Before the paan there is the paanwallah. So I will begin my paean to the paan with one for him: he is fantastically clever, can spot the nescient first time paaner without glancing up once from his gleaming tin-can assembly line. I can personally vouch for the ones in Lucknow and Banaras, the land which inspired the evergreen Khaike Paan Banaraswala song, a Holi, Diwali, marriage and birthday party staple. A digestive ditty whose calming, settling effect any DJ will swear by – just like paan itself after a hearty meal.

Maybe it was the faintest tremor in my order or the overly simplistic ‘meetha paan’ and he set about his task with all the smoothness of shifting into top gear. He did not ask me whether I fancied supari, katha or mukhwas, or to pick from a Kalkatta, Banarasi, Jagannathi or Maghai patha. Instead his hands flew over the heart-shaped leaves laid out straight and shiny, flitting in and out of the burnished canisters: in slow-shutter speeds or if you were drunk he would look like a male Durga. The closest I can think of equating my order today – I now proudly navigate my way around those silver cylinder cases, say no to gulkhand as it is too sweet, order him to spare me anything that makes me feel like I am chewing on ittar, ask seriously what is the specialty of the bhandar and can remain non-chagrined when I don’t receive a proper answer – is to asking a well-stacked vintner for a glass of wine.

A leaf from history  

The betel leaf is the one constant across all varieties of paan – the names of which are too numerous to even get started with. Just to give you an idea let me tell you that the famous Banarasi Paan itself has more number of mutations than poll time promises. So my suggestion is you stick to meetha or sweet paan and keep an eye out on what goes in. Very rarely, unless you are a regular, does the kind of patha or leaf gets discussed (refer ‘Know your paan’ for the more popular varieties).

But whatever be your choice of patha, rest assured you are in safe hands. Apart from the digestive properties we all know it holds, betel leaves have several medicinal uses as well. It suppresses the kapha dosha (anti phlegmatic), is carminative (anti flatulent) and is a good source of calcium. It brings sugar levels under control, cures common colds and coughs and checks body odour. In Malaysia the leaves are used for relief from arthritis, joint aches and simple headaches. The Chinese use it to treat toothache while in Indonesia the asthmatic is prescribed betel juice. Forest dwellers once used to treat wounds sustained from hunting with betel juice. The wound is washed with it and covered with betel leaves and you are as good as new in just a couple of days. In all these countries betel leaves and paan chewing had been part of culture thousands of years before it came to India.

Of gods and divine stuff

The betel leaf is not just an all-encompassing efficacious apothecary but has quite a reputation as an aphrodisiac as well. Who else but the god of love, Lord Krishna himself, is believed to have been a great connoisseur of paan. More recently, Noor Jahan, a great beauty herself though known more for being the mother of Shah Jahan, popularised paan culture in Mughal courts. She believed rightly in its lip shading qualities. Understandably the paan even finds mention in the Kamasutra – but surprisingly the context is not sexual.

‘After cleaning the teeth and having looked into the mirror and having eaten a tambula (refer ‘Know your paan’) to render fragrance to the mouth should a person start his day’s work,’ wrote Vatsyayana in the sex opus.

Or maybe it was about testosterone charging up the day.

Panning the paan

For every up there is a down. The supari or areca nut with its lip-reddening and slightly woozy qualities is the main complement to the betel leaf for the purist paaner (one who wouldn’t say ‘meetha paan’ even at gun point). The Food Safety and Standards Act of 2006 made it mandatory that all supari packets should warn that chewing it was injurious to health. Studies have shown that areca nut contains alkaloids and polyphenols that are seriously carcinogenic. I wouldn’t dispute it as I know at least one person whose fatal oral cancer was traced to years of supari use.

Moderation is key here.

Know your paan – the dummy’s guide

Bhandar is a vendor (paan bhandar is a paan seller).

Gulkhand is a preserve made from rose petals. The thick syrup adds to the sweetness and the fragrance. After a dessert of gulab jamun or moong dal halwa, this one finds no place in my paan.

Katha is Hindi for catechu, an extract of acacia trees. Broadly, katha is a breath-freshening mixture of spices.

Meetha means sweet.

Mukhwas is mouth freshener consumed after snacks and comprises of fennel, anise and sesame seeds and sometimes gratings of coconut.

Supari is areca nut unless you are discussing gangsters.

Patha is Hindi for the betel leaf and there are three major types used in most bhandars:

Jagannathi leaves which are grown are in Orissa, rarely found in north India.

Maghai: comes from Bihar, is light green and soft. The better ones are reputed to melt in the mouth. Vendors in Delhi also refer to this as ‘local’ as Bihar is next door.

There is also the Kalkatta aka Bangla patha which comes from West Bengal, a shade darker than the rest and considered the best of the lot.

Badi (big), choti (small), chakli and kavni (wide and medium) are further sub sects. I have gawked at a guy specifying size at a bhandar in Patna.

Show your profound knowledge of the leaves by asking the bhandar keeper which patha he is using. Chances are likely that he will give a dismissive ‘local’ – which changes with location. In Delhi, it is mostly the maghai from Bihar. Ask him ‘maghai?’ and see his jaw drop. Hero!

Tambula paan is the most basic – the betel leaf wrapping the areca nut or just a bit of it. There is also the ‘tambaku’ paan which is powdered tobacco sometimes flavoured with spices.

Paan on the way

The numbered photographs in the story are explained as under:

(1)   Washed and wipe-dried betel leaves are laid out. Time to try out the patha routine.

(2)   A blob of slaked lime is spread over the leaf – this is primarily to hold the ingredients together.

(3)   Sprinkle katha which gives it the astringent effect – the paanwallah may ask you sometimes if you need it. This is good especially if you just had your lunch.

(4)   Chopped nuggets of areca nuts are added* for extra buzz. *Health warning: these are known to have carcinogenic effects.

(5)   Gulkhand is added to most meetha paans but its sweetness and fragrance totally overpowers the betel leaf’s slightly pungent aroma which is addictive for the true paaner.

(6)   Other garnishing includes chopped cherries, cardamom, cloves, fennel, etc. This is a flourish and components vary from place to place.

(7)   Folded into a triangle and secured with clove if you are lobbing it right away, or maybe toothpick if packed.

Chicken shamans

Gurung

It is easy to spot a chicken shaman in Kathmandu – they come to you. They tell you about sky burial – a Tibetan form of burial where the body is hacked into pieces – hoping to leave you astounded before they try to persuade you to follow them to a burial site high up in the mountains. If you are still not impressed, they will even perform a trick or two – usually magic or mindreading. The real shamans you seek out. Like I did following a lead from an old Tibet hand into the hilly borders of Nepal. They have piercing eyes but are easy to warm up to – they defend their imposters good-naturedly.

“A guy’s is gotta live,” Gurung said, a smile creasing his leathery good looks, a Philip Marlowe of the East. We were having juice freshly squeezed from the fruits grown in his organic garden overlooking the Annapurna Range. Then he threw in a note of caution:

“Just visit the burial sites with them and be done with it. Being local lads mostly they will be knowledgeable about the locations. But trying to enter into a trance with their help would be a bad idea – coming out will not be easy and may not be complete.”

A few days earlier I was sitting with a woman shaman in Thamel, insisting she cast a spell. I now felt lucky she didn’t, instead she dismissed me as an uninitiated. Maybe I failed the receptiveness test. The jolie laide – the room was overrun by flickering shadows in the candlelit dark – advised and aided me on a different recourse to that flight. My quest for a shaman continued. I reached Gurung.

“It is not the shaman you seek but Lord Shiva himself,” he said. Probably right. In the bigger sense all travellers are seekers of god: some pursue directly, unwaveringly, sitting in one place. Some others are all over, sensing the divine in the chase and devouring all that comes with it.

Then Shiva is an angry god – with every right to be so. His wife Sati – Shakti or Kali in her destructive form and Parvati, the gentle, nurturing one, among hundreds of other avatars – immolated herself to his inconsolable grief making him forsake worldly pleasures and retire to the Kailas in Tibet. His rage can be experienced by anyone trekking up the mountain; but when you reach the highest pass – closest to the god – the gale howls back into an ethereal calm. Almost like the Shiva himself has relented, become merciful because you persevered. Or maybe Parvati, the beautiful and the benevolent, who is on the Kailas with him, prevails upon him.

“It’s the lord Shiva we invoke in our fight against the demons,” Gurung said. The shamans enter into a duel with the demons – responsible for sickness, failed crops and marriages, unhappiness and unemployment – who mill around sky burial sites. They are summoned by the femur (thigh bone) trumpet before slayed with the phurba, the demon dagger, borrowed from Shiva.

The Shiva in Tibet was a private person who kept to himself. When he made his appearance it was mostly as Rudra, his wrathful form. Rudra the howler, the destroyer.

Aghor Ashram

Lord Shiva’s reputation as a ‘smashan vasi’ (one who resides in places of death, generally; ‘smashan’ is cremation ground) continues into Varanasi. This is at the root of many rites performed by the followers of the late Baba Keenaram who founded the Aghor Ashram here. Rumoured to be ritualistic cannibals and necrophiles, members of the sect called Aghoris whom I met would only admit to Baba Keenaram igniting the ‘akhand dhooni’ (the never-dying sacred fire) used for pujas in the ashram with wood collected from nearby cremation ghats. The akhand dhooni is still stoked with embers collected from the ghats every day. The relative innocence of the rituals as reported don’t sound very convincing – there are ‘kapals’ or human skulls at key points of the ashram including the ones flanking the entry gate.

Aghor Ashram entrance

“They are just oversized models as you can see,” said Shivanand, an Aghori. They were indeed mock-ups but kapals nevertheless are the calling cards of Aghoris as anyone who has been to Pushkar Mela will know; definitely those who have attended the after-dark get-togethers removed from Mela grounds. Some Aghoris can also be spotted with chalky white walking sticks which are femur bones. But Shivananad doggedly stuck to the harmless basics.

“Real Aghoris use only ash to cover themselves – just like Lord Shiva himself,” he said. Consumption of alcohol has divine sanction. In the book ‘Aghor at a glance’ published by the ashram it is said that Aghoris consume alcohol as Lord Shiva himself must have in order to relate to the mortal way of thinking. Devotees were spotted cuddling bottles of McDowell’s whiskey into the sanctum sanctorum. The Aghoris worship Shiva in his avatar as Mahakala the destroyer and his female manifestation, Shakti. I went to the puja room with the akhand dhooni and sat watching it for a while.

If Shiva was here the presence was a tad unsettling.

Baba Thandai

En route ghat

One of Gandhi’s earliest political speeches was delivered in Varanasi in 1916. He pulled up the city for being an overflowing dump. In his autobiography he moaned that ‘swarming flies and the noise made by the shopkeepers and pilgrims were perfectly insufferable. Where one expected an atmosphere of meditation and communion, it was conspicuous by its absence.’ A century on, it continues to be conspicuous by its absence. While most guidebooks reproduce unerringly Mark Twain’s extolling of the city – Benares (used interchangeably with Varanasi) is ‘older than history, older than tradition, older than legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together’ – none talks about the appalling bit he documented – the city is ‘as insanitary as it is sacred’ and with ‘stagnant puddles of leper-pus.’ The city’s history, myth and tradition continue to be sublime and marvellous but coming in the way are more immediate experiences like gutters and puddles, hustlers, hawkers and piddling cows with their omniscient languor. But at Baba Thandai, they sell tickets to soar above all these.

Ganga Aarti

Thandai left to itself is a milk-based drink with almonds, pistachios and saffron, served cool. But at Baba Thandai, tucked away in a quiet corner of the Dashashwamedh Ghat Road, it is served with a green-balled twist. These globes, the size of puri balls, are bhang as cannabis is called in India. Tip: If properly mixed, the bhang balances the otherwise too-sweet thandai and gives it a tangy edge. My first glass had the unmixed globe at the bottom which I swallowed directly; it tasted like a pungent Ayurvedic concoction. So I had another glass with the bhang stirred proper not shaken. As I walked towards the Dashashwamedh Ghat for the Ganga Aarti on every evening, the crowd dissolved into one long whir, the streetlamps deliquesced into a blur. My legs slipped away from beneath me, the ground rushed upward. Somebody did something nice and I had to choose the words ‘thank’ and ‘you’ very deliberately. Even then I watched his face to see if I got it right. I managed to reach the sprawling stone steps where a massive crowd had gathered. I glided down like a schussboomer with wings. Nobody took any particular note of me. Maybe they did. A hopper on my bandana kept me in thrall till somebody pointed me the right way.

Baba Thandai signage

The Ganga Aarti is believed to have been first performed in honour of Lord Shiva when he visited Varanasi. Elaborate multi-tiered lamps were lit, smoke from scores of incense sticks filled the air with the fervent chanting of thousands. Marigold and rose petals were showered over the congregation and diyas floated into the Ganges. That night by the ghats and the holy river I found Shiva.

He was everywhere.

Babu Azheekan is the patriarch of the homestay, a celebrity chef whose culinary skills are a featured series in a local television channel. Now if I tell you staying at Azheekan’s is a gastronomic adventure, it will be redundant, right? Not really considering that most of the meals at the homestay is made by Girly; well, she is the granny of the family, always smiling and insisting you help yourself to more of the duck roast or the simple but yummy vegetable stew. Now, Babu – or Girly, for that matter – is not the only reason you will remember Azheekan’s.

Previous guests at the place had dubbed it the ‘secret beach’ which made me almost expect something as similar to paradise as the one in De Caprio’s ‘The Beach.’ Save for the dope/romp happy cult, the seclusion and the tranquillity are pretty much intact at the Chethy Beach, a brisk 10-minute walk from the homestay property. This is a long, curving stretch of white sand that extends for quite a distance and is divided by a rocky causeway which juts out into the sea. Though the stretch is quite aloof compared to a Kovalam or Varkala, it is frequented by fishermen early in the morning seemingly for their ablutions. Do not get carried away by all the quiet, be on your guard here though.

Azheekan’s is a small and close-knit homestay which do not cater to numbers – they’d rather focus on quality and experience. There are only two rooms here – one air-conditioned and the other non – which points to the family’s insistence on taking care of you personally. To help you max out on your stay here, the hosts will even organise an Ayurvedic massage – a vigorous one that renders your limbs languid and you in a peaceful torpor only to wake up rejuvenated like you’ve never known. Time for another walk to the Chethy Beach – now, the Secret Beach for you too. Along the way you pass by the villagers many of whom you are now familiar to address on a first name basis.

Sunset over and you are heading home. Girly welcomes you back and almost immediately asks you to pick your dinner from Kerala beef ularthiyathu (made with coconut pieces, in coconut oil), koonthal fry (squid, spliced into small circles), meen pollichathu (fish in coconut curry), ghee rice, duck roast…you get the drift.

Tweaking a bit, shall we say the ‘easiest way to a traveller’s heart is through his stomach’?

Practical information

Address: Azheekan’s, Chethy P.O., Cherthala, Alappuzha

Telephone number: +91 9447474381

Nearest airport / Distance: Kochi International Airport/90km

Website / Contact email: www.azheekanshomestay.com, azheekanshomestay@yahoo.com

Tariff: Rs 2,000 for air-conditioned and Rs 1,500 for non-air conditioned (breakfast inclusive)

Facilities

Number of rooms: Two rooms; one AC, one non-AC. There are telephones and Internet facility in rooms.

Food/restaurant/kitchen: The owner/patriarch of the homestay is Babu Azheekan who is a celebrity chef in Kerala; even had a local television channel featuring his recipes. The fare typically includes vegetarian and non-vegetarian meals. If you need any special type of food or need to try something exotically Keralan, do inform the hosts in advance.

Swimming pool: Go swimming by the Chethy Beach, be careful as there aren’t any lifeguards around in case of an emergency. Then, this is the charm of the beach – it is not known to many tourists. (Remember, ‘Secret Beach.’)

Child friendly: The owners have kids of their own – so your kids will have good company. And you some quality time.

Payment: You can pay at the property directly.

Pick up and drop: Arranged on request

Activities/Places to see/Things to do

At Azheekan’s you are expected to be devoured by a carnivorous lethargy. In case you aren’t you should head out to the nearby Chethy Beach, just 10 minutes away. This is one quiet, secluded spot and you can swim to your heart’s content – only if you are a good swimmer.

Babu Azheekan runs a busy kitchen – both for you as well as for himself and his brood. Nevertheless he wouldn’t mind opening it up for you if you would like to pick up some authentic Kerala recipes. Or any of his featured ones that made him a household name in the state.

In case he has more time on his hands, he will invite you to a round of the village where he will just scoop up a plant from the soil and tell you about its prowess: Babu is quite knowledgeable on the curative powers of the plants that grow in and around the area.

There are several households nearby who earn their livelihood by making and vending coir products. See how the gifted artisans make them by hand. Buy from them if you see something you like – it goes a long way.

A ride on Mohan – the friendly local tusker – can be arranged on request.

For the religiously inclined or if you are just an architecture of history buff, we suggest a visit to the St Andrew’s Basilica at nearby Arthunkal – a 17^th century lime and stone and granite church which attracts pilgrims from all over India.

Some of the best toddy – coconut or palm brew – are available in these areas. So take time out for a visit to a toddy shop and while at it, do try out some of their delicacies too like frog and quail fry.

It seems like everybody out here will love you. Return it – with smiles and handshakes.

Desert rain falls like a baptismal shower, there is divinity and rebirth. It is a diffuser of an exotic perfume with top notes of fragrant earth, a heart of nostalgia and the base leaving a hint of longing. The desert itself remains almost still, the shifting dunes quivering just a bit in a silent frenzy to quench an insatiable thirst. The rain-washed scrubs gleam black and green. Lightning cracks the shocks of cerulean skies above and thunder squalls trembles the air. The sun, refusing to give in – this is his fiefdom, after all – slants through the tiny clefts of amassing clouds like heavenly spotlight.

Place

The cenotaphs of Ramgarh, 15 km from Churu

I am in Churu, Rajasthan, with its first sightings of the mighty desert. ‘Gateway to the Thar’ is a narrow tourism epithet for here is more grandeur than you can shake a stick at. But rundown, yes. The havelis wear the look of grand old dames fallen on desolate times, deserted by progeny and left to fend for themselves. The bibelot niches were empty and the frescoes, their makeup, were jaded and peeling away. While most of them depicted the usual scenes from the epics, there were a few distinct ones like Dhola and Maru, the Romeo and Juliet of local lore, chased by attackers. There was one of a smoking Jesus; one borne not out of intolerance nor dilettante enthusiasm but playfulness showing the assuredness of artisanship.

The porches were mostly padlocked but peering through the pigeon nets covering the portico, one could see rows and rows of photographs tracing generations and telling stories of riches earned and lost. They were the Marwaris, fabled for their business acumen and affluence, who made the Shekhawati region of Rajasthan, where Churu fell, a Las Vegas during the 18^th and 19^th centuries – only without the casinos and other elaborate entertainment options. They stood, their bottomless pride twirled into their bristly moustaches and vast wealth reflected on the shiny hoods of their Lincoln Continentals and Chevrolet Impalas. The women remained a deferential step behind, sari draped over their heads. The children scrutinised the camera critically.

Pulley on a desert well; each one brings own rope

Some of these havelis are inhabited – rarely by owners, mostly by caretakers – and they brim with hospitality the region is famed for. Many will invite you inside for a cup of tea and it is generally considered rude to refuse. You may however insist on just water and use the time otherwise spent shooting breeze (the Shekhawati dialect is difficult to follow even for native Hindi speakers; I stood blinking) waiting for the brew with a quick walkabout of the haveli. Remember these are living quarters and do not wander away or open doors on your own. And make it snappy. You enter a large yard as soon as you pass the entry gate. This is where the men conducted their business; women were forbidden here but watched the proceedings from behind regular jaalis or ornate jharokhas depending on your money. In one haveli an old man was still conducting business – he was selling old coins and silver filigreed vases, ivory tobacco boxes, imported cigar cutters and nifty bric-a-brac, remnants of lives well-lived and gone by.

People

Bouquet at the gateway

Elderly couples sat together, unmoving, probably making up for all the time he was away or she walked behind. Youngsters tackled ennui riding motorcycles at high speeds through winding alleys; their silencer-shorn machines raising a horrendous racket and hair. Shanties were erected in the demesnes by newly-arrived migrant families; babies bawled for milk, women in gilt-spangled saris whupped rotis in al fresco kitchens, looked up and smiled nicely as you walked by. The men folk were already in Gurgaon or Noida – working as drivers or in construction sites. Those who haven’t left milled around the railway station hustling hotels and lodges to the occasional tourist, driving tuk tuks spruced up to look like Cinderella chariots, offering tourist guide and porter services or just sat on their haunches, making plans. Holy men walked in their retreaded shoes towards that other place, casting just a ‘token’ glance at the tohubohu. The heart of the town is mostly businesses that have sprung up around the rail and bus stations. Just one roundabout and turn later you enter the Churu you are here to see. Sandstone ramparts loom over bylanes and alleyways with their crumbling bastions and ornate corbels. Consecutive repairs and repainting have erased the murals from most but some gems can still be seen high above the ground. I had to use my entire zoom to get a good look at the Son of God with a cigarette.

Sethani Ka Johra – a water reservoir skirted by chhatris

At less than 300 kilometres, the journey from Delhi to Churu is not exactly taxing; I reached well in time to explore the market area converging around the clock tower. Besides household utensils, grocery, freshly ground curry powder, there are scores of shops selling lac bangles for which Churu is famous. Workshops abound in the city outskirts where craftsmen can be seen bent intently over coal fires, laying the lac over wooden rollers. Later I had tea from a dhaba jutting out into a busy lane whose owner claimed to sell more than a thousand cups per day. He also claimed to be pally with local dignitaries and had photographs plastered across his walls for proof. The chai is pretty good but better with the sev and samosa from the snack shop next door. Milk sweet vendors do brisk business, especially the ones near temples. There is one near the Ganga Temple in the market area, their mawa cakes are exceptional. I ate myself sick.

Phenomenon

Great views – if you have the drive

You are feted at every corner with approving looks – almost like making it to here was a bravura feat. Churu is one of the least visited towns in the otherwise touristy Rajasthan even though it has an illustrious past. The city itself was founded by an eponymous Jat chieftain in 1620 and later fell into the hands of Rajputs from nearby Bikaner. Falling along a popular trade route it was a magnet for the business savvy Marwari merchants, the Seths, who settled here in large numbers with their Sethanis. As business dwindled because of imposition of higher taxes many Marwaris moved shutter and shelter to other parts of India. A prominent family of Seths, called the Poddars, founded Ramgarh 15 km away. The collection of chhatris (cenotaphs) here comes a close second on the grandeur scale after those by the banks of the Betwa in Orchha, Madhya Pradesh. But more colourful with the richly frescoed domes with images from Lord Krishna’s life – most of them still intact! Ask the hotel to arrange for a well-versed guide before you explore Ramgarh; don’t rely on the jejune lads lounging around landmarks.

Locals peg the total number of havelis in and around Churu at not less than a 100, most of them built between the mid-19^th and early 20^th centuries. A haveli-walk covers the bigger – and more embellished – of the lot, notably the Rajkumar Haveli, Parakh, Kanhaiyalal Bagla, Surana Hawa (with its 1100 windows) and the Malji ka Kamra, an eclectically designed haveli with Venetian and Mughal influences, a heritage hotel today. After the walk one day I went into the Thar the next. Me and a friend slipped over loose scree, trespassed into shepherd hutments gated with dried thistles, ran down the water-harvesting slopes of a desert well and drove up a dune. From the top we espied the endless solitude the gateway opened to. And saw the first flicker of lightning.

A time to reflect, seriously

Nobody wants to read yet another account of passenger trauma induced by the proclaimed pathological delay of Air India flights. Nor about the anguish inflicted by the habitual misdemeanour of the autumnal aunties of the aisle (AA). Though I had my share of both these ritualistic inevitabilities by the time I took my seat on board AI 048, Delhi – Trivandrum, I swear I didn’t want to write about it either. That is till at take-off when the Young Handsome/Hopeful (YH) who sat on the jump seat next to the emergency exit assured me that these were exciting times, changing times literally: the beleaguered airlines had hired 800 more YHs in the past few months who would soon be replacing the AAs. The only AA on board was there to cluck-cluck the wisdom and expertise garnered over the course of a century of service in the air to the rest of the crew who were all YHs.

Supper time – tempers rise

“The delay,” the YH said “was due to a major technical glitch for which the flight had to be towed away for repair.” For someone who prefers to travel sticking as close to terra firma as possible this was not really confidence-inspiring. Well, the exuberance of youth shines forth in many ways – imparting information without weighing the pros and cons is just one. The flight originally scheduled to depart at 6 PM was pushed to 8 PM and finally took off around 9 PM. Some of the regulars at the gate – which too was changed to a lot of confusion and chaos at the last moment – cribbed that delays were usual with this last flight to Kerala; a few even suggested the ‘technical glitches’ were just a ploy to wait for some babu or mantri on the way.

“No sir, nothing like that,” rang out the bright-faced, ebullient effervescence. “I can assure you this was a routine issue.” How much ever I wanted to believe the YH but over the past two days I was being notified of a progressive delay. Surely things weren’t so honky dory at the hangar.

“We were informed of the delay only today and were told to report for duty at 18 hours instead of 16.”

Lucky meal – last of the non-veg

“So how can you be so sure the nature of the issue was ‘routine’?” I wanted to ask. Instead I chose to bask in the radiance of the unsullied and partake in the promise of a better future and preferred to believe that whatever the lying template talk, it was tutored to taint those pout-pretty lips by none other than the AA herself. As if on cue there was a fracas at the aisle. It was suppertime and a lady heading loo-way was being remonstrated by the AA to return to her seat and not obstruct the food trolley. This AA had earlier thumbed her nose across my crosshair: boarding the aircraft she had blocked my way for a full minute-and-half smoothing out a business class passenger’s coat over the hanger, even giving it a fond pat before shutting the closet. I stood there mutely witnessing the heartrending defiliation.

“Well done,” I told her. “You couldn’t have possibly waited a second for me to pass.”

“But I said excuse me,” she countered gazing at me like Caliban. There was nobody behind me in the air vestibule; I was the first to board from the janta side, desperate to grab some sleep before a long day. Or maybe I was just upset as I realised watching the coat love that it’s been a while since my mom tucked me into bed.

The entertainment system – a life of its own

Soon as the lady was sent back I decided to stand up, literally. I walked towards the trolley scraping knees up the aisle ready to dunk the AA, shadowed eyes, cracking rouge and all, into the cling-filmed food trays. But she now stalled her cart, smiled at me even and motioned with her hands as if giving me directions to the rear end of the aircraft. There was nothing I could do but sit on the gut-sucking stainless bowl for some minutes. Then it struck me: the recycled rudeness was not human, but mechanical in origin. Technical glitch -> flight delay -> irate passengers -> rude to airline staff -> back at you rude. No shit.

My request for post prandial black coffee remained unattended for a long while; of course I blew hot at the YH who finally brought it. Things came to a head when my request for black coffee was met with ‘would you like it with milk?’ The successful delivery of the steaming black brew was met with my frosty ‘thank you’ waylaid by an equally icy ‘you’re welcome.’

Fortune tortoises in the flight mag – the airlines should buy some

The crew ran out of non-vegetarian food. A navy commander in my front seat (he kept referring to himself as ‘commander so-and-so, carrying a lot of expensive naval equipment’ over the phone right until take-off) was shamelessly told to make do with vegetarian. What I was hoping would be a casus belli turned out to be a damp squib; the commander said the commander didn’t mind, the commander was carrying lots of equipment and the commander was hungry.

The one saving grace was that I got the last non-veg meal on board the 048.

A sensitive deftness: Translator Pare

Every travel is a quest for Shangri-La – the mystical, mythical land of harmonious coexistence, contentment and fulfilment. With a subtitle like ‘Searching for Shangri-La’ travel, thus, has to go on. But when the last in the collection of (just) six travelogues that make up Asian Absences is called ‘Shangri-La’ it almost seems like the insatiable hunt has come to an end. This ‘hour at the edge of the clearing’ leaves several jolts in its wake which possibly is the intention. For this Shangri-La is the China-made model Tibet awaiting tourists with even a Sexy Yeti bar, a ‘No Problem Tibet.’ The moment continues, as an ‘elusive prey.’ Asian Absences is brimming with such moments that evokes and mocks, acknowledges and aggravates wonders. Spanning India, Singapore, Cambodia, Japan and Nepal, the quest is feverish and the language lyrical; much is owed to translator Simon Pare – metaphors and cultural icons do not lurk about unseemly and uncomprehendingly nor do they lurch out whoa but have been handled with a sensitive deftness probably an outcome of his own fascination with Asia.

The opening piece ‘An Indian Afternoon’ is a literally pyretic prose where Buscher drifts between a beleaguered present in Jodhpur and a hallucinatory fever, a frequent occurrence perhaps, during his boyhood. The cacophonous urgency mingles with insightful observations we are all too familiar with: the sacred cow’s ‘languor a provocation’ and the ‘doll-sized temples’ beneath roadside trees that look ‘abandoned after a children’s game.’ The high point of the narrative is the poetic quality of the prose: Buscher can mean a lot without saying a lot. ‘Spotting the god in the gutter’ had me scrambling for a pencil. It is not shorn of the usual traveller wonders either – there is a maharaja who does a sitar recital with monkeys in attendance and a spiritual guru studiously soliciting the author’s discipleship with sumptuous pure ghee food.

Like a dainty dessert

What makes travel writing truly memorable is when the writer goes beyond the landscape and things he has seen and dwells profoundly into thought and feelings. Buscher does this a lot and hearteningly these digressions are not socio, economic or political in nature albeit a wry dream sequence in ‘Mekong Mama’ where Condoleezza Rice is the leader of a pack of ants who never begrudged her right to first bite of the pizza. No statistics are enumerated to prove a point and there is a much-needed break from paronomasia, however playful, as most popular travel writers seem to be bent upon these days. From the dark and dank days in Jodhpur, the brooding veil is lifted for a whiff of fresh air in ‘The Cricketer’ where we are introduced to St John, second officer of an oil tanker aboard which the writer hitches a ride to Singapore, who gads about with a cricket bat playing air shots. Like most travel writers Buscher too has an eye for minor details but what makes him special is he revels – and dazzles – in these. The darkest hour in the morning ‘when nothing more appears and everything crawls into itself’ (Mekong Mama) is just one of the many the book is littered with. Pencil.

Dazzling the detail: author Wolfgang

Of the (just six, I repeat) travelogues, I enjoyed most ‘Among Shamans’ not because it was the longest but also because I too have trekked in Tibet and spent time among shamans while filming a travel series. I could absolutely relate to the ‘inhuman solitude of the high mountains of Central Asia.’ I have also ‘shrank into my breath’ while the ‘world went black and red before my eyes.’ While the appearance of Shiva himself in his dreams could have been a Third Man phenomenon, my brushes weren’t so benign. Buscher was also luckier for he experienced a trance, first-hand, with the ‘slowly, slowly widening distance to the noise around’ and falls in love with a woman shaman. He doesn’t linger much on the ‘Shiva Airways’ bit but then it is anybody’s guess. ‘The God of Roppongi’ is a eulogy to the wondrous Tokyo, an ongoing creation, a stopover version of the Pico Iyer classic ‘The Lady and the Monk.’ With ‘Shangri-La’ and its expectedly drastic revelations, not just our pining but our purpose itself to travel is left intact – to find Shangri-La.

At just six chapters over 147 pages, Asian Absences is like a dainty dessert – you want to nibble at it to make it last at the same time gobble it all up in one go.

This review first appeared in The New Indian Express; Wolfgang Buscher’s photograph is courtesy of publisher website, Speaking Tree; translator Simon Pare from Banipal. 

Cough master – Kejriwal cracks the whip (NDTV pix)

The odd-even formula has struck like boarding school after a jaunty summer vacation. Though we are aware the restrictive regiment is for our own good – Delhi pollution levels are 15 times higher than the WHO standard, capable of claiming up to three years of our lives – as true Delhiites we have to groan and gripe: At the inadequate public transport infrastructure, at the laxity on part of cops to challan offenders who flaunt political connections, at flouters flaunting political connection, at the government non-committal about extending the de-congesting, de-polluting formula beyond a meagre fortnight despite all the throes and woes of a higgledy-piggledy inculcation. My personal grouse is exempting the president and the prime minister from the rule which at worst would cut down their cavalcade by half. And Chanakyapuri would have moved faster. Damn politics.

Whether we like it – if anything cleaner air in our lungs – or not we still have to put up with the odd-even restrictions at least till the mid of this month. After a scheduled meeting got pushed (‘See, my car number is…’) I began to look at ways of weaving my way around the formula. Some might be handy so you may not hex the attempt as anachronistic. And some are my personal suggestions to make this earnest effort a success – and see it going beyond January 15.

Beats ‘em all

• The best way around the odd-even formula is on a motorbike – the least congesting and polluting of conveyances – which is also exempt from the rule. Tip: Do keep your PUC updated especially if you ride one of the bigger motorcycles.
• While carpooling has emerged the single most momentous realisation of the times many are still wary of sharing rides with strangers. Instead of registering with any of the dozen odd ride-sharing apps you should probably inquire around your own apartment – or the one next door – for commuters in the same direction. A simple announcement in the notice board should do the trick. A great way to get to know your neighbours too!
• Delhi transport minister, Gopal Rai, talked a good game today (January 4, Monday), the litmus test day, as he rode public transport to work. He also warned of fringe elements from the capital region entering Delhi with malafide intentions to breach the rule and create chaos. Instead of asking these toe-rags to pay the Rs 2000 fine or return to the cavities they came from, they should be jailed for holding to ransom the health of an entire populace. Again, politics be damned.
• Instead of fining offenders on the spot – about 200 drivers were challaned till afternoon on January 4 – and causing traffic jams, cops should let them go after documenting photographic evidence of the violation. The fine can be collected later – like speeding offences caught by hidden cameras. (Can ask Kerala Police for tips here.)
• Even after January 15 – when the odd-even rule gets over and schools reopen – school buses should be put to ply between Metro stations and residential areas / apartments when they are not in use by the school.
• It is not just vehicles that cause pollution but unbridled construction is also an equal culprit. Curtaining off construction sites from public roads and utilities will go a long way in bringing down the particulate matter that is choking us.

The Eurail experience – a lot to be desired

First day of the Hornbill Festival of Nagaland some years ago. Many glasses of zutho, traditional rice beer, later I was winding my way aided by random hands and shoulders out of the Kisama venue to the car park. My crew – we were filming the weeklong spectacle for a travel channel – was supposed to meet me next to a temporary ATM which served more as a landmark than cash dispenser in the ensuing days having run out on the second day itself. We were all drunk or tired or both with just one thing on our minds – bed. The dead beat faces in the distance jolted a realisation through the boeotian ataraxia induced by the foamy ferment – we had no hotel bookings! Actually, I – the guy in charge – hadn’t made any! Driving in from Dimapur that morning we were informed all the hotels in Kohima, the capital city and the town nearest to the festival venue were full. Deciding to try our luck after work we fell headlong into the inaugural ceremony, the Nyalipu dance of the Konyaks, houtho songs of the Angamis, momos and zutho. As I neared the ATM, expectant eyes wafted over me; I turned around and looked at the quickly dissipating humanity for ways to disappear.

Travel logistics have always been a nightmare for me – coupled with being the banausic laggard that I am, also missing is that part of the brain which goes into pulling off a properly planned peregrination. And even when I do bask in the occasional glory of a successful sojourn, one without apparent untoward incident, I discover that stuff was lost along the way – three passports, five Swiss knives and countless Zippos, to name some that mattered. So, in order to cut down on the painful losses – the Zippos were mostly loving gifts; the passport officer asked me without mirth whether I was on the wanted list of the Interpol – and to counter the animadversions, albeit with a lot of merit, and in an earnest attempt to be better organised peripatetically I decided to pick some pointers from the recent month-and-half long Europe trip of the most organised person I know in the world – Minu, in all sense my better half.

Though me and my wife are as different as North Face and Neiman Marcus literally when it comes to travel sensibilities the one thing we agree on is not being a ‘herded traveller’ – then those who go with groups needn’t worry about these anyway.

Booking dot com  

The ‘key’ sign – the French says like it is

Hotel reservations were made in advance through hotel room aggregator sites specifically booking.com from India itself. Reservations were made for the Birmingham, London, Paris, Milan, Florence and Rome legs of the journey. But of course, this mandates that you have your itinerary planned well in advance: which means you will have to decide what all to see in advance and how much time you will spend seeing them. Which of course means that you find out in advance what all are there to see and do. Whew! The reservations were made in hotels just a hop skip away from airports or railway stations if the arrival time was evening or later. If not, it was made near the main draws of the destination. Not having to commute large distances to the place of stay is useful to visit as many attractions as possible when time is limited. In case of women travellers, this is also a safety consideration. Then being a male is no guarantee from getting mugged or pickpocketed as those who have been to Italy or Cockney London would know.

Flipside: Though the decisions were mostly budget-based, the rooms of, say, the Comfort Inn, Sacre Coeur, Paris, had barely enough elbow room. The complimentary breakfast was less than basic – with even the staple egg missing. Lesson: Pictorial representations or guest reviews on such umbrella platforms are not to be trusted at face value. However some might still decide to go for it for the discount rates they offer which may not be available elsewhere even on the parent sites.

Minu decided to cancel her hotel bookings and shifted loyalties to homestay aggregators after Paris and stayed at properties listed on airbnb from Italy onward. She still raves about the one in Rome, its natural lighting and spatial extravagance, the well-stocked library, vintage wines and the owner, a budding actor, probably not in this order. Though she didn’t get to meet the host personally she was relentlessly serenaded by the unwitting jocosity in his English – which she relishes to this day. (See photograph of the ‘key’ sign.)

Mapping the way

Download a copy in case of patchy connection

Google Maps were used to find the location, distances, modes and mix of optimal transport to the destinations and even transit time. In Paris for example all sightseeing was guided by Google Maps; this was also because Minu had been here on many occasions before and this time she was gunning more for experiences rather than sights. Yet another reason for taking the recourse is the exasperating non-English assertions of the French. ‘Je ne parle pas anglais’ finally became equally heartrending and scary as Regan going ‘Get away from me’ in Exorcist.

Flipside: Sometimes new constructions or road repairs may render the route mapped inaccurate, tedious and long-winded. Using a GPS-guided map in Delhi I have been told many times to turn right atop flyovers when the intersection was 50 feet below me. It also takes away one more opportunity to interact with a native – many a time simple direction queries have led to deeper and quite insightful interactions for me.

Tip: Save the screenshot of the direction map before you set off in case there of downloading troubles along the way.

Early ticketing

Homestay to the rescue – Minu’s pad in Rome

Queuing up at ticket counters is one of the easily avoidable time consumers. Experienced victims of pickpocketing opine that it is while standing in this sinuous line – the incredulous expression, the nonplussed queries and finally being pointed out that you were in the wrong queue all the while – you foray into the cutpurse radar. Minu purchased her train tickets from the Trainline site for all internal travel in the UK; the site comes highly recommended by regular travellers and visiting ones for its ease of use and clutter-free design. However the same cannot be said about Eurail passes (for train travel between most European countries) that cost a mini fortune at 712 euros (equivalent to over half a lakh rupees): it is only when you reach the station that you are informed that seats are limited for pass holders. The ploy – it is suspected – is to make you shell out money for new tickets. Black market is rampant.

Day Passes can also be bought which covers all types of transport to anywhere valid for 24 hours: in Paris the pass costs seven euros whereas a single trip is 1.80. A rip-off is the bunch of 10 tickets that come for 14 euros – just remember you are not here on some geocaching adventure.

‘The most expensive piece of toilet paper I ever bought,’ is how Minu calls her Eurail pass. The refugee movement had already begun when she travelled which further added to her woes: at the Swiss border the train halted for over two hours and an African in the compartment was whisked away into the night by border guards. All the while his companion pretended not even to know him and kept a stolid unblinking stare in a stoic face. Thankfully a bunch of models bound for Milan boarded replacing Minu’s security concerns with insecurity pangs. 

Mr Kezo’s house

At Kisama as I looked around hoping for unseen help it came. Mr Kezo had been following me to return a pen that had fallen on the mela grounds from my multi-pocket vest. I thanked him profusely – it was a Sheaffer from my dad – and he asked me where we were staying. During that instalment of the festival and for two later editions I stayed with the Kezos at their large family house right in the middle of Kohima town.

Flipside: There are not many Mr Kezos in the world.

‘Bridge View’ was the name I gave my writing room – a rented space in a commercial building by the banks of the canal. It had a unique atmosphere marked by a strange colour and odour. Sound even. The stink from the cremation ground towards the west wafted in with the wind along with the stench of coconut husks being retted nearby. From where I sat I could hear the rhythmic thrashing of the pulp with wooden mallets like drumbeats. Sometimes after work I would put out the lamp and sit by the window facing the canal and eavesdrop on the conversations of those passing by. Giggly gossip of maidens returning from the market, song of the soaks and sometimes even shrill screams of the fox…

(Translated from a diary entry dated January 1, 1943; an exhibit at the SK Pottekkatt Cultural Centre, Kozhikode.)

SK Pottekkatt

It was during an extended stay in Kerala last monsoon that I discovered SK Pottekkatt, prolific writer – author of around 60 books – and compulsive traveller – 18 of which are travelogues. I read Kappirikalude Naattil (In the land of the Negroes) and London Notebook, breezy reads both, over a weekend while palm, coconut and rubber trees slanted and swayed in unison under a harsh downpour. Lightning drew a shimmery blanket over the glistening tree tops and thunder broke like seismic trance in the horizon. What grabbed me but was the writer’s discovery of a place through the people which brought alive the narrative, literally. His fascination with the fellow traveller, man on the street and host for the night, besides depicting the cultural and ethnic diversities in the most engaging manner also portrayed the personal anecdotes vividly. Like the young con artist in London, who made his acquaintance pretending to be a student and tried to sweet talk him into parting with charitable dosh. Quite charmingly, a characteristic empathy precludes judgments and generalisations except probably when commenting on the fates of suppressed peoples – which are again mostly an indictment of colonialising powers.

More from the diary

Kunjiraman Master’s death was sudden and unexpected. One morning while watering the mango saplings he coughed, once. A wracking cough. He coughed again and then again. And then there was no respite. Clutching his chest he fell down. Soon he was dead. Just like that. Father had left his temporal abode, gone forever. Nobody will see a fair man with a proud bearing, sandalwood paste smeared across his forehead, wearing a hat, coat and spectacles and umbrella in hand emerge from our house again. What remained of him was his legacy of honesty and trust.

Pottekkatt outside Chandrakantham

Some evenings I would go to the beach. Engrossed in daydreaming, I would miss the eight o’clock deadline – to be back home. I would then try to sneak in unnoticed by my father who would be reading on the easy chair on the veranda. His spectacle glasses would twinkle reflecting the light from the table lamp. He would glance once – a glance full of rebuke and a stern warning. After his death, his property was divided among all the relatives. It broke my heart to leave the house where I could still feel his presence. Leave behind his mango saplings and his fruit garden, and the path which he trod among them. I looked again at the possessions he had left me in a cotton sling bag: his glasses – which have witnessed only goodness and truth in everyone and everything, a bird feather gifted by Hashim Munshi, a notebook containing love poems written by someone who loved him many years ago and another notebook with his own poetry.

I hung this bag around my shoulders and took the hand of my grieving mother and walked out of our own house, forever. After settling down my mother in another house, I began my travels – first to Bombay. And then to the rest of the world.

(Translated from another exhibited entry displayed at the museum.)

Early travels

Chandrakantham today

For most travellers there is that one defining journey which sows the seeds of wanderlust – a journey from which you never return completely. For the politically active Pottekkatt it was a 1939 trip to Tripura to attend a meeting of the Indian National Congress, to attend which he even resigned from his job as a school teacher. He was to follow this up with an all India tour in 1941. A year later he was forced to leave for Bombay to escape arrest because of his underground activities supporting the Quit India Movement. In Bombay he worked as a clerk with the textile department but resigned again two years later to travel – this time to Delhi, Kashmir and other parts of India. He returned to Calicut in 1945 where he took up residence in Chandrakantham, which, to my wonder stood intact still (picture). Having covered most of India, it was time to turn towards lands farther, vaster, to the ‘rest of the world.’ In 1949, he went abroad for the first time – a momentous journey that lasted two years. His ports of call were primarily Africa and Europe – Nyasaland, Sudan, Uganda, Egypt, East African countries, Portugal and Italy, Switzerland, Germany, France and England.

He got married in 1952 and took off again to cover Asia, this time with wife in tow. She didn’t however accompany him in his East Europe sojourn in the mid-50s.

People love  

Pottekkatt museum

In January 2013 National Geographic Fellow Paul Salopek tracing the migration of humanity began his seven year walk from the Great Rift Valley in Kenya, East Africa – which was Pottekkatt’s first stop 64 years ago. Like Salopek he too wanted to begin from where it all started. In an interview before his departure he announced that he was following an unknown traveller who said that ‘to see real humanity one should go to Africa.’

Pottekkatt’s love for people was real, his curiosities bona fide and he was willing to go to any extent to satiate them. He hurled himself with a boundless brio headlong into parlous situations to be with the hoi polloi – he rode on the back of mules and donkeys and travelled on open decks over high seas. He did not hem himself in by comfort even though he could afford it. An embassy officer suggested he travel by aircraft while in Sudan to which he replied that he came to Sudan ‘to see the land and the people and not the skies.’

My god is the god of walkers. If you walk hard enough, you probably don’t need any other god. (Bruce Chatwin)

The burghers everywhere he gave a wide berth. To get real insights into the land you had to interact with the commoner for which he walked. In Bali Dweep (Bali Island) he says that he never baulked from walking up to 10 miles every day – to get a good look at the villages and lives of the people. The essence of slow travel is not just seeing but experience the land, people and their culture. In Simhabhoomi (Land of the lions) he describes the Masai women as ‘wearing brass bangles which weigh around half a kilogram on their neck and ears and paint their faces with mud which make them look like beasts.’

His cameras

Because of my own early years in Africa the observations he makes in Kappirikalude Naattil resonated for their astuteness and well-meaning. The simple ‘hello’ being employed not just as a greeting but also as a response; different inflections marked dismay, wonder or respect. The African laugh as ‘hey hey hey’ with an extended ‘eey’ as opposed to our ‘ha ha ha’ was so simple and spot on that I thought of Humphrey after many years. In Soviet Diaries, he writes about a race that is ‘self-confident, understanding and accepting of each other,’ Though a thinking person from Kerala, he was not exactly a janizary of communism; ‘the system is far from perfect’ he notes which shows his observations were not baseless or jejune. His landscape illustrations were neither sesquipedalian nor frilly but he said it like he saw it. A rainbow looked like an ‘arch made of precious stones’ and waterfalls ‘roared like a thousand lions.’

Pottekkatt was a slow traveller – a way of seeing adopted by iconic travel writers many decades later like Colin Thubron and Paul Theroux and Bruce Chatwin whose works were largely responsible for travel writing to be recognised officially by publishers as a gainful literary genre.

To the museum

Stalwarts, buddies: with Basheer

Thus suitably seduced by the ‘lascivious’ city women, intrigued by ‘conniving’ girl students, enthralled by ‘enchanted’ porters and ‘endless hours spent watching the waterfalls’ and piqued by some seemingly harsh indictments like ‘prostitution which gave rise to the “coloured” race – a colour which will again lead them into prostitution’ I took the overnighter from my hometown Pala to Kozhikode, 250 km away, Pottekkatt’s hometown. It also gave me the opportunity to check out the much-touted air-conditioned low-floor buses which marked the newly set up state transport body KURTC – whose arrival on the scene like the dapper scented Gulf returnee relegated the age-old KSRTC to the grumpy fringes like a straitjacket relative of strained circumstances. All the comforts one expected from the new technology were extinguished by the sharply coiling edges of the seats of hard plastic which ensured not more three minutes of comfortable sitting if you possessed a posterior slightly bigger than a six year old. Sleeping was ruled out like bail for Kiku Sharda after his re-arrest. The next morning as we rolled into the bus terminal at Kozhikode (Calicut) I was lolling in the aisle, backpack as my pillow while the rest of the passengers sat painfully straight, sleep-deprived, staring at me with red-eyed jealousy.

Expenses exhibit

Puthiyara, not many years ago, was a sparsely populated hillock, verdant, with narrow paths radiating in all directions. These narrow paths today are narrow roads with vehicles hurtling up and down, apartments and bungalows on one side and small, decaying businesses on the other. At the topmost point was a water tank which has been converted to the Pottekkatt museum – the adaptability the obsessive traveller would have surely approved. I wandered through the writer’s personal and professional effects – short of his portmanteau, most of the contents were there – two wrist watches, spectacles, two cameras, an aftershave with some still left, a sweater, a pair of trousers. There were newspaper cuttings which served as inspiration for his short stories and the expense sheets during his travels – money spent on laundry and stamp and cigarettes had all been entered meticulously. He had a very proud mother, I am sure.

Biographical museums are usually housed where the person lived. And Chandrakantham where Pottekkatt lived from 1945 till his death in 1982 is just a short walk away from the museum. I went there where I met a tenant family who was happier the rent was lower than market as the house was dilapidated. I really hope one day the museum will be shifted from the erstwhile water tank to a refurbished Chandrakantham.

Pottekkatt who?  

Pottekkatt’s literary prowess was recognised and feted in his own lifetime. He won the Kerala Sahitya Akademi award for Oru Theruvinte Katha (‘The story of a street’ which revolved around the popular Sweet Meat street of Calicut) and the Jnanpith for his biographical Oru Deshathinte Katha (‘The story of a land’). He was a literary great moving in the circles of the other greats of his time. Ebullient and witty, he was loved by his peers. The frequent visits of Vaikom Mohammed Basheer to Chandrakantham were raucous as well as stimulating. He even dabbled in politics making it as a member of parliament once.

Overlooking Sweet Meat Street

But the genius of Pottekkatt as a travel writer whom many consider a lodestar of the genre continues to be neglected. This is when he broke new frontiers as a travel writer and enlightened us with accounts of primitive traditions from the Dark Continent where brides are won with enemy heads, regaled us with comparisons drawn between Sikh jokes and those contumely ones made on the native African by Indian settlers. Of the many reasons accorded for this I found most unsettling the regionality in his narrative. Like maybe the analogy made between the African tribal dressed in white silk clothes to Palani and Sabarimala pilgrims.

Then, isn’t this exactly the charm and lure of travel literature – while introduced to one people we become friendly with two, even more?

Wanderink…really?

If I told you winter was the best time of the year to be in the desert you’d ask me ‘so what’s new?’ Or ‘how predictable is that?’ Then, think about it, do we really? I mean if not exactly make a beeline, at least make serious plans to hit the desert in winter? From watching the travel patterns of my good friends – compulsive travellers all, and being privy to plans of family – who I believe must be genetically bound to the travel bug, I don’t see many of them hitting the arid zones this time of the year. The closest some have been is Jaipur but then that is a Dalrymple baby. Before I come to the biggest reason, literally, you should be hitting the deserts in winter – forts, those mammoth stone-and-earthen glories from which whole cities and cultures flowed, let me not elide the not so imposing ones – you can’t later say that I didn’t enthuse you enough.

Jaisalmer Fort – lovely but living

Yes, Agra and Jaipur are deserts. Delhi’s Red Fort, Agra Fort and Amer and Nahargarh Forts of Jaipur are as resplendent as they come, I agree. But allow me to push you a little more while out there – towards the magical vastness of windswept dunes, the magnificence of gold crested sand, the soul-stirring, howling emptiness, an unforgiving landscape but one that opens up the most unobstructed views of the night sky dripping stars. Besides getting away from the milling tourists, imagine those frames you can pack – those mesmerising long shadows cast by the winter sun. And I can’t tell you enough how beautiful the sunrise and sunset is in the desert. It definitely is inspiring – I came up with my blog name ‘Wanderink’ while bivouacking in the sands of Jaisalmer. Just imagine what you will come up with.

While this is a clarion call to be desert-bound this winter, this is also about some of my favourite forts from north and central India. Not all of them are in the desert, of course. Most you will also not find in a regular travel itinerary either. I like them for reasons as varied as sheer splendour and history, heartrending aloofness to panoramic views to helping me play myth buster.

Ater Fort

(90 km from Agra near the town of Bhind, by the Chambal River)

Ater – a stately aloofness

Subterranean openings flank the double-arched entrance – possibly sally-ports in the event of an attack or prisoner dungeons. You reach an enceinte which must have been a garden; row after row of exquisitely foliated sandstone pillars lie about scattered. A smaller arched entrance leads to another courtyard where the king would have met his subjects. Here you can see the Diwan-I-Am with the mandatory water body in the front which acted as a sort of security measure. Further on there was the ‘Satmanjila’, a watchtower, from where the guards could keep an eye on the shifting ravines below. I scrambled up several precariously narrow flights of stairs in the donjon which opened to an abacus; the view of the Chambal ravine is splendid from here. The Ater was a marvel, an architectural delight with its labyrinthine walkways and secretive seraglios, moreover it tugged at my heart with its stately aloofness.

Bhangarh Fort

(240 km from Delhi, via Alwar. A worthy detour if heading to Jaipur.)

Bhangarh – no ghosts, really

You walk up a ramp into the fort. Once inside you are surrounded by elaborate courtyards with connecting doorways, ante rooms with sandstone pillars and crumbling walls with niches for idols and bibelots still intact. Dark passageways down stairways lead to grotty, smelly dungeons. Don’t venture down unless you have a torch as some end abruptly at deep-ended buttes. For the Bhangarh in all its ruined glory climb up to the highest rampart. With the massive boulders which once held lofty arches, ornate windowsills and balustrades, from up here it is indeed Acropolis which was also destroyed around the same time. In fact the scale of destruction begs many parallels: Parthenon, the most important building in Acropolis used to store gunpowder during the Sixth Ottoman-Venetian war, was totalled when hit by a cannonball. In Bhangarh too, the obliteration is of cataclysmic dimensions that theories about its decimation revolve around the supernatural.

Junagarh Fort

(Bikaner, 350 km from Jaipur; or 450 from Delhi through the famed Shekhawati region where you can spot a haveli, almost a miniature fort, at every turn.)

Junagarh – a personal fav

One late afternoon, I wrote in an earlier post, I emerged from Junagarh Fort the city of Bikaner radiating in all directions convinced why it was my favourite fort in the country.

• There was no out-of-the-blue cordoning off of areas with the unsettling ‘The royal family still lives here’ excuse.
• This was not a ‘living fort’ – and by extension undergarment-splattered ashlars, stinking bathroom nullahs cutting across your path, unyielding milch animals, and static squatters were missing.
• The fort itself was immaculately, passionately, preserved. (My best guess was because the erstwhile ruling family was still pretty much active in its preservation – and not given over to any government organisation.)
• The audio guide was quite comprehensive as it was exhaustive – the best I ever laid my ears on. (There was no need for a deposit even – neither money nor your travel documents!)
• The eateries were right by the exit – just where I wanted them. And when.
• Lastly but mostly the absence of severe ‘No Photography’ signs in the fabulously stacked armoury museum.

Jahangir Mahal

(In ‘cenotaph wonderland’ Orchha – usually given the miss between the awe-inspiring stupas and forts of Gwalior and the heritage marvel that is Khajuraho.)

Jahangir Mahal – give the hotel inside a miss

The Ganesh Darwaja – a gigantic arched gateway with a bulbous dome and ornate embellishments on the spandrel – ushers you into Orchha town with a regal flourish. The Jahangir and Raja Mahals, set within a large quadrangle, are the biggest attractions of Orchha. To reach the fort complex, you pass through a bridge with government offices on one side and eateries on the other. The Ram Raja Restaurant here serves not-so-good pizza but quite-good milk shakes. The Jahangir Palace, built during the 17^th century by Raja Bir Singh Deo, is an amalgamation of Hindu and Mughal architectural styles. Story goes that Bir Singh and Prince Salim (before he became Emperor Jahangir) were great friends and the palace was renamed to honour Jahangir when he was passing through after his coronation. A part of the palace has been fashioned into a heritage hotel but I recommend you give this one a miss for some irenic ones overlooking the Betwa River.

Gone are the good ole days when all you had to tackle in hotels, which involved application of astuteness and agility, were the timer switches which lit up corridors for 20 or 30 seconds – you invariably ended making a dash for it. It must have been a good feeling – saving electricity and all – but it left in its wake a lot of guests, including my dad, floundering in the dark, groping their way out through appliances and anatomies of the housekeeping staff. Today the corridors light up on their own – all you have to do is emerge from the lift. In some places they flicker to life along the route you chose to take – some sort of sensory technology. I like this one for it makes me feel like Moses: just imagine the flanking walls as whooshing water. Apparently this stuff which I find exceedingly wondrous is so basic that the industry itself does not classify it under ‘smart.’ What they call ‘smart’ today is something more – the whole gamut of housekeeping and checkout services over WeChat, smartphones as smart keys, minibars with auto detection, high definition carpets…

Safe haven no more

Sometime ago I had a brief but enlightening introduction to a few of these technical farrago – enlightening for it made me realise that I wasn’t really as smart as I thought. Hey, don’t get me wrong here – this is not a polemic against the hugely innovative but largely meaningless strides made by man but is rather an apology on behalf of some not being able to keep up. While the regnant trend in the hospitality industry today is ‘just can’t app enough’ I am someone who just needs a place to keep my chattel and a pillow for my head. Give me a bathrobe and you will find me in not much else the duration of the stay. This modish business hotel where I stayed had a lot of features that brought me enthusiastically up and embarrassingly close and personal with some smart stuff in vogue today.

The magical, kinky cubicle – before activation

Disclaimer: Besides confessing to a low intellect, I must also say that I don’t really find much use for those mirrors which makes zits look as big as baby faces. To effectively keep my nose hair in place I need to see it in the context of my nose and not as some magical spinifex growing out of thin air; I mean I will stick to the regular bathroom mirror.

The kinky cubicle – after room service leaves

The smart key: This one proved its smartness right from the lift itself – all I had to make the lift operational and stop on the right floor was swipe it across a blinking blue light straight out of a starship console. And once in the room it did everything: the lights came on in all the right places, the air condition hummed to a discreet life, the television blinked to a standby, activated the closet lights. I mean everything just short of singing me a lullaby or enquire politely if I needed a date for the evening. The smart key also rightly predicted me a security threat: it allowed the lift to stop only on my own floor as well as the top floor restaurant. To go a friend’s room on a different floor I decided to take the stairway. Trying to push open the landing door set off the alarm and left me with a lot of explaining to do.

Alice in Wonderland mirrors

The smart glass: Now the only thing I can think of behind this innovation is an imagined conversation between the hotel builder and the architect.

Architect: ‘The view from the room is pretty awful. Our guests will have a problem paying this kind of money and open the blinds to half naked children with baked snots and pigs rolling in poo.’

Builder: ‘What do you suggest I do? Wipe their snot? Buy their pigs?…which we do already…’

Architect: ‘You have to keep your guests engaged within the room itself. Give him enough stuff to keep his gaze within the four walls of the room.’

Builder: ‘The television has around 1,000 channels already and we will soon be taking Netflix…’

Architect: ‘The evolved crowd my dear sir, do not watch television anymore. They bring their own content.’

Builder: ‘What are you suggesting then?’

The architect then goes on to put the smart glass in place – with the flick of a switch you can cloud up the transparent glass panel partitioning the toilet and shower cubicle from the rest of the bedroom. I found this feature thoroughly usable, enjoyable even. I played with the switch while I showered, imagining a steamy foreplay. The catch was that it was up to me only to play the voyeuristic, kinky partner as well.

The UFO on my bed table

The smart clock: Needless to say I had to summon housekeeping for many little things – from adjusting the room temperature which just kept going back to a preset degree – probably an ontological call some app made for my optimal existence. Even to control the curtain blinds which seemed to decide from which height and angle I had to view the world outside. Over those few days I became pally with most of housekeeping. They might have been drawing lots to decide on the next one among them to have ‘fun with the dork.’

“Sir it happens all the time,” they kept assuring me good-naturedly. “Even our regular guests are only getting used to some of the features.”

“Can you help me with the alarm clock?” I asked them on the last night, there was an early morning flight to catch and my head was floating. “I can’t find the buttons to set it.”

All the wrong buttons

“Sir, why don’t you ask the reception for a wake-up call?” They asked. Probably they had enough of me or had found another source of mirth – a more likely reason as earlier that evening I espied a bunch of white-clad politicians in the lobby checking in. Whatever I was glad to find that some things could still be done the old fashioned way.

All I had to do now was figure which icon represented the reception – the bust with a line cleaving across it or the line with a bust toppling from it or the one with arms flailing.

From the ramparts of the fort, a heritage hotel today, Churi Ajitgarh looked like a movie set. A period epic involving wealthy people who loved art and the good life and, just like a lot of wealthy people, given to self-aggrandisement. They were merchants who travelled far and wide and brought back with them architectural and aesthetic flourishes from Europe and the rest of the country. Around me were the grand havelis they built incorporating their newfound sensibilities, each trying to outdo the other with Italian marbles and Belgian mirrors, Venetian statues and sometimes kitschy renditions of rococo design. The wives turned out in gold-brocaded saris and the finest gemstone jewellery, broods were plentiful and their garages housed Rolls-Royces, Morrises and Impalas.

Peppy tuk tuks ply with music blaring

But like many classics this golden era too was ill-fated. The king-sized building and living were bound to last just a little over a century before the vagaries of commerce dealt a crushing blow forcing their abandonment and eventual falling into desolation and disrepair. What remains today are lofty-walled courtyards, driveways employed as wattle stockyards, raided niches, crumbling corbels and nooks filched even of trumpery. Instead of liveried docents who frittered about there was one withered old peasant who shook a staff in response to all my queries.

Heritage in the air – enter Jhunjhunu

The story doesn’t end here. A few kilometres away in Mandawa Mishra has displayed ancient watches, snuff boxes, single mould brass daggers, semi-precious trinkets and old, odd-shaped coins inside his shop; the bigger ones like the remains of charkha, a still-plangent chandelier and faded picture frames are arranged by the side of the road itself.

“The havelis are falling, they won’t be there tomorrow.” He told me. And added helpfully “But we have collected these from them so you can take with you a part of the heritage.” This was better in a way – on an earlier visit to Churu 45 km away I had met someone who was selling stuff salvaged from the haveli right in the haveli itself.

Fresco fantastico – from the largest open air art gallery in the world

While many blockbusters like Bajrangi Bhaijaan, PK and Paheli have been shot here and this threnody through time can be imagined as a movie script, this is the real story of the Shekhawati region in northeast Rajasthan. This arid region covers around 14,000 square kilometres and includes, besides Churi Ajitgarh and Mandawa, Sikar, Fatehpur, Jhunjhunu, Nagaur and Churu. These little historic townships teem with havelis, mansions, built by the Marwaris, a merchant class, between 1830 and 1930 approximately. The eclectic stuccos on the spandrels, bright-hued frescoes depicting scenes from the Epics, folklores and daily life, the grandly ornate cenotaphs have accorded Shekhawati the touristy but largely true epithet of ‘the largest art gallery in the world’.

Exit to Sikar  

Delhi to Jaipur via NH8, though among the busiest in the country, was a breeze on the weekend morning – I did the 270 km in under three hours. As dawn broke misty mustard fields and tarpaulined national permit trucks parked in huddled clusters blurred past me. The welcome sign marking your entry into the city – a mammoth stone slab with ‘Jaipur’ in bold with white embroidery and cut-out windows inspired by the Hawa Mahal on top – is a let-down considering the city’s immense historicity and later comparing with the more imposing magenta-orange sandstone pillars which announces your entry into Jhunjhunu district (pic). At 8:30 AM it was rush hour but strangely none of the shops were open. Traffic flowed in and out of the Sanganeri and other Old City gates, the Paanch Batti junction on the MI Road was a beehive of activity. Raj Mandir, the only cinema hall listed as a tourist attraction – however one does that – stood like an overdressed granny.

Shekhawati – that alluring old world charm

Returning to Delhi the next day we decided on a scenic detour – through Shekhawati – longer by a little over a hundred kilometres. The exit was to Sikar along the Agra-Bikaner highway; Reengus, which sounded like a skin infection, was another major town on the way. Except for ginormous structures in glass that might have been large fish tanks but actually some discarded or dysfunctional educational institution there is nothing else on the 110 km to Sikar. Probably it’s the lack of rains or a great government or both, the roads of Rajasthan are generally makhan-like. (I know I keep repeating this usage in my blog posts but I always dreamt of being a truck driver.) Enjoy while it lasts – it curdles into frequent humps and plain bad roads once you enter Haryana; probably rains or a lack of a great government. Or both.

Enter Jhunjhunu

The modest but thoughtful sandstone pillars marking your arrival into Jhunjhunu district does a fine job of making you go ‘ah, I can smell heritage in the air.’ Soon enough signboards announce Nawalgarh, Dundlod and Badalgarh – but removed from the road. Nawalgarh is ensconced within four loamy walls and the Nawalgarh Fort or the Bala Qila today houses a handful of banks – almost like all of them have tapped sub rosa into the same kingly treasury. Many of the havelis including Dundlod are heritage hotels today. The Badalgarh Fort is stark and spartan with none of the aesthetic relishes generally attributed to forts like imposing citadels, ornate facades or opulent pavilions. It is still on a steep escarpment with protective bastions – the fort was exclusively used to board and lodge warhorses and camels. Right, not too many frescos here. Some camels roamed around throwing an occasional forlorn gaze towards the fort. ‘We keep wanting to save those who are forlorn in this world,’ says Michael Ondaatje in The Cat’s Table. He says it is a male habit. Well, however rebarbative, I had this earnest desire to hug one or two.

Tassels like a heroine’s false hair

Whether we notice it or not, one of the best things that happens to us on the road is we break most of the barriers that otherwise surround us in the safe carapaces of our urban lives. An open eye is the way to an open mind. I saw this youngster ploughing an arid plot of land with a camel; he stopped work and smiled at me. I smiled back. I was genuinely happy: in a faraway barren wasteland, in the midst of nowhere, two perfect strangers made a connection. Further on in a roadside shack hung knotted black tassels like a heroine’s false hair. These are tied to the rear view mirrors by truck drivers to ward off evil eye. There were golden ones too, like epaulettes, but these were more decorative than kick ass. The seller knew very well that a purchase wouldn’t be forthcoming, still launched into a narrative of its many uses. The drivers use them to dole up and protect their trucks which they regard and love as their ‘doosra biwi’ or second wives. I fell in love with him – I believed then I would forego a Mjolnir for one of these. Anyway it made me think: those we dismiss as yobos – hanging around puncture and cigarette shops and pushcart eateries in the cities – are probably so because they are far away from home?

The Sonthalia Gate of Mandawa

About 18 km short of Jhunjhunu town I turned left for Mandawa; you can access Mandawa closer to Jhunjhunu as well through wider, better roads but this route fits the desert diorama better. It was a band aid strip of tar passing off for a road, fighting a losing battle with the encroaching, encircling desert. Every gust of simoom, or ‘loo’ as it is known in these parts, brought it one step closer to doom. As it did the milestones. A couple of camels gambolling about the road nibbling at the spiny canopy over it eyed us carefully. One decided to make a lolloping spring into the distance while the other sauntered close. I couldn’t figure which was the scatterbrain of the two. Tuk tuks bound by shiny metal framework with ornate knobs and whole plastic flower gardens on top juddered along like chariots of a Chinese Cinderella.

A threnody through time – an abandoned haveli

Mandawa is a polite little town, quiet too. Then horns don’t mean much when there is a camel cart ahead of you. Or you are driving one yourself. Little shops selling grocery and gilt-edged saris, English medicines and leather jootis line both sides of the road. This is serious haveli-land – the school and college are housed in havelis, even the main road passes through what looks like one. This is the Sonthalia Gate – an arched passage above which there are three floors with elaborate frieze work and jharokhas. Just before the Gate is the Mandawa Haveli, a heritage hotel with freshly painted frescos and an enervated watchman. Another attraction, the Akhram ka Haveli, comes soon after the Gate.

Mishra’s shop lies further ahead like a Marwari garage sale.

The havelis are falling…

Navigation assistance – a helpful local lad gives directions

The ‘Mandawa Manoeuvre’: The trick, I learnt, was to create an impression of veering away. This they achieved by sticking to a straight path at high speeds which, along the narrow lane, made them appear to be hurtling towards me. I would swerve and jounce over ragged shoulders while they scurried past nary a wheel off the edge. It was difficult to subdue the initial disbelief that borders on the belligerent. But once I accomplished that I set about tutoring myself on this crafty art. Now we both approached each other unwavering, swerving at the last instant. What fun. 

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on Indiblogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can  apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today. 

The playlist has become stale and, face it, you can only for so long pretend to be asleep to avoid those ‘thoda adjust karo’ requests. Presenting the ultimate listicle – not those fab five sled dog manoeuvres you ought to master when in Alaska or the six super ‘go anywhere’ unguents you can whip up at home. But an everyday, everyone listicle – to tide over an otherwise lugubrious Metro ride.

1. When the stuffy guy sitting next to you puts his arms around your seat beam at him like you’d be happy to entrust your whole life to him. If he still doesn’t move it tell him you’d be happy to spend your life with him.

2. SMS ‘This shameless bugger is watching every word I am typing’ and check the guy next to you for signs of incredulity, at least embarrassment. If it is missing, then SMS, well, whatever you have to.

3. Smack your lips at teen lovers using every braking as an opportunity to neck, seemingly inadvertently. After all being old doesn’t mean you have to be left out of all the fun.

4. Dart glances between the standing aunty and the sitting guy – any guy – like it’s a reserved seat. Make her glare at as many guys as you can till she latches on to the game and starts giving you the daggers.

5. Shake your head solemnly at the schoolboy wolfing down his lunch – on his way back home. He is not looking at you so shake your index finger at him like you gonna tell. Keep at it till he disembarks and cocks a snook at you from the platform. Learn how smart kids are these days –the hard way.

6. Offer your lap when someone asks you to ‘thoda adjust karo’ and spend the rest of the journey basking in the most spiteful glowering to ever come your way.

7. When the ‘lavaris vastu’ announcement comes on the PA shrink away from the bag on the floor which you know fully well belongs to the guy sitting next to you. See if you can make a face too like Jim Carrey.

8. Find the prettiest girl in the train and try to remember which of your exes looked like her. Find your life brightening up when you realise nobody did.

9. Sing along to the song blaring out of the ear phone of the person sitting/standing next to you. Keep at it till he turns it off or jumps in front of an oncoming train.

10. If you are still reading this, devise ways to jump yourself in front of an oncoming train.

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on Indiblogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

Nothing stood between the resolute central Indian sun and the grey-brown tarmac that shimmered in all directions. Heat rose in waves in front of my eyes and made mirages in the distance. The whole area, the entire town, was empty. I had driven half a day in the choking heat to be here where the only thing moving was a lone sadhu. Despite the whole wide area that looked like a scaled down Rann of Kutch around me, he chose to stand right in my path. He stood still for a long moment, head tilted slightly upward as if harkening to a higher call. Then he launched abruptly into a bout of upper body exercises. I sat in the car and watched. Surely I could have just turned around and headed back but what about all his efforts?

Shoulder now supple he walked towards me with a peppy gait that masked his advanced years.

“Girodhpuri is closed,” he informed me something I knew already. The security staff of Jaitkhamb, the main attraction, had quit which forced the management to shut it since two days.

No pilgrims, no business, no shops.

“But I can show you where the guru meditated when he attained enlightenment,” he continued. “It’s just a couple of kilometres from here.”

He got in the car, a wiry man with the sturdy deportment of a yakker or maybe all that exercise in the midday sun. My eyes nearly popped out when he buckled up without being asked to – I have to scare, plead, threaten and finally resort to emotional blackmail to make my dad wear it.

“You never know,” he said. You never know.

He also took me to a pond where the guru washed his feet before he began his public life and a rock with his feet imprint. He introduced me to the basic tenets of a sect where everyone was equal, where alcohol, meat and tobacco were anathema. As dusk fell he invited me into the hut of a goatherd where I was treated to tea and steaming toothsome samosas.

On the face of it the sadhu was a chatty navigator, an emphatic educator, a philosopher and a raucous friend. In every sense an unforgettable fantastico. Then on slightly profound level he gave me, as Proust would say, new eyes.

The joy within

A wandering minstrel I met on the suburbs of Gwalior sang for me the most soul-stirring rendition of a Kabir Das dohe and in return wouldn’t accept my offer of money or a ride but some fruits for lunch. Once I lost my way outside a wildlife sanctuary and a random cabbie drew out detailed directions and he kept calling me till I reached my destination. I could go on… on about what inventor adventurer Robert Fulton Jr. calls in his epic ‘One Man Caravan’, ‘the inspiring factor in travel, the welcoming hand of the interested stranger.’ Then the joys of the open road are not limited to what is out there, there are quite a few to be lapped up behind the wheel as well.

As the engine purrs alive, fingers clutching the steering, the bulbous knob of the gear obeisant in our palm, we know that liberation is coming. Slowly we ease the handbrake, nudge the accelerator and are on our way. To that other place where we are happier. Whether it is your own anonymity or the goodness of the people, here we are not judged. Nobody tells us what to do nor is anything held against us. Disappearing in the rear view mirror are not just the things we are done with but those we want to leave behind. The hauteur and the pettifogger falls by the roadside, painful memories fade. The social detritus of the many facades we are forced to wear, of the many roles we are forced to play, fly out of the window. Behind the wheel we hide no more, we have nothing more to hide. Play some music, any music. Exhilaration. Your heart is pounding but strangely you have never felt more at peace. With yourself and the rest of the world. Behind the wheel it is easier to forgive. Yourself and anyone else. And whatever you need to forget will soon be forgotten – you are on the open road and the joys are many.

We have only recently woken up to this ‘relief in change’ and we are embracing it with a zest like nowhere else. Before the 90s long drives and getting away from it all were mostly for the millionaire or the misanthrope. There was only so much the Maruti 800 could take and only so much we could take in the Ambassador. Since its operationalisation in 1995, the National Highways Authority of India has developed over 90,000 kilometres of makhan-like roads across the country. The automobile market also opened up and now we are unstoppable. Fuel prices may cause us to skid now and then but we cruise on unwavering, more determined than one on the wallaby. And in a land of astounding geographical diversity, jaw-dropping landscape and awe-inspiring peoples, the joys know no bounds.

This post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on Indiblogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today. 

Many Bangaloreans I know hold vicious views on immigration. Some get vitriolic even when pointed out that they themselves were once émigré. They loathe anyone else coming to their ‘garden city’ to set up home or on the wallaby. Now if they are serious about dissuading others from roosting on perches by their precious fringes they should stop making buildings to accommodate the newcomer, right? But they do this not. Instead they are making buildings in very large numbers – in designs that scale new epitomes in ugliness that has become the hallmark of cities running out of space – like the world is running out of mortar. Or maybe some sort of construction moratorium is on the way. Hell, yeah.

Riding into town on board an air conditioned airport run Vajra bus from the Kempegowda airport surrounded by some very nice Kannadigas I was serenaded for most of the 40 km by rock faces vertically spliced baring a ghoulish white heart in the not-too-distant horizon. The tarns looked as forlorn as recently orphaned children. A heartrending sight. I am sure not very long ago they were mountains proper with whatever little topsoil and grass and little green shrubs. How I wished every guy who looks at a hill and goes ‘hmm there is the cement for a few more Grand Imperial Squares’ would get decapitated by a rock hurled his way from the first deep burrow dynamite. I wouldn’t mind becoming a believer if I were assured of this wish.

Sure enough there are the ‘beautiful forevers’ too trying to cover the knoll carving and grab your gaze with cricketers and movie stars or just good looking folks plugging finished properties or raw materials for the booming industry. All of them sell the good life – golf courses and great views, jogging tracks and fully equipped gymnasiums. Not that I have that kind of money but I guess I’d be better disposed towards considering purchase if I were also assured of uninterrupted water supply in my kitchen and bath and not just in an ‘Olympic size’ swimming pool. One promised over a hundred acres of lush green all around. The catch here is that it is lush and green now; tomorrow it could be another story. Not just saying; it has happened to me.

Serious traffic jams begin once you are 10 km from the city heart of Bangalore (officially changed to ‘Bengaluru’ – consequence of some of the on-going exercises in piffling nationalism). But the bus is a great way to watch people and see their city. At a junction I stared at a pretty transvestite who was begging without much success. Her resilient efforts at coaxing and cajoling motorists to part with money were ignored. She sashayed around motorcycles and other vehicles clapping her hands with the grace of a mujra performer. Our eyes met and she blew me a kiss. Made my day. Actually I blushed.

Despite the traffic on the road I was impressed to see that large tracts of land by the side was fast-disappearing woodland, overseen literally by the Bangalore Development Authority office on the other side of the road. Makes you wonder the kind of people who make it to city planner posts: obviously they do not possess the minimum ploy on display in the tribal hinterlands of Chhattisgarh where forests are encroached from the inside. What you see from the roads are still thick clusters of sal and bija trees but a few metres into them you espy hamlets with wood fire and barking dogs. Or maybe the urban planners live in aesthetic comas: I really would like to meet and greet the person who gave the go ahead to the cup-caked monstrosity that lies adjacent to the Chinnaswamy stadium. A King Kong baby crèche.

If the term ‘smart city’ didn’t originate in Bangalore it is still most apt for the city. Everybody was attached to their mobile devices like natural appendages: if it wasn’t glued to their ears already they drew it out faster than Django could a gun. People around me on the bus, drivers in cars outside, the traffic cop keeping a vigilant eye on the signal from the kerb, the dreadlocked bunter licking sambar off her fingers by the sidewalk canteen, the portly man crossing the road oblivious to cars missing him by a whisker. Everybody talked into their mobile phones and nobody honked. Road rage so endemic of the north was yet to reach the south. ‘Love is in the air’ read an ad for a cabriolet. There was a lot more than love – heat and dust too, with more on the way. A report in The Hindu early February this year reported temperatures three degrees above normal for this time of the year. Attributed to ‘deforestation substituted by building construction.’

The famous Lalbagh Garden was sunny as Sinai. Somebody told me there were trees a little way inside. There are also lots of important plants identified by their scientific names, I was told. How can anyone call a place a garden when there are vast open areas with the sun beating down in all its fury? Beats me. ‘Lal’ means red and ‘bagh’ is garden. Cue. There were some canoodling couples for whom I said a silent prayer that they may not come in the crosshairs of the moral police Bangalore is notorious for. For that matter even that of Asaram Bapu – if they were just funning around with no intent on getting hitched.

A red-eyed maniac was the driver of the auto rickshaw I hired from Ranga Shankara to Singasandra. He told me I’d have to pay Rs 50 over and above the metre as he’d have to come back without fare. As always I accepted this request readily but I never pay a paisa more. If they had any problem, I would tell them at drop off, I would be happy to accompany them to the nearest PCR van. Usually they mutter at me to fuck off and do it themselves too. The last time I saw such expert manoeuvres where lives were saved by an inch here or a centimetre there was in Octopussy. Vijay Amritraj went on to Hollywood greatness.

But since I didn’t believe this one would go that far I did what I could – paid him the fifty rupees extra.

Guaranteeing jobs and unclogging canals

The people of Kizhakkambalam in the eastern suburbs of Kochi are affable and detailed when it comes to giving directions – just like everybody else in Kerala. Sometimes the details are too minute and many that they dissolve into the viridian surrounds right after the next turn. But ask them the way to garment manufacturers Kitex located in the village and the typical cordiality takes on a new dimension – their face lights up exuberant and the direction-giving veers towards genial small talk. By the time you are back on the road you would have had a compendious but interesting introduction to Twenty20, the company’s charitable arm, some of its life-giving and life-altering activities, its much-talked and written about weekday market. And if the MD is in town.

The MD, Sabu Jacob, is in town, I have an appointment. He is late for our meeting by half an hour. When he finally turns up – his Mercedes S class flanked by two Scorpios of security detail – he is appropriately apologetic. Since Twenty20 contested – and won – the local panchayat polls his morning home durbars have grown longer.

“Then not everyone comes with a complaint or a need but many come just to see me and tell me that they pray for me and my family,” he beams.

Sabu says he needs everyone’s prayer. In fact at every Twenty20 meeting he exhorts the crowd – ‘never less than 5,000-strong’ – to pray that the gods be kind to his dreams for Kizhakkambalam.

“After all there is only so much money can accomplish.”

Twenty20 procures from local farmers

I am in Kizhakkambalam for a film on Twenty20 and the recce has been more than enlightening – it was eye-opening. What you see of Kerala first from the plane are swaying palm fronds seguing into banana plantations and into lush green fields as you coast closer to the ground. The Periyar River heaves content through all these like a blue-green serpent lethargic after a hearty meal. Years ago the river used to be dotted by boats – ferries and fishermen. Today bridges fasten its banks and fishing has lost lucre. The view, from the air especially, is still splendid – what tourists and gods are privy to. So yes, ‘god’s own country’ passes muster from up there. But down here, beneath the coconut groves and rubber trees, by the backwater banks and along the fecund and forsaken paddy fields is another story – lost in ‘most literate state,’ ‘state with the highest physical quality of life,’ and other socio-economic plaudits.

The high physical quality of life – 14 per cent of the population today are above 60 years of age which is slated to become 30 by 2030 – comes with a flipside – the rising number in elderly suicides. In 2013 itself 1700 senior Keralites decided to end their lives due to poverty and abandonment by children. Despite being among the wealthiest states in the country around 14 per cent of girls were married off before the legal age of 18 according to a survey by the National Council for Applied Economic Research in 2012. Crime rates have shot up probably an inevitable outcome of rising immigration from other states as well as unemployment levels. Rape cases are going north as are sexual crimes against children; 70 per cent are incestuous in nature leaving the law in a bind – the warrant in which case is served to the father usually the perpetrator.

Aquaculture is a thrust area

Sure enough Kerala boasts some of the best health and education indicators among all the states of the country and its low poverty rates have made it a favourite with economists like Amartya Sen. Even though communist governments have ruled the state for most part of its post-Independence years – which has been attributed as the main reason behind the achievements in education, health and other life quality indicators – inclusive growth has taken a beating in the past few decades. Though officially only 7 per cent live below poverty line (according to Tendulkar Committee methods), district-wise disparities are jaw-dropping: poverty in the northern district of Wayanad stands at 30 per cent.

Even within well-developed districts it is not unusual to see whole villages gasping for survival. Kizhakkambalam, the lush green fringe of Ernakulam (or ‘Kochi’) the commercial capital of Kerala, is one such. Passing by it is yet another of Kerala’s quiet little leafy sideshows with sparkling brooks, rubber and coconut plantations, unending paddy tracts and humble libraries with the name of the MLA who used his MLA fund to set it up emblazoned in shiny, bold letters. But beneath the verdant veneer a revolution is underway; the friendly folks of Kizhakkambalam gave a thumping victory to Twenty20 when the charity wing contested the recent panchayat elections as an alternative to poll regulars Congress and the LDF. It made a chuffing debut winning 17 of the 19 wards.

“We had no potable water for over a decade,” says a resident of Thamarathaal Harijan Colony. “The political parties holding the panchayat just dug wells and inaugurated them with a lot of hoo-ha and went away. The water was not usable. Twenty20 cleaned up these wells, built water tanks and laid pipes to every house in the colony.”

Electrification of harijan colonies

Twenty20 has funded over 2000 surgeries for the poor of Kizhakkambalam so far. While most of these surgeries are one-time and life-changing like the ear operation of Mohammed Ramzan who couldn’t speak because of congenital deafness, for others like Gopalakrishnan, a toddy tapper, it is on-going and life-sustaining – Twenty20 has so far spent Rs 12 lakh for different surgeries since his fall from a palm tree. Surendran, who used to work as a labourer, cannot move about much since his second cardiac arrest some years ago; Twenty20 officials bring to his house his weekly supply of grocery and monthly medication – at no cost.

As the village sweltered under a thick midday sun a group of women were taking a break from cleaning a clogged canal. The mate, as the leader of the gang employed under the central government NREGA scheme is called, Sheeja, told me that ever since Twenty20 came to power in the panchayat they have been getting more work.

“The NREGA scheme itself was revived in the village after the election.”

Awed by the green and the rest of it

Besides cleaning up canals and politics, Twenty20 has also constructed around 500 houses, toilets and water tanks, electrified harijan colonies and has been providing nutritious diet for the poor coming to the primary healthcare centres. The anganwadis or play schools have increased attendance as they are supplied with milk and eggs by Twenty20.

Long before Prime Minister Modi made his clarion call to corporates to adopt villages Twenty20 has been at work.

“My father used to tell me,” Sabu says, “that the growth of the company should reflect in the development of the village.”

His dream is to make Kizhakkambalam the best village in the country by 2020. The race has begun and to win it there are several worthies Kizhakkambalam has to, if not beat, at least equal in different parameters. Some of the much-touted ones are: Punsari, Gujarat for village-wide Wi-Fi connection; Hiware Bazar, Maharashtra for the thrust on rainwater harvesting and the eventual bloom in villager fortunes; Dharnai, Bihar for being the first fully solar powered village in the country. And these are just a few. The challenge for Twenty20 is to make Kizhakkambalam each of these and all of these.

Prayers, like Sabu believes, could be handy.

Small fry, big fry

Say ‘channel’ and they look for the OB van; ‘film’ they scan for recognisable faces. ‘Documentary’ and they ask you the subject. They will then go on to tell you what to shoot. How to, even. Reply with the historically unpalatable ‘corporate film’ which I make there is still advice flowing in. For free.

“You can show us all sitting together, reading newspapers,” said an auto rickshaw driver. “A bus comes, we all look up and you can begin the interview.” And this was only the friend of the guy whom we were here to speak to. The subject himself enriched us with lots more possibilities.

“Before we draw up the net let’s empty out one box of fishes into it,” said a shirtless guy manning a Chinese net in Fort Kochi. “But you will have to buy all of it first.” Maybe – just maybe – a nice try. Limited budgets can be great safety nets that way.

Narikuravar Kannan

It is not always how-to but there is an occasional what-to as well. One chap who sang a ditty from his own collection of peppy, modern poetry on camera wanted the shot to end with his narrative of how desperately he wanted to get into popular cinema. I assured him it was what most of us wanted but rarely that easy.

“End the film with me getting into the van and driving away towards the sunset,” said the guy who had been taking us around for the schedule. It didn’t really matter the film was about the need to develop a backward region.

From experience the crew does not encourage interaction with bystanders. Reciprocity of any kind including eye contact breeds lingering and invites unwanted attention. This habit of sending everyone around to Coventry by the filming crew is invariably interpreted as arrogant and callous. But sometimes this is unavoidable to get things wrapped up on time.

I have over the years developed my own curt and comical ways of turning down unsolicited advice. My long term associates tell me they are pathetically humourless. Whatever, it works. But Rajesh Kannan put me in a bind – his demands were genuine and rending. I didn’t have the heart to turn down this one. But there was little point indulging him either – he wanted to alter tourist mindsets.

No eye contact: Sudheer, Robin, Ajith, Jinu – my crew

Kannan hailed from Trichy and was a Narikuravar. This tribe of Tamil gypsies originally lived in the forests and were hunters till they were driven out in the name of conservation. Today they earn their living by making and selling beaded ornaments. Kannan walked around Fort Kochi weighed down by layers of malas made from various woods and beads, stone and seeds around his neck and arms. A shopping paradise for the anchoret. He has been coming to Kerala for the tourist season for over a decade now with other Narikuravar men. They sold necklaces over three or four months while their wives and children remained home making more for the next season.

“Sir, most tourists think we filch and fleece,” he said. “They have no idea of the kind of trouble we with our women go through to procure the raw materials and the labour that goes into making these.” Most of the Narikuravar kids do not go to school, they are forced to stay at home and help their folks – the only way to ensure a meal or two a day.

“Every tourist bargains relentlessly and brings down the price to what barely covers our cost of producing these.”

Cooling off

As the final month of the ‘Visit Kerala Year’ launched in April last year petered out only a handful of tourists could be spotted around. A little earlier I had watched one walking away shaking her head while Kannan pursued her for some distance before giving up.

“If I tell our troubles on camera will you show it on national television?” He asked. “That way at least the tourists will understand.” I told him only good-looking people could work for television.

The hard yackers at the Chinese nets slowly returned to the shade of their tarpaulin-covered lean-tos as the sun rose higher. The pungi seller bought an ice cream and settled down by a stage where a band mela contest was held recently. Weary eyes followed visitors. There were some feeble, nacreous exhortations to inspect the Chinese nets from close quarters.

We announced pack up and milled around a tender coconut stall.

“What are you shooting?” The stall owner asked.

“Oh it’s only a corporate film.”

“What is a corporate film?”

“It’s a very boring kind of film.”

“No songs and dance?”

“No, nothing.”

The silence was pregnant as he cut open the first coconut. With the second, it was about to burst. All of us saw it coming.

“I will tell you of a way to make it interesting.”

***

Taking it out

“Sir, since we are identifying the person as a doctor, the coat and all will be a cliché,” I said making no effort to hide my exasperation. I was talking to a big guy from the client side.

“Make sure you show him with the stethoscope then.” 

“I will do that, sir.” 

There is a saying in Kerala which goes ‘the jasmine in one’s own backyard lacks fragrance.’ A Keralan for forty years, I laid my eyes on it for the first time last week – that too from an open balcony, unable to stretch anything more than my line of vision. I just had the heartiest lunch at my sister’s new home a few kilometres away from it. While I have listened with rapture to narratives of the Sacre-Coeur, still remember looking up appalled at the gargantuan ‘Creation’ fresco on the Sistine Chapel ceiling decades ago, read about the expansive grandeur and tucked away splendour of East European churches, this one right next door I had barely heard of.

The St Joseph’s Chapel in Aluva, more popular as Mangalappuzha Seminary is nearly seven decades old. Its classic Gothic architecture, delicate towers, lofty arches, intricately detailed life-size statues in marble, baroque angels, oversized artistic windows, stained glass works imported from London – none of these I think have been adequately featured in popular writing, even splayed across tourism brochures. Most eulogies you’d find on the Web are literal praises sung by nostalgic alma mater. The crenelated silhouette in an afternoon sun is a bonus.

Muslim housewives in burqas and sneakers were doing brisk rounds of the shady avenue that led to the Seminary; probably shoring up on energy reserves before office and schools got over. The path led to an ancient building with a small veranda flanked by short red balustrades and curlicue, pewtery pillars. Though the main door was shut there were tailors inside busily churning out new cassocks for the Easter Mass. The St Joseph’s Seminary is a major training centre for those in the liturgical call. A banner next to it announced a stay-in ‘Laymen’s Spiritual Retreat’ to culminate with the Resurrection. Swanky cars were parked in the chapel compound and ‘achayans’ milled around probably mulling escape plans if the going got too austere. Those who mustered enough courage to register were rewarded with pillows.

A tessellated pavement circumvented a small garden with a fountain and an angel – bland compared to the ornate finery in the backdrop. After a short flight of steps is the chapel – searing skyward in finely cut granite. The chapel website says that while the architects wanted to retain the vaulted ceilings innate to Gothic style, they wanted to dispense with the solid walls which left little space for windows and the interiors dark. The Seminarians in particular and believers generally, it is understood, preferred their places of worship well-lit. The white marble of the sanctum sanctorum further brightens up the interiors – a masterwork in 24 tons of Italian Carrara marble featuring florid carvings and rococo floorings by craftsmen brought in from Rome. Large windows also mean airy – handy during the blistering Kerala summer.

The stained glass windows are among the finest anywhere – a kaleidoscopic representation of saints chosen for their appropriateness in the training for priesthood. These were made by the UK firm Goddard & Gibbs who are also behind the stained windows adorning institutions like the English Parliament and the Canterbury Cathedral. Unlike most chapels there are not many paintings inside the St Joseph’s except for one in the sanctum. This also helps not to take away the worthy attention from the stained glass windows. Another noteworthy exception which won my heart was the missing alms boxes labelled with sundry reasons and recipients.

Our band strikes midnight tunes with extraordinary neatness and ability. The Infant Babe smiles at us while He is carried in procession to the chapel amidst the ‘Adeste Fideles’ with lighted candles all over the wayside. (‘Caritas,’ St Joseph Apostolic Seminary magazine, Aluva, 1938)

Somnolent hymns hung in the air that sultry afternoon. The famed church choir was practicing for the Big Sunday. I was tempted to snooze a bit like some elderly regulars smattered around. But the magnificence – and its sublime rendition – was too overwhelming.

“There is a temple in the centre, around it is a mosque,” said Chotu (‘helper’) pointing through the spiny shrubs that separated the palisaded ASI monument and the reclaimed bog where the workshop stood. Once he was sure he had my undivided attention he went on to assure me that there was ‘firing and killing and burning’ between Hindus and Muslims. But that was way before he came from Bihar, eight years ago, as a 10-year-old on the wallaby track. “Since then they have kept it under lock and key to avoid any further trouble.” Under lock and key it was, I found out later. But not for the frenzied reasons cited.

“I need some water,” I told Chotu. My Bullet clutch had burnt in the intense traffic and heat along the bridge connecting East and North Delhi and new ones had to be brought from Karol Bagh. The Ustad (‘chief’) had gone to get them personally leaving unequivocal instructions that the Saab (‘boss’ in this case, me) was to be looked after ‘like a VIP.’ The wait was going to be long. A charpoy was laid out and dusted with a black, oil-dried scrap. I was told to lie down and relax; it didn’t matter that the cantankerous, cacophonous traffic that fried my plates was within expectorate distance.

Chotu brought me shikanji, the Indian summer favourite, from the freshly prepared lot of ‘Modinagar Ki Mashoor, 36 masala-wali’ pushcart, painted in bright red and yellow. The mechanic and the shikanji kitchen shared backend space with that of a cushion and pillow shop. The shikanji guy peered at me for feedback – he was about to wheel out his wares for that afternoon. There was no way I could find where the water came from. But the crushed ice and the pungent salts were an instant thirst quencher, I nodded my approval.

People began to arrive in groups of twos and threes with vessels containing coloured rice and stews. They sat around and ate, smoked beedis and left. Another group took turns gulping down what looked like consommé from a grubby pot. A newly arrived hobo and his woman sat on their haunches with their meagre possessions strewn around. Whatever could be spared was shared. In return the woman washed the dishes. Nothing was required or said. They left after some, unnoticed, just the way they came. Most who sat down for lunch invited me to join in; I took a roti and dipped into watery dal curries or picked on sautéed bhindi. The Ustad was known for his bike-mending skills all over the ilaka, locality, everyone informed me by way of pleasantry.

An orange-bearded guy took out a piece of sponge from his pink kaftan and placed it under his head before lying down for a post prandial snooze. He was soon joined by a little boy who wound his spindly legs around the man’s waist. Both were slumbering soon.

Chotu attended to customers in the Ustad’s absence including a young girl who stormed in and blustered out her Scooty had ‘stopped working.’ Experienced mechanics usually know from the tone of whine the nature of the complaint. “During summer it is usually problems associated with overheating,” Chotu said. They tinker for a bit allowing the engine to cool off and the bike is good to go. Chotu charged fifty rupees from the girl who told him it was her lunch money; he settled for twenty.

By late afternoon Ustad still hadn’t turned up and I was joined by a real estate agent from the neighbourhood. We discussed the new generation and procreation over beedis.

“Is everything alright with you?” He asked me when I informed him I was childless. “Have you seen a doctor?”

I gave him my usual spiel on the world we leave behind, rising crime, climate change and the capital region running out of water in the next decade. He thought for a long minute and asked:

“Are you gay?”

Satan at bay

The tomb of Shah Alam or ‘Wazirabad tomb’ shone like a bone under the boiling sun. Piqued equally by the dramatic narrative of Chotu earlier that day I walked to the gates that opened to the site lawn, clasped together by a chain. What he pointed out as a temple did not look like one from the distance. But there had to be some reason behind such a vehement tale of religious fervour and ferocity. The tomb complex was bolted.

“Why is the site locked?” I asked the mali, gardener, appointed by the ASI, who was in no mood to budge from the cool shade where he sat.

“Sir, with so many colleges around kids come here and do all sorts of shaitani,” he replied leaning back to take me in better.

“Sir, as you can see I am alone and thus cannot be up to any shaitani,” I pointed out.

He still refused to move – probably it was onanism he was up against. I had to remind him none too gently that whatever the reason he had no right to arbitrarily declare the monument out of bounds to anybody. Prodded by the wiser suffragan-gardener he reluctantly parted with the Key to Erebor and I found myself surrounded by splendour from seven centuries ago.

The main structure of the Shah Alam Tomb is a three-domed mosque with five arches and two main prayer chambers. Alongside the main prayer chamber there is a smaller area raised on pillars and covered with stone jaali, latticework screen. This was for women worshippers. The mausoleum itself, built by Feroz Shah Tughlaq for Saint Shah Alam in the 14^th century, is in the centre of the courtyard and faces the mosque. It is placed on a raised square platform surrounded by a dozen stout stone pillars supporting a multi-tiered dome. A stencil-perfect ornate floral design, dyes still intact, is engraved on to the convexity at the top. A smaller, single-domed structure is across the tomb with cooler, darker interiors; I could feel the mali’s eyes on me when I entered this space. A flight of steep stone stairs led up the main mosque from where you could see the still-in-use Wazirabad Bridge of the same age.

Ustad called. He was back from Karol Bagh. My bike was almost ready. I sprang down the steps, told the mali that I’d be back to check whether he still locked up the site.

“But sir…shaitani…”

I bounded into the workshop next door. An auburn haired, buxom woman draped in gilt-edged dupatta and nylon churidhar was leaning over the burial mounds of pirs scattered around. A photographer with a telephoto lens was shouting instructions from atop a house next to it barely larger than a larder. She was soon joined by a well-muscled male who slipped a casual arm around her ample waist and together they began pouting for the camera.

Dusk-born phantasms, perhaps. It was time to go.

Moored for the night

Must have been the tempestuous night I started in the morning to a gentle wake. It took a while to collect my bearings: the thatched roof tapered towards the top, quartered window frames girded by coir, bamboo-matted partitions, wood slab flooring. An air conditioner thrummed somewhere. Unfamiliar contours. A throbbing head. The bed swayed. A glass bottle rolled across the floor making a muted Bonsho sound; its vivid label on the front alternating with its blank bone-white behind. Rustle. There is a blanket but it is not covering me. I try to pull it but it is snuck somewhere. Else. Attire and footwear are everywhere. Strewn. I am cold. I remember asking for a blanket on unsteady feet while marsh toads croaked all around me. A portly man offered me the one wrapped around him; his lungi lay around his feet. I hesitated.

“Take it,” he assured me. “I have another.”

The bed swayed again like it did through the night. The contours shifted.

Good morning, Vembanad

“Ask for tea,” a muffled voice rose from the contours. I opened the slightly ajar door featuring more coir in latticework. The moist laden breeze had a shriving effect on a leaden head.

“Good morning.” It was the portly man from the night. The lungi had wound its way up; he wielded a besom with gusto.

“Time for tea?” he asked motioning the handle towards his mouth.

“Yes please,” I replied, a tad rattled.

“Where are we?” I asked as he turned and walked toward the stern where the kitchen was. It was a boat, a houseboat I was on.

“We will leave after breakfast,” he said turning around, both hands tightly wound around the knob, eyes shining. “We are still on the Vembanad only.”

Charging ports

We weighed anchor around noon the previous day. The pier was a draining walk from the pay and park under the hot, humid sun – my goose-stepping enthusiasm was soon diminished to a slouching saunter. I sat on the deck beneath a tethered turning fan straining at the shackles with a rending tick-tick.

Join the gang

“We will head to Cherukayal where we will stop for lunch,” my skipper charted the route map as he expertly backed and wove his way out from the interstices between other parked boats. He continued: “After lunch we will head to Marthanda and from there to Meenappally Kayal where we halt for the night.” His rictus permitted him to go no further; being the server on board he had other things too on his mind. Like some extra dosh.

“You want local toddy? We buy best local toddy.”

Sure, we could.

“You want pomfret? We buy best pomfret.”

Okay, wait. But aren’t you serving us food on board?

“Oh yes we give food. Our cook, best cook.”

Serene stretches, some

The backwaters are basically canals that run parallel to the Arabian Sea coast and winds inland from the coast between Kochi and Kollam. Route options are plenty – for every budget and time constraints. However the most popular ones remain those between Alappuzha and Kumarakom. We were on a day-night trip from Alappuzha which took you around the Kuttanad region, a major rice-growing part of Kerala. The canals are mostly flanked by paddy fields 3 to 10 feet below sea level; the houseboats itself were once barges used to transport rice and other agrarian produce. The water bodies are fringed by coconut and palm trees – where the ‘best toddy’ comes from.

We moored at Cherukayal alongside another boat; not a houseboat but an ugly looking multi-tiered soap dish, the kind of vessel used by human traffickers to smuggle Syrians into Italy, the kind even if impounded or sunk doesn’t dent the trafficker’s bottomlines. They looked probably the longest out at sea after Noah: underwear and blouses, saris and bras laced the railing from bow to stern and back.

“Once summer sets in people from other states hire boats for months and travel around with their extended families,” explained the skipper noticing the shonky looks exchanged. “Because if they stay in their own land they’d be fried.”

I wanted to ask how different was it in Kerala. It would be probably a notch better. Just.

Charging ports

Travel and tourism sites sell backwater cruises as a year-round activity. But the trip I took in March – officially before summer – sambar-ed me on board. April and May? I would be fried pappadom, good to be served with the lunch we were having now. The best time from my experience would be when monsoon peaks – June, July and part of August – when you can watch the downpour from the deck. A massage when it is coming down is more than divine – it is recommended by Ayurvedic traditions too. The cool, moist and dust-free atmosphere apparently opens up skin pores which make the body most receptive to medicinal oils and therapy. And a massage aboard a houseboat? The next best thing is sex.

As dusk fell we approached a narrow strip of elevated bank with the famed paddy fields of Kuttanad region four feet below the water level on the other side. Clutches of banana trees stood like tremulous quiffs in the wind. The whole pier was a parking lot to where houseboats were either already moored or were tottering toward like a gourmand after a feast. We docked next to what looked like a Chinese peasant robot – a short box with a tilted tin top over it. Wires went in and out of it from a crude electric post nearby. These supplied electricity to the houseboats; bedroom air conditioners would be whirring alive soon.

“Most boat owners own the strip of land next to where they drop anchor,” the skipper explained. “This land belongs to our boss who paid lakhs of rupees many years ago.” A new houseboat owner is left with no option but to take on lease these charging ports for big money. I didn’t even want to imagine what those new guys charged their customers.

Coming soon: traffic lights?

Honk…honk

At almost 97 km, the Vembanad is the longest lake in India. With 10 rivers feeding it, it is the largest in Kerala with three districts – Alappuzha, Kottayam and Kochi – bordering it. A narrow skerrick of an island separates it from the Arabian Sea. The canals, the backwaters, like the one were on now, linked it to the other lakes along the coast. Just like the intricate system of village roads leading to state highways which go on to join national highways.

Tea in hand I sat on the deck and espied the Vembanad not very far away. A hazy mist blanketed the backwater and the Vembanad looked like the Flying Dutchman would spring out of it any moment. Darters skipped across the surface for a bit before toppling into the water spotting prey. Vying for their prize was lone fisherman in his canoe with his ottal, the traditional cane basket, and fishing net. While the show-off darter created quite a stir the fisherman sat with nary a ripple.

Lead head

On our way back – which lasted barely an hour – we passed by grocery shops on boats. Fathers took their children to school on boats. Farmers reported for work in the fields by boat. These little caiques usually stuck close to the banks and gave the bulk of way to the houseboats. The houseboats were all in a hurry to get back to wherever they started from. There was incessant honking going on at intersections between houseboats; my captain even gestured censure at another for not going fast enough at a T junction which forced us to slow down.

“We have orders to reach back by 9 AM; then we clean up, buy grocery and tank up for the next trip.” There are customers who arrive without booking and insist on seeing the boat before hiring. “They are the finicky ones and it is easy to lose business here.”

I looked around my room and understood why my skipper was flooring it.