forest area or scrub jungle and relieve himself. Although a wrestler is not a doctor, he should inspect his faeces in order to evaluate his health. If it is ‘coiled like a snake about to strike’ then his digestion is in good order. However, if it is loose, then he should consult his guru about a dietary change. Ratan Patodi, sports writer and wrestling aficionado who founded Bharatiya Kushti Patrika, a sports magazine dedicated to kushti.

Remember while visiting an akhara

• Take permission from the guru before taking photographs – better not to rub these guys the wrong way. If you are part of a group, permissions will be pre-arranged. Even then a nod of thanks will be nice. Avoid using flash especially if you shooting the action.
• Absolutely no footwear in the wrestling arena – the mud pit or the matted floor. These areas are also considered divine.
• Try not to chat up the pehalwans while they are training but wait till they finish. Most of them are a gregarious lot who will give you any information you want – from training to diet, their take on love and local politics.

*Akhara is closest in meaning to the word ‘school’ and is broadly any place for practice and training usually with boarding and lodging facilities. They function generally under a leader referred to as the ‘guru’ or ‘ustad.’ An akhara may be used for religious or martial purposes; in the latter sense of the term it denotes a training school as well as an arena where students can compete and practice. The akharas have moved on with the times and today double up as gymnasiums. The practitioners of kushti do not live there anymore and most are employed or private labourers.

At Kachowri Gali Chowk the bereaved family halted abruptly and looked around flummoxed: where did their dear departed go?

No moo

Narrow lanes threaded by paan and tuck shops met their gaze. Cows pootled along like shuffling gum-chewing teenagers. Widows clad in white cotton saris with faded neelam-blue borders sat dignified at the doorsteps of dharamshalas, hands clasped in prayer – audible only when they took a break to ask for alms. There were reiki and yoga centres claiming reviews on TripAdvisor and confectioners claiming references in Lonely Planet. Flower sellers sat aligning their wares with the changing shade.

Pallbearers

The lane itself was carpeted with red gobs splattered like fallen stars. Tourists stood outside the capacity-packed Blue Lassi Shop (‘Near Burning Ghat’) impatiently awaiting their turn, fidgeting in the heat, humidity and humdrum. They were jostled and shoved by the professional pallbearers who ferried dead bodies in embellished stretchers to the burning ghats* – their chants changing inflection in accordance with pedestrian traffic; the brisk – and brusque – cogs in the wheel of an economy that throve on death.

By the ghats

Quiet dignity

Farther down from the chowk, closer to the Ganges, priests sat under bamboo-matted umbrellas waiting to be hired for pujas related to cremations and ancestral remembrances. Each of these umbrellas has a fixed location just like brick and mortar shutter shops. And just like shutter shops, these umbrellas are also handed down from one generation to the next – a family business. Call it value-add or keeping up, they also act as cloak rooms – clothes and valuables are entrusted here for safekeeping when clients go for the holy dip. Shops selling religious knick-knacks, beedi stacks and pouched tobacco have taken up most of the leafy corners.

Squat by the Ganges

Widows and destitute women sat in clamorous rows benedictions handy for the benevolent: ‘May you have hundreds of children.’ Equally at hand were condemnations for the niggardly: ‘Your photos are not going to feed us.’ I was the happy – and the hapless – recipient of both effusions. Long-haired mendicants of sturdy deportments sat gazing out over the Ganges certainly seeing a lot more than a regular pair of eyes. Some old men clad in towels flexed their oiled limbs in the sun as they watched amusedly boats disgorging tourists and photographers by the dozen.

“Have you ever seen the ghats from a boat on the Ganges?” I asked one whose wide smile I mistook to be exceptionally friendly.

“Why should I?” He asked a tad irascible and replied, “I live here.” And went back to piston-working his legs – the smile intact; maybe that was how he held up his eye glasses.

By boat

Ghats by boat

As long as you don’t live here the best way to take in the ghats is from the Ganges. My boat ride that morning was arranged by the Uttar Pradesh Tourism Department as part of their well-meaning efforts to promote the recently branded Heritage Arc circuit. I chose Varanasi** for the ghats and Sarnath nearby. I’d choose Varanasi again if given a choice but there’d be Baba Thandai too in addition to the two mentioned. (Ok, there’d be more – like the little known and spoken about Assi Ghat Kavi Sammelan, the ‘spirit walks’ and a chance to listen to ‘Banaras baj.’) But that is a story for later. The boat ride started soon as the milky pre-dawn light transformed into the hazy rust of a smoky morning.

Burning ghats

The ghats fringe most of the waterfront and are dotted with temples. Among the ‘nearly 100’ ghats that line the riverside the most popular ones are the Assi Ghat, Dashashwamedh Ghat, Manikarnika, Man Mandir, Rajendra Prasad, Bhosale and Scindia Ghats. There are a handful of small but important ones like the Manasarovar Ghat, Narada, Chausathi and Lalita Ghat which is built in the typical Nepali style and houses Pashupatinath – Shiva’s manifestation in the Kathmandu Valley. The Manikarnika Ghat is north of Lalita Ghat and is one of the busiest cremation grounds of Varanasi. It is hence noisy and noisome – you can smell burning flesh from afar – right from sunrise.

The leaning temple

In the distance you can watch the Malaviya Bridge, which apparently marks the perimeter of the ‘holy area’ of Varanasi, slowly emerge from the smoke shroud as you close in towards the end of the boat ride. Dhobis can also be seen at work rhythmically thrashing copious curtains or other jumbo-sized articles – three continuous beats on the stone followed by a fourth dip in the water. ‘Boom Shankar’ was written in many places in clever fonts that resembled stereo speakers. Towards the end of the ride I came across a leaning temple submerged in the water which was introduced simply as ‘the leaning temple’ which I marvelled as a definite lure for the Japanese tourist flocking to Sarnath. Parlous probably but definitely most charming.

By lane

Gods galore

After disembarking from the boat and recouping from the sensory jolts that was life and death – which was responsible for the life – in the ghats, a guided walkabout took me through the Dashashwamedh, Rajendra Prasad and Man Mandir Ghats – this time through the back lanes. This was the living backend: firewood shops, napping and smoking pallbearers for hire, wholesale shops and lodges with ‘Ganges view.’

“Where does the firewood come from?” I asked Kunal Rakshit a tourist guide associated with ‘Experience Varanasi‘ which conducts walking tours through the city.

“We have social forestry in Chunar and Mirzapur,” he said. An electrical crematorium in the precinct not finding fervour was bad news; social forestry was the only way to tackle an unyielding mindset.

The bella in her casa

A higgledy-piggledy maze of bylanes; linger a bit for photographs and I had visions of sitting next to the old geezers and working out my legs with a permanent, misleading smile plastered across my face. While most cows stood right in the middle of the gali leaving just enough room for you to squeeze through – if you held your camera upraised with your hands – I saw one magnificently intelligent bovine bella sitting inside an open doorstep with a look that said she knew fully well what she was doing – making way.

Seeing blue

After an interminable wait by when I had sweated out my body water to 30 per cent, came my turn at the Blue Lassi Shop (‘Near Burning Ghat’): worth every shoulder and shout I was meted out by the pallbearers in tearing hurry. The thickest of yoghurt served in matka cups with its rejuvenating wet-earth fragrance, garnished with broken pistachios and almonds and that extra love – additional makhan, homemade butter, on the top. It helped the lunch later was fancy vegetarian – else I would have bawled my heart out when I sat pecking from a fellow traveller’s plate.

Looking for tawaif

Propelled by lactic burps I emerged from the Blue Lassi Shop (‘Near…) and had to count one cathartic foot after another through the historic Dal Mandi – a once upon a time red light area. This today is primarily a wholesale market for garments, household items and garishly coloured plastic flowers. Any query pertaining to its not-very-old reputation is shot down vehemently. I glanced up a row of multi coloured chudiyan that hung glittering in a shop and saw a window with peeling stucco work held up with fresh coats of paint. Imagining a gorgeous tawaif sitting on its ledges probably humming a mujra number teasing a swain below wasn’t such a stretch. We exited Dal Mandi at the Langda Hafiz Masjid.

Ansari

Banaras is a city that seems to have succumbed to a condition of permanent contraflow; the hardly 10 km to Sarnath takes the better part of an hour. But the good thing is that everything the city is famed for is within walking reach – the ghats and the temples, the kushti akharas, paan wallahs, bhang and thandai shops. There is the monumental Gyanvyapi mosque, a disputed site, sharing boundary with the pilgrimage hotspot, Kashi Vishwanath Temple. The frayed yellow St Thomas Church believed to be over 300 years old at the Girija Ghar crossing across the street from the popular PDR Mall is a city landmark. Both these are not part of regular itineraries. Neither is the Aghori Ashram tucked not very far away with all the adjunct rumours and baseless ballyhoo.

A walk through the bylanes of Pilikothi will bring you up and close with the famed weavers of the city – an increasing number of whom are giving up the traditional handloom for powerlooms, in the process landing the famous Banarasi sari in a survival crisis.

Banaras by lane

You also get to meet men like Ansari bent intent over the warp passing through the reed of a handloom as ancient as him.

“You are as energetic as a 16-year old,” Kunal greeted him. “How old are you really?”

“I’m 17,” Ansari replied, his mischievous eyes twinkling through the fading light of the dusk.

*Ghats is a generic term used to describe the stone steps that lead down from the 18^th and 19^th century pavilions and palaces to the banks of the River Ganges, where bodies are cremated and related rituals carried out presided over by Hindu priests. There are a total of 82 ghats – a fluctuating number as businessmen with clout and politicians keep adding to it. The ghat here is different from the ghat in ‘ghat roads’ where it means mountain.

**Varanasi and Banaras (Benaras) are used interchangeably as they can be used interchangeably.

The stalactites and stalagmites…

In the beginning there was the Bastar Palace. Jagdalpur town was originally the living quarters of the palace personnel who settled in the imperial whereabouts. Sure enough it soon began straggling in all directions and today it goes a very long way in all directions. When you exit the city towards Sukma – deeper south – for the Kanger Valley it is evident that it is still lugubriously lugging along. Take the Gidam Road (NH 16) through which Jagdalpur goes on in fits and spurts till Kesulur, 12 km away. Traffic seems to abate now and the precariously stacked rectangular highrises, windowless on the two broader sides, fall off. Turn right from the junction at Kesulur toward Sukma (90 km, NH 30). Continue the good ride for another 10 km before the highway tapers to a single lane, sort of unceremoniously. The road winds up through a series of loops; cabs and small private buses ferrying domestic tourists and students on annual tours bear down this route, though with horns blaring. You reach a junction where there are vehicles parked by the road waiting to buy entry tickets to the national park attractions. The way to Tirathgarh Falls is to the right, caves to the left. It is suggested you visit the caves before it gets crowded – around noon – especially on weekends.

…are formed over thousands of years…

From the entry barrier, 10 km of un-tarred road with speed-breakers to boot almost every kilometre leads to the parking of Kutumsar Caves. The undulating paddy fields that flanked the road till now are replaced by dense sal and teak forests. The last couple of kilometres could pass for a challenging stretch from a rally course: a series of twists and steep turns which lands finally in a clearing which is the parking area. Local women selling wild berries and biscuits and packaged water squat in between rows of cars and two-wheelers. Kids scurry about between the parked vehicles and vendors. The public urinal has become a cesspool with bulky fluorescent gnats buzzing about like low-flying drones; everyone makes a beeline for the trees. Large mats have been laid out with towering tiffin carriers holding it against the wind.

The Kanger Valley National Park is one of the prime tourist destinations from Jagdalpur. But unlike the other national parks of Chhattisgarh, the main attraction is not another wildlife safari but here you enter karst country. Kutumsar, Kailash and Dandak are the three main caves in Kanger Valley of which only the first one is open to public. The Tirathgarh Falls is nearby – a good place to cool off or wash away all the underground grime and sweat. Many you meet at the caves will be here already taking a dip in the shallow waters near the plunge pool.

…as a result of rainwater on limestone…

Kutumsar and Tirathgarh are very popular in the domestic tourism circuit and weekends are packed. The locals manning the cave entrance allow tourists inside only in small groups to avoid congestion – the entry is through a narrow, winding staircase which can barely fit a fully grown adult. You have to wedge and wriggle your way down. But once down there, it is dripstone cathedral. The caves were discovered in 1900 and have since then enthralled spelunking enthusiasts with its striking speleothems carved out of the dark, drippy silences. Alright, this is not caving in its real adventurous sense – you won’t be requiring karabiners or helmets, ropes or slings for abseiling. However a head torch would be handy here. Even though the passages are lit by bulbs powered by a domestic capacity gen set that purrs away by the entrance (there is even a ‘lighting fee’ included in your entry charges!) you could enjoy the limestone formations better, at your own pace more importantly, if you have your own flashlight. The rift widens as you climb lower and you are required to keep moving – twisting down, actually – till you reach level ground below so that you don’t hold up those behind. Move to the side, wait a bit and let everyone pass. Explore the ‘drip-water architecture’ of the cavernous cave on your own.

The imposing stalactites and stalagmites are formed over thousands of years as a result of the action of rainwater on limestone. Most of the stalactites and stalagmites are found in limestone caves which are in turn composed mostly of calcite commonly found in sedimentary rocks. Limestone, incidentally, makes up around 10 per cent of all sedimentary rocks in the world. Rainwater, as it falls, absorbs carbon dioxide from the air and the dissolved calcite from the rocks as it flows over them. It is this dissolved calcite that sediments once the water flows through the cracks of the cave’s roof. As water continues to drip, the size of the calcite sediment grows. The rate of growth is not more than an inch over the span of a century. What you see around are the result of accretions over tens of thousands of years.

…and are composed mostly of calcite.

The traversable length of Kutumsar is 330 metres at the end of which there is a shrine. Along the way there are some short detours you could take – though not encouraged by the local ‘cave minders’ – which will give you a better feel how it is to be in karst country. One path climbs up about 25 feet over wet rocks with low overhanging. Get a good purchase – you will have to clamber up on all fours and watch your head as you go higher. Both the surfaces, above and beneath, gleam a moist and shiny veneer under the light. You reach a seemingly dead end with an inviting fissure egging you on. Such intriguing labyrinths are everywhere and it is a shame that they are kept out of bounds. Just before you reach the end of the trail, you pass through a high chamber, speckled with stalactites drooping to almost head level. The ground is otherwise even.

You will be by now discovered by a local lad in charge of cave security. Just say you lost your way.

Stalactite and stalagmite: ‘Stalactite’ and ‘stalagmite’ are almost always used together that they have come to lose a very important distinction. Both words originated from the Greek word ‘stalassein’ which means ‘to drip.’ This is apt as both the formations are the outcome of rain water dripping over rocks. The difference between the two is that while stalactites are the formations that hang down from the ceilings of caves, like icicles, stalagmites grow up from the ground. Stalagmites, while being formed from the same drip-water source that formed the stalactite above it, are usually of thicker proportions.

Crowding the caves – on a weekend

Top tip: Stay away from the Kutumsar on weekends when the queue at the entrance can take anywhere up to three hours. You also won’t get the quiet to enjoy the vast, imposing silence once you are in the wonder/underland. Park timings: 8 AM to 3 PM (November to June); Car entry: Rs 50; Ticket: Rs 50 (Indian), Rs 150 (foreigners)

This is largely an excerpt from ‘Experience Chhattisgarh on the road‘ written and photographed by me for the Times Book Group. November to February is the best time to visit this central Indian state which is torrid and humid rest of the year. All photographs are from inside the Kutumsar Caves, those without the Wanderink logo are courtesy of the Chhattisgarh Tourism Board. 

As I loped down the winding pathway to Ockbrook, home of the Gantzers, I felt a little light-headed and not because of the thin mountain air. I was reminded of reporting for my first date a generation ago albeit this time it was in broad daylight. There is something splendid about meeting somebody you have for very long very much wanted to meet: it is, as The Alchemist says, the outcome of the coming – and conspiring – together of many things on a cosmic level. It is sort of soppy in a happy way. The swoon, if some groupie memoirs are to be believed, is sponsored fanfare largely induced by powdering the nostril; I was just giddy in a its-finally-happening way. After 30 years.

Soppy, sublime and some swoon – with the Gantzers

It was in 1985 while on annual vacation in India, in an effort to hone my language skills – which was later revealed as an attempt, among several misfired ones, to springboard me into the ‘administrative services’ way of life – that my dad one day thrust The Hindu newspaper at me. He followed it with a threat that questions from the editorial would be forthcoming. However, the sesquipedalian pieces, staggeringly informing I am sure, unfailingly rendered my brain sclerotic: as I nodded off I had visions of my neurons voluntarily leaping off the deep side of the lobes, in hordes. It was thus frantically searching for something to bury my head in that I came across a travel story by Hugh and Colleen Gantzer. Ten years old at that time I don’t remember which place or people, sight or ritual it was about but recollect being hooked by a whole new kind of writing hitherto unknown to me – newspapers were all about political events, air crashes and new movie releases as I had gathered from the most animated discussions around me. Over the next yearly sojourns in my hometown Pala, I would spend hours in the stuffy basement of the Municipal Library among man-high stacks of mouldy dailies fishing out old editions of The Hindu, religiously catching up with the Gantzers.

Now they stood with wide welcoming smiles and sturdy handshakes on the gravelled path with Colleen’s potted garden, trimmed hedgerows and wall mounted bird nests that led to a cosy, dainty porch with a birdhouse and more plants.

Colleen and Hugh Gantzer

“Hope it was no trouble finding the way,” Hugh said, every bit the gallant naval officer he was once, as he led me in.

Around a kilometre from the landmark Library Junction of Mussoorie, soon after the bus depot, you have to take a right for Ockbrook. Though you cannot see the house itself from above because of the forested canopy there are other houses flanking the path soon as you pass the gate whose residents seem rather chuffed giving directions to visitors to their famous neighbourhood. The way down the built-up dale is non-motorable from this approach but is broad and concrete. There are balustrades too which Hugh said was put up for his late mother. ‘I’m only 85, don’t need them,’ he assured me.

Early travels, writing

It was during the early 70s when Hugh was posted in the naval command in Kochi The Gantzers began their travels. Before coming to Kerala they were in Delhi and Mumbai for many years. Kochi was a sort of sensory break after their stints at the bustling metropolises.

“We just loved Kerala,” Colleen looked back fondly. “The place was so lovely – I still remember the kettuvallams that used to go past right outside our windows. ‘We might never come here again,’ we thought and decided to make the most of our stay.”

“So we bundled our little son Peter along with some baby provisions and clothes for a few days onto our Vespa and trundled off to Kanyakumari,” Colleen continued.

“Did you say Vespa?” I blinked.

“Yes, I think around 300 km.”

This time I just blinked. And Hugh noticed.

“It was one of the few original ones that reached India in the 60s,” he said. “I still have it with me, right here in this house.” I told them about my dad’s Chetak – which I keep in running condition despite having to bid a chit fund each time I am home. Anyway, another bond was forged.

Khushwant Singh who was at that time the editor of Illustrated Weekly got in touch with them for a series on the India nobody knew of and the Gantzers wrote their first ever travelogue – on Kerala.

The Gantzers love Ganesha

“During those days state tourism bodies and star hotels didn’t run ads on television like they do now and the only way to get any exposure was through articles by writers like us,” says Colleen. “Soon after our outing with the Illustrated Weekly we were invited by the Tamil Nadu tourism department, Femina magazine and the in-house magazines of the Taj and the Oberoi Groups to write for them.” Once Hugh retired from the Navy they started their regular columns with The Hindu – which, though beyond the ken of a 10-year-old, gripped him nevertheless and probably spurred the travel writer romance in him.

Hugh? Colleen? 

We settled down for a sumptuous lunch of pulao, rotis, chicken curry, salads, several vegetable preparations, pickles and chocolate ice cream and fruits for dessert. I embarrassed myself by mistaking the turmeric pulao for chicken biriyani; Colleen cheerily resolved it by passing me the chicken curry with a chuckle. We all had a good laugh. I wanted to tell them that I loved them already. But Hugh went first: a strained back as a result of a recent fall for which he had been on painkillers hadn’t apparently bothered him since that morning or since I passed through the gate.

Hugh

“Maybe we will build an annexe and set you up here,” he offered none too flippantly. Such kind of warmth only serves to bring out the trencherman in me; I sat at the table for a long while, all the dishes were now arranged around or near me. I even shamelessly asked Colleen for a third helping of the dessert which made her place the ice cream bowl too in front of me. I noticed Hugh was quiet on the annexe-front post-prandial. We stepped outside for a short walk around their cosy little cottage and garden and birdhouse and I needed a smoke. I asked the hearty Hugh for permission to light up. He had no problems – till he was 45 Hugh used to smoke 60 cigarettes a day. That was when Peter had an accident and Hugh swore off cigarettes in return for his well-being. A worthy quid pro quo.

“We usually go for long walks after breakfast and lunch especially when we are working – that’s how we sort out our fights. Right, my love?” Hugh asked Colleen with a crinkly eyed smile.

Colleen

Aha!

Now that was something I wanted to interrogate them about – all their travelogues, articles and books are ‘By Hugh and Colleen Gantzer.’ Which was Hugh and which was Colleen? I knew writers who go all snarling and gnarly at publishing houses for crediting them ‘main contributor’ despite being the sole contributor. Surely one of them, at one point would have felt the other wasn’t doing enough? The Gantzers guffawed.

“We take turns in writing the article – sometimes Hugh has the first go and I sit on it with my notes and inputs. Other times I write the first draft and he works on it later.”

“Colleen makes her own notes and I make mine when we travel. And never once do we compare notes.”

Aha!

Stay relevant. Stay curious.

It is not always ‘Hugh and Colleen Gantzer’ anyway.

In their study

Colleen is probably the only travel writer in India who is also a member of the professional travel agents association: she attends their meetings and presents points of view pertinent to the travelling community. Hugh is a member of the monitoring committee appointed by the Supreme Court to keep a tab on the mining activities in Mussoorie. In fact his mother – whose tumulus stands next to the birdhouse – was quite active in Save Mussoorie, an organisation which went hammer and tongs after the miners who tried to carve the hill station. Preservation is a battle still in fight – while mining activities have been curtailed, sneaky encroachments and haphazard constructions are the order of the day. What is left of Mussoorie may not exactly make a bard of a Dothraki but is thankfully a distant cry from the unseemly sprawl of Dehradun less than 40 kilometres away.

“We are part of these organisations not only because we believe in the work they do but it also helps us have an ear on the ground,” Colleen remarks and happily admits that ‘it takes a lot of juggling as these are in addition to our column commitments with newspapers and book assignments. We are more busy today than we ever was – too busy to even grow old.’ The Gantzers have recently brought out a coffee table book on the iconic Ashok Hotel in Delhi and a four-part series on ‘Intriguing India’ for the ITDC. Unlike many travel writings we come across today, even by known names, their stuff is not warm pop with reams of secondary data but actually brim with atmosphere. Like the story on Pushkar Mela I found on the Incredible India website while researching them before the meeting. The eye for detail and the breathlessness in the narrative I found quite contemporary. Despite gathering chevrons in the trade they spared no effort.

“It is very important to stay curious, to ask questions, to find out why and how,” Hugh shares his belief. And with good reason: “When you ask the right questions – and get the right answers – you can bring to your reader something they have never heard about or seen before. It’s magic.”

In the garden

“The same effort you take to make your story intriguing and interesting you should take to make it credible too – never let your reader down with incorrect information,” Colleen adds. “Not once in our writing careers have we been pulled up by anybody for being factually wrong.” I thought about a prominent writer-blogger who, in one of her recent articles, brought alive Sonabai, a popular folk artist from Chhattisgar – only that Sonabai had passed away in 2007! Entire encyclopaedia sets and other fat reference titles from science and art, engineering, astronomy, human body and relationships and history radiated in all directions from their work station. Old ways are sometimes the best.

Warm hugs and promises to meet again later I lolloped up the slope. Halfway I turned back to look – The Gantzers were still standing by the porch, watching and waving.

How would it be living in an annexe, I wondered in passing.

Besides travel writing, the Gantzers’ early works include some very daring titles – with equally bold frontispieces – under a nom de plume. There is even a book on tantric sex ‘which still brings us royalties even half a century later.’ Just some vignettes of revelations anticipated at the upcoming edition of Literati, Chandigarh Lit Fest 2015.

Travel, horror in equal parts: Hostel

No movie so far has dealt with the most prodigious of perils – in terms of derailed diplomacies, maligned reputation, dented economy or the sheer brutality of the act itself – that can befall a traveller to the subcontinent – rape. From big budget, star-studded international productions to a sizeable cache of charming, even some hard-hitting indigenous ones, no one has till now tackled this issue. US travel advisories, while tactfully maintaining that ‘though India is generally safe’ it also points out ‘rape is a fast-growing crime.’ Britain and Canada too has joined the seemingly innocuous but ignominious chorus which has seriously traduced India’s tourism potential and whittled industry targets. Millions of livelihoods have been wrung in the bargain. Industry figures had pegged the dip in international arrival figures at 25 per cent as the aftermath of the upsurge in rape and molestation figures in recent years. Instead of tackling head on the widely held perception that India is unsafe for women travellers – and trust me, we have the right and the right reasons to – filmmakers shy away from this topic and use travel instead as backdrops to stoking Stockholm syndromes, bromance, autumnal amours, and of course as an incidental to the eternal favourites – soul-searching and root-finding.

Wolfe Creek National Park with its amazing meteor crater is a tourist hotspot in Western Australia. The eponymous movie (Wolf Creek) is based on true events which took place though not in the national park itself but near Darwin in the Northern Territory. In both the blood-churning instalments (which I have seen; yet to see the third one) backpackers camping in the area are preyed upon by a hillbilly Mick Taylor who otherwise looks like a fluffy gramps by the hearth eager to share tales of growing up in the farm. He is a careful listener, really interested in you and what you have to say and his repartees are sometimes in genuine humour cracking you up. So it hits you nice and hard when he sticks his tongue out a’ la Miley and mouths lines like ‘In this world, there’s people like me, there’s people like you. People like me eat people like you.’ Drawing on cinematic licence, Taylor goes on to stab and torture, maim and hunt and reel out more cheeky chillers (‘I was doing the people a service really but shooting them. There’s kangaroos all over the place…like tourists.’)

In Hostel, the horror flick series, college students backpack across Europe before losing their lives and body parts to organ racketeers. However Slovakian and Czech authorities were po-faced at the way their countries were portrayed in the critically and commercially successful films which reinforced publicly held perceptions as nations overrun by prostitution and mafia rings. Worried that tourists would stay away by the portrayal writer Eli Roth was invited by the Slovaks to see the rosier picture. Then, as Roth himself claimed, the movie only served to show ‘Americans’ ignorance of the world around them.’ The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, he argued correctly, never stopped anyone from going to Texas. Backpackers from all over the world continue to make a beeline to Eastern Europe; cheap sex and drugs remain effective pulls. Organ harvesters or not haven’t really trampled on tourism figures. Despite Mick Taylor (a study-material portrayal by John Jarratt) and his lines becoming cult long before dubsmash Australian tourism continues to flourish.

Psychopath, probably patriotic even: Wolf Creek

The second part of Wolf Creek begins with Taylor killing two cops who wrongly pulled him over for overspeeding in his ancient truck. (Cop: You shoot pigs for a living? Taylor: Ya bet your life!) After ridding of the tourists this time, he hunts a third man around the outback killing an old couple in the process. However in the real life series of events which the movie franchise claims to be based on, while mechanic John Murdoch shot and disposed of the body of her friend Peter, Joanne Lees manages to escape by hiding behind a bush. Murdoch was apprehended in one of the largest manhunts ever in Australia and four years later in 2005 was handed life sentence. In India, justice has become swifter, much swifter. In March 2013 a Swiss tourist travelling with her husband in Madhya Pradesh was raped. The rapists were caught in no time and handed life sentences in July the same year. That is, in just four months! An American was raped in Manali by a truck driver and two of his accomplices in June 2013 – all of whom were arrested and sentenced to life – within six months! Instead of covering up such shameful incidents or cowering with embarrassment, we need to give more press to the fast tracking of justice in such incidents and the stern sentences meted out. One popular travel website lists all the places where a rape or molestation has taken place as unsafe for women travellers – one can imagine what the traveller will be left with. The abstemious advisory on the ‘Note on safety and security of women tourists’ on the Incredible India site is at best sequacious:

…international visitors need to exercise caution, just as local residents do, while travelling through or staying at isolated places…

Now, if you missed the earnestness – or actual worthiness – of the warning is because it isn’t there: ‘exercising caution’ can be interpreted in a lot of ways – from arming oneself while travelling through isolated places to avoiding isolation altogether. Then, slagging government diktats or diplomatese are at best irksome with no real outcome. This is where films come in.

Violent, dopey teenagers: Eden Lake

Before the Swiss tourist was raped, the couple was abducted from a thickly forested area in MP where they had camped overnight. Well, then Eden Lake has showed how even a bunch of teenagers can turn a frolicsome camping weekend into a chain of gruesome killings. What about the American in Manali? A film to show how hitching a ride in a truck is not a good idea – especially at three in the morning? The murder of teenager Scarlett Keeling in Goa early 2009? Hobnobbing with drug traffickers can be dangerous? The Brit who jumped out of her Agra hotel window two years ago to escape rape by the hotel manager? A film to show how discommoding it would be to allow into your room managers masquerading as masseurs?

My bet is not on Imtiaz Ali or Ayan Mukerji, Zoya or Farhan Akhtar. But Dev Benegal who, with Abhay Deol, gave us the wonderful, little-heard Road, Movie a personal favourite.

(All photographs are Googled images of the movies mentioned.)