Talacauvery, Stairway to the Heavens

No one told me there was a stairway in the Brahmagiri hills that led up to the heavens, to the gods, well almost.

The most I had imagined of Talacauvery when we left Bhagamandala for the hills was a pilgrim centre not very different from the many dotting the countryside, drawing urgent pilgrim feet into traveling long distances to pay obeisance as much to the deity as to the faith of their forefathers. At Talacauvery the river Cauvery emerges as a perennial spring before strengthening into one of India’s mightiest rivers revered as one of the Sapta Sindhu or seven holy rivers and is considered to be the Ganges of the South.

In the time it took the bus to inch up the winding road in the hills to the birthplace of the Cauvery eight kilometers away, alternating between blind turns cut in the side of the hill and steep drops that descended rapidly to the plains below, my picture of Talacauvery was complete. I had imagined it. Now I only had to retrace my memory map once we arrived at Talacauvery to recognize the familiar contours I had never once seen before except in the urgency of my anticipation of the sojourn in the hills.

The Talacauvery I had imagined while I sat alongside the driver in his cabin, looking out the windshield at the narrow ribbon of a road stretching ahead, lay hidden from easy view in the forests of the Brahmagiri hills. The steep climb up the hill would have ensured not merely her sanctity but the integrity of her surroundings as well, beyond the easy reach of anyone but the most faithful of her devotees, certainly spared of those stopping by to dip their feet in the sacred water while on their way elsewhere. The elsewhere at Talacauvery ended in a steep drop of several hundred metres.


After all the Cauvery had chosen to break surface in the heart of the Western Ghats mountain ranges and it was only fitting that she surfaced to the silence of the jungle, punctuated by calls of birds flitting from branch to branch in the shade of trees where time moves to the whims of the divine and to the necessity of nothing.

However the reality as I was to soon find out on reaching Talacauvery was very different from what I had imagined. Shorn of any green cover we came up against an ostentatious looking arch under construction, presumably a praveshdwar (gateway) the kind I would imagine gracing erstwhile kingdoms with the architecture to carry it off, not the source of a river.


A viewing platform built on the edge of the hill swept over tiled homes below. A road passed houses as it wound its way through the trees. There was no one on the road. In the distance folds upon folds of mountains receded, nudged back by a fair way until the farthest mountains became faint outlines of blue, merging with the sky. Physical perspectives merge into one in the distance, the same cannot be said for those of the mind. I let the nip in the breeze pull my imagination free and sweep it away, toward the mountains.

Joy’s call cut my flight of thoughts short. It was time to pull away from the panorama and turn to the gateway and beyond. Matters of religion and faith beckoned and there was little time to spare.


Beyond the gateway a large open platform stretched all the way to the tank where the Cauvery emerges as a spring. There was little or no shade along the way. Buses ferrying pilgrims were parked at the entrance from where they walked barefoot over the tiled platform warmed by the noon Sun, hardly the bare earth and dense canopies I had imagined. And there were pilgrims everywhere, substituting the birdlife of my imagination. I might as well have stepped into an urban temple let alone one in the hills home to one of India’s major rivers.


A black cow regarded a small coffee shop, completing the picture. Few Indian temples can afford to have cows indifferent to pilgrims and wayside shops serving them. There was much awaiting us.

I looked at my watch. It was past noon as the Sun beat down on us.

“How much longer?” I asked the driver.

“We should be in Talacauvery in fifteen minutes,” he replied without taking his eyes off the road.

I swayed as the driver leaned on the steering, throwing his body behind the wheel as the bus rounded yet another sharp turn up the hill. To my left the hill fell away through dense outgrowth punctuated by a profusion of flowers, some evidently wild, others planted. December is a good time to meander in Coorg. It is pleasant and flowers bloom in abundance, and birdlife is rife with melodies issuing forth from trees in carefree abandon.

As we drove along, breaks in vegetation revealed sloping roofs of Mangalore tiles. Homes were strung out sparsely. Set back from the road and fronted by neat gardens with arched gates layered in colourful blooms it was easy to miss the houses in the vegetation. Where constructed on slopes the red tiled roofs dropped away from view to be replaced by others as if in a slideshow. Gates sported names uncommon to a visiting eye; some led to homes, others to coffee plantations. Coorg is home to the Robusta and Arabica strains of coffee. In the distance the Brahmagiri mountain ranges rose from the earth in mellow folds of blue, watercolours on canvas. For the ride alone the road connecting Madikeri to Talacauvery is an indulgence.


Located in the Brahmagiri hill, 1,356 metres above sea level, Talacauvery (Talakaveri) lies 8 kms. from Bhagamandala and 48 kms. from Madikeri, the capital of Kodagu (Coorg). Pilgrims travelling to Talacauvery usually stop at Bhagamandala for a dip in the sacred confluence of the Cauvery, Kannike, and the Sujyoti before continuing up the hill to Talacauvery where the Cauvery springs from the earth only to disappear underground before surfacing again at Nagatirtha near Bhagamandala, upstream of the Triveni Sangam where she meets with the Kannike and Sujyoti before gaining strength on her mighty run through Karnataka and Tamilnadu, eventually meeting the Bay of Bengal at Poompuhar, having traversed close to 800 kms. along her entire length.


On the first day of the Hindu month of Makara Masa, in the middle of October, devotees in their thousands throng Talacauvery for a glimpse of the annual surge in the spring as the Cauvery rises in the Brahmakundike (holy pond) at a pre-determined moment. The day is known as Tula Sankramana and is celebrated with much fanfare as the day the Cauvery first took birth on earth, seeing in the surge a visit by Goddess Cauvery herself. The Kodavas, native to Kodagu (Coorg), observe Tula Sankramana as the first day of the Kodava calendar year.


A board indicating the Brahmakundike (holy pond) to be the birthplace of the river Cauvery exhorts devotees with “Don’t touch the holy water”. However pilgrims can bathe in the tank adjacent to the holy pond. A family of three takes a merry dip in the temple tank while a man collects the sacred water in used plastic water bottles to carry home.



Nandi, the faithful bull looks over the tank at the small temple dedicated to Lord Agastheeswara across the tank. Pilgrims loll on the steps descending to the water, awaiting the queue on the other side of the tank to thin before making their way to the small temple, to offer their prayers at the Brahmakundike. Some wade in the tank for a quick dip. A few others pace the stone steps, taking in the scene, thinking of nothing in particular. They are in no hurry. Gods are rarely fathomed by hurrying feet.



The temple to Lord Agastheeswara faces the brahmakundike (holy pond) where the Cauvery springs from the earth in a small square cut in stone between the shrine and the tank beyond and is located on the platform enclosing the temple tank.


Flowers from rituals performed float in the holy pond, tiptoeing to reflections of clouds above, and those of the brahmin priest and pilgrims seated on either side of the brahmakundike, offering prayers to the sacred spring.



Lord Agastheeswara is considered to be the link between the renowned Sage Agasthya and the river Cauvery. There two Brahmin priests attend to devotees offering their prayers at the Ugama Sthana (birth place) of the Cauvery, handing the devotees prasadam after helping them through the rituals. The pilgrims seat in front of the brahmakundike while the priest chants mantras. I queue up to offer my prayers.


Behind me schoolgirls in uniforms crowd the temple tank, their bare feet shifting uneasily on the Sun baked stone platform as they gaze intently into the tank watching bathing pilgrims.



Behind us the Brahmagiri peak beckoned. The long flight of steps burning a pale shade of white in the noon sunshine seemingly ascended to the skies, ending abruptly as if a ladder were suspended from an invisible thread trailing from the blue heavens above. I could sense the sharp edge to the air refreshing my lungs as I took mouthfuls in. We ascended the steps to the peak where the seven great sages known as the Sapta Maharishis once performed a yagna to the gods, pausing only to admire the tenacious flowers that bloomed in breaks between the stone steps.



In anticipation of the views to be had from atop the Brahmagiri peak the 500-odd steps gave way quickly as we passed wildflowers spouting on the slopes. The flowers ran diagonal to our ascent as if running away from the pilgrims making up the steps. Ruffled by the sharp breeze sweeping down the slope they nudged us onwards, to the peak while themselves disappearing over the curve.

Emerging from the last step the heavens opened up before us in a panorama befitting the gods. The Brahmagiri range in the Western Ghats mountain ranges straddles the border between Kodagu in Karnataka to the north and Wayanad in Kerala to the south.



Visitors took in the views in silence. A child played in the mud while the father reached into his bag for his camera. This was a moment the child would cherish in the years to come. This was where nature roamed in spirit.


The peak rolled all the way down before it was picked up by the next hill only to descend again, then lifted up by the next peak it fell over gently until the next hill picked it up again before running with it to yet another peak further away. I stood in silence and watched this relay race until the wave disappeared into strengthening shades of blue in the far distance. The blue mountains. I wondered if the Nilgiris were far away. From atop the Brahmagiri I could sense them in the blue folds in the distance, bringing memories from another time flooding back, from a long time ago.

Water Woes

I opened the newspaper today to news that water supply to the city might be restricted to every alternate day unless the south-west monsoons drop their load on the streets soon. The Met department would like us to believe that it may not rain as much this time around. I cannot be sure though.

Last week saw one heavy burst that brought parts of the city to a standstill before weakening to interspersing showers in between, nothing to bring the city to a halt, a sign that is taken to mean that water woes could be at our doorsteps.

It prompted a north-Indian tea stall owner where I had sheltered from the rains to remark, “Ab tho sab ka dimag thanda hoga.” (Now – that rains have arrived – minds will be at ease). This was last week.

The newspapers announced the coming of the rains to Bombay in large bold letters, a far cry from the months leading up to the monsoons.

“Cannot understand what is happening with our climate,” the taxi driver had reflected as we drove past a water supply truck backing up on a turn on a summer day.


“These days it is difficult to predict anything at all with the world,” he said while we waited, watching as a man directed the truck driver in negotiating the bend.

As March rolls in and temperatures begin to nudge upwards, sightings of trucks supplying water to neighbourhoods across the city are a common sight, more so in the mornings. March and April are crucial months in the city as water sources supplying much needed succour to the city deplete.


In late-April parts of the city, more so the ‘blue collar’ neighbouhoods packed tightly in narrow lanes, see acute water shortages. Bombay is no more a classless city than say Islamic countries are multi-religious. It is common to see high rises separated from ordinary tenements by only a lane, both sitting comfortably and laying an equal claim to the lane.

Supplying water is big business. On the arrival of a water truck the cry goes out in the chawls and in no time men and women, often in their night dresses stream out of their homes and queue up at the truck. All manner of utensils and buckets are employed in collecting water as the din pierces the early morning calm. Office-goers step past the din, observant but oblivious to it.


Children thrill in the morning activity that sees residents from the tenements gather at the water supply truck and exchange small talk, swapping stories while they await their turn at the tap.

Over time the morning ritual becomes an inedible part of their lives, like it once did my own in the rural hinterlands of India I traveled to in my vacations from school.

The Painted Day

Kala Ghoda, Bombay. 2009.

When life throws a palette of colours your way
Step away from the wind.
For, if it is too strong as it will likely be,
The colours will quickly blur into one.
And where you could have painted your day brightly
It will now shiver in the bleakness of none!

The Palmist

Mumbai, 2009


The future you trace in the sands of time,
Will tempt the waves into washing over it.
Instead, let the ocean embrace you,
And I will show you how to ride the waves of life itself.

The Masjid-e-Ala in Srirangapatna

I could’ve passed by the open door oblivious to its significance if not for the two towering minarets that rose from behind the high walls along a path hewn from the earth not far from where the Bangalore Gate of Tipu Sultan’s fort in Srirangapatna lay.


From the street the door parted on young children in kurta pajamas, mostly white, and skull caps moving about the open courtyard fronting a covered veranda where low wooden reading platforms and copies of the Koran (Quran) lay in two neat rows on a worn mattress covering the stone floor. A game of cricket was underway in the open courtyard, the students taking a short break from studying the Koran. As the game progressed there was much merriment around, the enclosed space ringing urgently with anxious cries as the bowlers hurled the tennis ball at the batsmen with fielders alert to any catches coming their way .


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Across the courtyard, opposite the covered veranda, small rooms made up the inside of the outer wall along its entire length, on all sides. I learnt later that the teaching staff stayed there and so did some of the students. Two water taps lay to one side, adjacent to several tombs discoloured by the elements over the years. Two young pupils were quenching their thirst at the tap while a third one looked on, patiently awaiting his turn at the tap.

Middle aged men with trimmed black beards and clad in the same attire as their students were engaged in a game of cricket with their young wards. I saw more smiling faces in the square there than in the time since we arrived in Mysore from Bangalore the previous day.


The Masjid-e-Ala is also known as the Jama Masjid. A tutor, breaking away from the game of cricket with his students, told me that Tipu Sultan used to pray here during his reign. On his ascension to the throne following the death of his father, Hyder Ali, Tipu Sultan built the Masjid-e-Ala in 1784 and is said to have performed the first Imamath himself.


Topped by domes the double-storied, octagonal minarets look over the countryside and the river Cauvery nudging the ramparts a short distance away. The two minarets rise from a high platform and can be reached by a flight of steps said to number two hundred. Pigeon holes open into the sides of the minarets all the way to the top. The platform houses a large prayer hall to the west.

The Masjid-e-Ala was our last stop before heading to the bus-stand at Srirangapatna for the return journey to Mysore city.


I circled the high platform enclosed by verandas and staying quarters across the open passage that ran around the platform.



A large water tank with a row of over eight water taps at knee level and a low seating of cement and bricks fronting each tap lay to one side of the passage circling the main structure. There, nudged by excited cries of the young Muslim students delighting in the fall of the wicket of a fellow student, I paused for a moment to relate the joviality within the high walls to the tumultuous night of May 4, 1799 in the fourth Anglo-Mysore War when Tipu Sultan fell to the advancing British troops led by Captain David Baird, the man the Sultan had imprisoned for four years in Colonel Bailey’s dungeon after the battle of Pollilur in 1780 before releasing him in 1784.

Fate had other ideas for the Sultan as Captain David Baird’s men breached the fortress on the banks of the Cauvery and came marching in only to be met by the Sultan himself. A violent struggle followed before Tipu Sultan fell not far from where I now stood in the masjid’s courtyard watching an innocuous game of cricket.

On our way to the Masjid-e-Ala we had passed the spot where Tipu Sultan made his last stand on May 4, 1799, rather where his body was found once the skirmish was over.

We had started our day by first visiting the Gumbaz where Tipu Sultan is laid to rest alongside his parents, Hyder Ali and Fatima Begum, in an imposing structure well known for its ivory inlaid doors, pillars, and carved stone windows, before heading to the Daria Daulat Bagh that Tipu Sultan built in 1784 to serve as his summer palace and where a museum now showcases the reign of the Sultan in its many details. Murals, paintings, pencil sketches, coins, medals, and arms among other things bring alive the period in its actual setting.

As the Sun traced its path higher with each passing minute it beat down fiercer, helped in no small measure from the fever I was running, and soon enough as if on que a rickshaw materialized and we got into it for a tour of the remaining sites of historical interest within the fortifications of Srirangapatna, namely Colonel Bailey’s dungeon, the square where Tipu Sultan was killed, Tipu’s palace site, the Masjid-e-Ala, and the Ranganathaswamy Temple.


There was no one around as we emerged from the rickshaw, gravitating to the plaque that said simply, ‘The Body of Tipu Sultan Was Found Here’. Enclosed by low walls the plaque stands in the middle of a square, marking the spot where he fell. The square is empty except for the lone plaque as if in its isolation it seeks to remind one of the moment when isolated from the men he led into battle the Sultan fell alone.

To the north the square is lined by coconut palms along the banks of the Cauvery. It is easy to let the swaying fronds lull one into meandering aimlessly at the spot where India’s history took yet another decisive turn, strengthening the British further and paving the way for their conquest and colonisation of India.

Leaves Of Life

In the early hours of the morning before the sky lights up over the horizon the city wakes up to urgent feet scrambling to make their rendezvous with street-side markets in Dadar, and elsewhere.

Fisherwomen hugging baskets of fish board local trains on their way to suburban fish markets along Central and Western railway lines that bisect the city into ‘West’ and ‘East’ sections. They must start early for the markets, accounting for the travel, and be in time for the first customers hurrying to impromptu stalls on the roadside where it is not uncommon to find women sitting together in groups of three or four, their baskets of fish at their feet and choppers at the ready on makeshift wooden boards. Cats, those creatures of habit, will be up and about awaiting their arrival. Like the fisherwomen they’re fixtures of city mornings.



To the south of the city, fishing boats land their catch at Sassoon Docks. Elsewhere, among several other landing points, fishing trawlers bring in their catch at the beach in Vasai, home to the Kolis, a fishing community known to be among the earliest inhabitants of Bombay and liberally portrayed to love their drink and dance in Bollywood films of yore.

In the shadow of the Vasai fort whose ruins add a surreal whisper to the sea off the coast a hundred-odd metres away, and hidden from view by the earthy homes of the Kolis, there is little evidence of the hectic activity along the coast until the narrow lanes zigzagging through the settlement deposits one on the beach.

Excepting the Cuckoo dallying from the trees in the summer months, newspaper vans split the morning silence before all others.

Large stacks of newspapers make their way across the city, offloading at street corners where groups of youths huddle around them and quickly sort them in time for the delivery boys who then fan out to building complexes and drop off newspapers on door mats in time for office goers to have a quick look at them before they take the elevator down and hail a rickshaw for the railway station to board the local train on their way to work.

The milkmen hit the roads about the same time as newspaper delivery boys.

About the same time trucks and tempos from Vashi and surrounding areas bear their load of vegetables into suburban markets where wholesalers take delivery of the produce. Fierce bargaining is not uncommon at the point of delivery. Then the wholesalers sell the produce to retailers who in turn ferry the produce to their shops or vegetable carts operating on the streets.


In the commotion of vehicles ferrying in milk, vegetables, and newspapers, and the brisk haggling at roadside fish markets, invisible are the hands that quickly pick out small green packs from their bags, flowers neatly wrapped in leaves and secured by thread, inserting the small bundle in the door handle before stepping away to the next apartment. There’s rarely a presence to be sensed until the door opens to the fragrance of Jasmine. Flowers are routinely used in early morning prayers and also in adoring the hair.


Villagers, mostly women, from far flung suburbs set out for flower markets in Dadar and elsewhere with bundles of fresh leaves foraged from the woods, supplying street-side vendors with leaves for use in wrapping short lengths of garlands among other uses.

Depending on availability, leaves of the Teak, the Palas, and the Jackfruit are commonly used for the purpose.


Before dawn breaks over Bombay’s cluttered skyline, local trains pulling into Dadar from as far as Karjat, Kasara, Assangaon, and Titwala empty of vendors who quickly get off the train with their produce.

In a single flowing motion the women hoist large bundles of leaves secured with slender lengths of tree bark onto the head and make for the exit in a single file, swaying as they glide up the incline and onto the public footbridge on their way to the phool galli (flower lane) where they will settle to the side of the lane and sort the leaves into smaller bundles for sale.


“We've come from Titwala,” the elderly woman flanked on either side by fellow vendors said as I bent to have a closer look at the leaves they were sorting out.

Titwala lies on the Central Line, 56 kilometres from Dadar. Local trains headed for Kasara, and Asangaon halt at Titwala, a little over ten kilometers from Kalyan in the direction of Nasik, the latter is served by the same line. The three elderly women sat with their bundles of leaves to the side of the path that led under the flyover.

The lady quickly reached into the bundle, and held out a neatly stacked section of the leaves for five rupees.

“How many leaves have you included in the stack?” I ask her.

She turns to look at her fellow vendors before smiling at me. “I don’t count the leaves, no need to. This much is what I sell for five rupees,” she said, drawing my attention to the stack she held in her palm between the thumb and the rest.

I quickly counted the leaves in the stack and said, “About twenty leaves for five rupees?”



Only a few days earlier I was quoted ten rupees for six leaves by a youth on the staircase that leads down to the phool galli by the flyover. He took one quick look at me and decided I knew next to nothing of the rates before quoting his price. I left him standing by his bundles of leaves lying on the steps to the side of the staircase.

She nodded and shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, about twenty leaves.”

“Larger sized leaves will cost more,” she said. “These are the Palas. The same leaves used to make patravali.”


Patravali is a leaf plate made of dried leaves tacked together by pieces of stem. The leaf plates are commonly used in villages to serve meals, and discarded after use, finding their way to garbage dumps where cows and buffaloes gather at noon time and polish them off along with the leftovers of meals.

I mistook her reply for Phanas, the Jackfruit tree.

“No, no. Not Phanas, but Palas,” she corrected me. The Palas is also known as the Flame of the Forest for its dazzling flowers that break the often bleak summer landscapes in deciduous forests of the tropics.

Leaves used in making patravali differ from region to region depending upon the availability of trees.

The Flame of the Forest is not as commonly found in Goa as the Jackfruit, so leaves of the Jackfruit are used to make patravali in the tiny state on the West Coast on India. Jackfruit leaves are not the most ideal of leaves to use in making the leaf plates but considered adequate enough for the purpose. The leaves of the Teak are used for the purpose as well, chosen more for their easy availability in Goa whose climate is conducive to Teak plantations.

Though rare, the use of lotus leaves is not unheard of either.



In North Karnataka leaves of the Muthla tree are used in making patravali. The leaves are dried in the shade until they turn brown, taking over a week or so. The shade helps keep the leaves from curling up.

On my yearly travels to the north of Karnataka during summer vacations from school, I grew accustomed to having my meals on patravalis while visiting my relatives along the route. It took me some time to eat off the leaf plate without swallowing the short stems that held the leaves together.

In time I learnt to make patravali at the home of my ancestors in the village. In the afternoons we would gather in the hall flanked by rooms on either side and sift through heaps of dried Muthla leaves and arrange them in the shape of a circular plate, overlapping the leaves to cover openings to prevent curry from seeping out and messing up the floor.


We took our meals sitting cross-legged on the floor, backs to the wall. The elderly Brahmins, clad in white dhoti held tight at the waist, took their meals bare-chested as is the custom, eating their meals off the leaf plates or patravalis. I used to call them ‘Yogic meals’.

While one of us would fashion Jowar stems into tiny pieces for use in stitching the dried Muthla leaves together, another would sift through the stack of leaves and separate even sized leaves appropriate for the size of the leaf plate.

The rest of us would then fashion the leaves into a circular shape each and stitch them together with small pieces of Jowar stems. I was still at school and oblivious to any cathartic benefits to be had from what is a uniquely rural exercise with few or no exceptions. It was just another exercise I reveled in in addition to helping my aunt milk the cows, and collect dung cakes for fuel while I was not pestering the farm hand into teaching me the art of making ropes from lengths of coir and tree bark. Eventually I learnt the craft well enough to make my own ropes.

Keshava, the farm hand at the time passed away years ago, leaving behind memories of his good natured patience while I struggled to come to grips with the rolling of lengths of raw material into ropes, turning my thighs red where the rope rubbed the skin while I rolled individual strands into rope pattern.

Making patravalis was easier, for Muthla leaves presented far fewer problems except maybe when I had to stitch them together into leaf bowls. Curry and buttermilk are served in the leaf bowls that are fixed to the leaf plate with rice. Occasionally the leaf bowls, if weakly secured with rice at the base, would topple over, spilling curry or buttermilk all over the patravali, drawing disapproving looks from the elders.

The Muthla tree is commonly found in the northern districts of the state, namely Gulbarga, Raichur, and Bidar.

Speaking with my uncle I learnt that Raichur is big on supplies of the Muthla leaves for making patravali. “Alanavar, near Belgaum, is well known for Muthla leaves as well,” my cousin added.

The small stems that tack leaves together into plates are sourced from Jowar stems after the crop is harvested and the hay kept aside for cattle fodder. In the arid regions of North Karnataka typically two crops are harvested in a year. Mungari Jowar sown in the early monsoon months of July and August, and harvested three months later, is preferred for fashioning the stems to tack the leaves, and not so much the Hingari Jowar. The stems of the latter are not known to lend themselves to easy fashioning of short, slender pieces appropriate for stitching leaves together. The Hingari crop (Rabi) is sown in September or October.

Elsewhere the Mungari crop (Kharif) is sown in the months of June-July around the time the first rains come calling, especially along the West Coast where the South-West monsoons make their first landfall. However to the north of Karnataka the first rains strengthen their patterns much later.

Typically 15 Muthla leaves went into the making of a patravali on the average. Now I’m told each patravali costs one rupee, prices having gone up in the village from years ago when I first learnt to stitch leaf plates together. Moreover it is unlikely most villagers will take the trouble now to stitch together a patravali from Muthla leaves, preferring instead to buy them off the market, a set of fifty leaf plates costing fifty rupees ($ 1.00) at one rupee per leaf plate.

Unlike steel plates, leaf plates do not need washing, instead providing fodder for cattle after meal time. They provide employment to poor villagers who set out to gather leaves in the woods while womenfolk stitch them together into leaf plates, in turn empowering women in the village. And unlike steel there is no processing cost involved, including the mining of earth for raw material, in the making of leaf plates. In the end they break down into organic elements that enrich the soil and nourish the many life forms that make the soil fertile.

When we ran out of patravalis banana leaves were brought out at meal time. It is easier to eat off a banana leaf than off a patravali stitched together. In time, like with everything else, practice makes perfect, and leaves cease to matter, receding to the background, giving way to the fragrance of the outdoors rising up from the leaf plate, indulging the appetite for the meal at hand.

Flanking the flyover opposite the Dadar railway station on the Central Line are two narrow lanes that conduct travelers out of the station. Flower vendors run small hole-in-the-wall outlets that line the two narrow lanes on either side of the flyover, crowding the passageway with customers shopping for flowers and office goers hurrying past. Through the day suppliers truck in sacks of flowers, supplying them to vendors in the lanes. The lanes are known locally as phool gallis (flower lanes).


Early mornings see hectic activity in the phool gallis with flower vendors busy stitching flowers into garlands, occasionally calling out to passing travelers to buy garlands and flowers. It is common to see children help their parents with the task at hand, pottering around while their parents stitch the flowers into garlands, using leaves to bunch the flowers together as well as display lengths of garlands for interested customers.


Garlands made of Mogra (Jasmine) flowers and priced at five rupees a length, were neatly laid out for passing travelers. Taxis honked in the narrow lane dodging early morning travelers hurrying to work.

“Will your stock of leaves last until evening,” I ask the lady, pointing to her basket overflowing with Palas leaves.

“No. There’ll be little or nothing left by evening,” she replies, turning her face to acknowledge a fellow vendor who hails her on his way past.


Small time vendors selling garlands, berries, jamuns, and sundry fruits from cane baskets settle down on the railway footbridge that passengers exiting the Dadar railway station take on their way out of the station. Often customers will stop by the vendors and buy jamuns or flowers or other produce on their way home.


The vendors use the leaves to arrange berries, often using them to pack the berries as well if the quantity is small. They source the leaves from fellow vendors. Here the vendor was selling berries bunched on leaves for rupees five a 'bunch'.



Some will line their cane baskets with the leaves, sprinkling water every now and then to keep the flowers fresh and inviting.



Others will use them to lay out flowers while they stitch them together into garlands, using the same thread to secure the flowers wrapped in a leaf before handing the 'leaf package' over to the customer.



Where there’re no Palas leaves to be had any will do, even those plucked from the tree under whose shade vendors shelter outside the Virar railway station, by platform One where trains from Virar start for Churchgate.