The Prince

Kolkata, 2012

You haven’t changed, still.

It’s we, who did.

The Suitors

Bijapur, 2011

Half An Eye

Heysham Row, Kolkata, 2012

 After a lifetime of keeping an eye on the neighbourhood,

The window prefers to shutter up now, for

The once busy lane has long gone empty

And no voices float up from it.

Having franchised its once delightful vocation

To a shiny eye glinting around the corner,

There’s all the time in the world now

To watch a formerly prim wall shed its crust, brick by brick

And slip into the character it’d long envied the window for –

A hint of a glimpse within from outside.

Even if it stands as empty on the inside!

A Light Moment

Matunga, Mumbai

Taxi drivers share a light moment roadside.

Baraf Ka Gola And Waiting

  

With winter approaching, daylight succumbs to dusk early, and bright lamps that’d hasten wandering feet home early on most days now beckon Kolkata’s faithful onto the streets for Durga Puja celebrations into the wee hours of the night.

The lane is quiet save for the occasional light-stepping hand-held rickshaw puller depositing residents home in the old neighbourhood on Dr. Rajendra Road in Bhowanipore.

Shadows breathe life into passing life just as surely as sodium lamps stretch them into a slow, long caress along the beaten path.

Outside the north-west entrance to Northern Park, a woman has set up her Baraf Gola (Ice Gola) stall hoping visitors to the playground fair in the park will step up for some shaved ice candy.

Coloured syrups in square pockets line the edge of the wooden frame that betrays its age from years on the road waiting on street corners, come day, come night.

Among the syrups figure perennial favourites: Kalakhatta, Khus, Rose and Lemon. A hand powered ice crusher stands to one side, waiting with the vendor for someone to show up.

The white of shuttered windows frozen in a perennial pause in the facade of a red building across the lane from her, strip the night of its studied monotony.

As the night stretches its lonesome fingers, it traces a path to a family of three in a hand-pulled rickshaw approaching the entrance to the playground fair that’s come visiting Bhowanipore in South Kolkata, its character transformed from a small village in early nineteenth century to a bustling upmarket locality by migrants from erstwhile East Bengal who settled here in the early 1850s.

~
  

Behind her, and us, the fair is in full swing. But we might as well have been wrapped in the silence that anticipation spreads around it to shore up hope and make waiting, tolerable.

As the lean figure of the hand-pulled rickshawallah draws into view, emerging from the dark of the street into warm swells of Sodium dispersing over him, the woman straightens up on the makeshift crate she’s parked by her roadside stall.

No sooner her eyes adjust to the three forms in the back of the rickshaw, they light up in anticipation. A half smile spreads across her face as the trio draw closer, revealing a young boy among them.

"What child can possibly resist a colourful baraf ka gola?" I imagine her thinking.

She looks in their direction hoping to catch their attention.

And the yellow of sodium suddenly pours its weight into the pause now pregnant with possibilities.

A Goan Poder Paddles His Pao Around

  

No sooner does dawn trickle through windows in Goa and the familiar paaaan-pooooh, paaaan-pooooh sounds outside, gladdening many an anxious eye fidgeting at the window, awaiting the flash of blue before the horn sounds and the pedal pauses its exertions.

No horn sounds sweeter to a Goan ear than the one the Poder sounds on his morning rounds through neighbourhoods, announcing the arrival on the back on his bicycle, of freshly baked pao (bread) to go with the bhaji (gravy accompaniment) cooking on kitchen stoves in sloping roof houses tucked away behind trees, past bends in narrow walking paths that branch off quiet, sometimes lonely roads.

In the cane basket wrapped in the familiar and distinctive blue tarp, a thousand anxious hearts beat, awaiting the fragrance of the local village bakery to float in and grace many a Goan’s morning, afternoon, and evening. I could safely throw in ‘night’ and nothing would be amiss except the Poder will have retired for the day, his basket empty and the horn sitting lightly in a corner. The Poder’s horn rings in a Goan dawn just as surely as the sun.

Pao. What would Goa be without it? Rather what would Pao be without Goa.

If not for the Pao, the Bhaji that occasional itinerants like yours truly go seeking in nondescript gaddos (inns) in the Goan countryside would not have evolved to the state of being they have in the hands of enterprising cooks.

So long as Poders grace the Goan countryside not much can go wrong with the Goan dream even if many of the Poders you see around are not Goans but migrant hands from Hubli or Belgaum, or further afield who graduated from helping out in the bakery to carting pao around villages hidden from plain view.

The Poder in the photos here had rolled down the slope that winds past Balaji Temple off the road that meanders from Kundaim before rolling through Cuncolim and eventually, to Keri.

Just as we stepped past the gate and saw him going past, an old lady hailed him. The evening tea was upon the countryside and pao to go with tea would be just perfect. The lady, more likely than not, a regular, bought some katre pao and dropped them into a plastic pothi.

Lighter by a few pao, the Poder rolled merrily away.

Down the road we saw him again.

A smile playing on his face, he had uncovered the dark brown tarp (a departure from the familiar blue) and handed Kakon (bangles) from the basket to the little girl waiting on the side of the road with her dogs for the Poder who passes by a little past four in the afternoon.

Her house lay past the bend in the path off the road, and hearing the distinctive call of the Poder’s horn, paaaan-pooooh, paaaan-pooooh, way before he came cycling past, she was up on her feet and running with the dogs on her heels, in time for the Poder on his afternoon favti (round).

She held five kakon to her chest like it was the only thing that mattered.

It is October, 2008. Five years down, Goa hasn’t changed much in the hinterland, right down to dark, winding roads lit up by banana leaves filtering the Sun to a shade of rich, hearty and heartening green. When the breeze blows, late afternoon light sways with it.

I linger for a moment, wondering if the Poder does this route. I think it unlikely for we’ve passed him a long way back and a steep climb beckons before we crest the hill and come to the junction where the left leads to Vijaydurga temple in Keri.

But then one can never be sure of the Poder's range and pedal power. 

Related Links

1. A Goan Landscape in Salcette

The Keeper Of Memories

 Tughlaqabad Fort, 2009

  

I bend my face to the earth

So I can nibble at the memories, paths hold

Of my ancestors who once cantered along, and

Where I now meander in silence.

I’ve all day to myself,

To do as I please among the ruins,

Ranging along paths, to

Secure memories on their margins, marginal or otherwise.

Every once in a while

The fort walls let up on some secrets from a long time ago,

Just enough so I’ll continue rambling among them, for

They’ve stood here a long time, alone, and bereft of the purpose,

A famous king once invested in them.

They continue to seek relevance

In the grand scheme of things their creator once sought,

Before abandoning them to the fate

The curse of an enraged Sufi, precipitated.

‘Ya rahe ujar, Ya basey Gujjar’

(It will either remain deserted or be inhabited by Gujjars*)

I’m all they have now,

The keeper of their memories,

And they,

Of mine.

* Gujjars are a pastoral community.

Delhi’s Battery Powered Eco-friendly Rickshaws

Last November, before the cold set in, I exited the Chandni Chowk metro and made my way through crowded streets on foot, taking in the bustle on the road and beyond, juggling between dodging pedestrians and peeking into roadside establishments, only pausing upon spotting a massive Sikh outside the Sis Ganj Sahib Gurdwara, guarding the entrance, his muscular hand effortlessly cradling an equally intimidating spear.

The Sis Ganj Gurdwara (a gurdwara is a place of worship for Sikhs) stood on the Chandni Chowk street; its gold-gilded domes surmounting the sandstone structure shone in the sun.

I hadn’t seen a Sikh this big before and it was probably no coincidence that the community that prides itself in its martial origins choose him to straddle the entrance, more so in the context of the origin of the Sis Ganj Sahib Gurdwara itself.

It was here, in 1675, that Guru Tegh Bahadur, the ninth Sikh Guru, was beheaded on the orders of the Mughal Emperor, Aurangzeb, for refusing to convert to Islam. The Sis Ganj Sahib Gurdwara was built on the site of his execution by Aurangzeb to honour his memory and sacrifice.  

Islam spread in India largely on the strength of the sword brought to bear on the native population by a succession of Muslim invaders, and not everyone had the courage to resist conversion to Islam like Guru Tegh Bahadur did, and many who did resist and paid with their lives are long forgotten.

~

On either side of the Chandni Chowk road, shops abound. Schools, restaurants, clothing stores, hotels, jewellery shops and roadside vendors among others crowd the road that connects Town Hall and Ballimaran to the West with Red Fort to the east.

Labourers loaded a Haath Gadi (hand-pulled wooden cart on two wheels) with large bobbins with flanges, the contents of which were hidden behind packaging. Haath Gadi is a cheap alternative to motorized transport over short distances and among the surest signs you’re in old trading hubs.

Pedal and battery-powered rickshaws together with rows of beaten blue wagons of the Central Baptist Church Primary School, each fabricated to fit onto the back of cycle rickshaws, further added to the familiar bustle of Chandni Chowk, the one place where you can be assured of much of the character India was, and hopefully still is, famous for – vibrancy of the street, or chaos as some will characterize it.

A man sat reading a newspaper in one of the blue wagons. Each cycle rickshaw was numbered and labelled with ‘Central Baptist Church Primary School’.

I imagined school children making a beeline for these school transports the moment the final bell rang, no doubt scrambling for their favourite seats in the beat-up wagons.

K tells me these cycle-rickshaws improvised with covered carriages for use in ferrying children to school and back were a fairly common sight in much of Delhi until early-1990s, eventually making way for school buses, partly after parents (and in some instances, schools) became safety conscious. Moreover, school buses made for quicker and comfortable journeys. As opposed to the rickshaw-wagon that accommodated between 6-7 school children, a school bus accommodated upwards of 30 children.

Moreover there was an element of status consciousness among certain sections of Delhi society once affluence began to trickle into upmarket social circles. The school ka rickshaw trundling to the door step would no longer do.

While the blue carrier rickshaws in Chandni Chowk above appear to belong to or are authorised by the Central Baptist Church Primary School, it wasn't so with most schools back then. Each rickshaw was owned and operated by the rickshaw drivers, ensuring a steady income through the academic year.

To this day these tri-cycle school ka rickshaws can still be seen in some parts of Delhi.  

I had just stepped out of the Digambar Jain Mandir (Lal Mandir) at the intersection of Chandni Chowk Road with Netaji Subhash Marg when I stumbled into furious solicitation of passengers by burly drivers at the steering of battery-powered rickshaws that I had only heard about in the year before.

Variously called e-Tricycles, the three-wheelers were a much trumpeted addition to Delhi roads on the eve of the Commonwealth Games, a visible effort at going eco-friendly, something one of these rickshaws displayed proudly on the canopy above the driver.

It read: "Eco-Friendly. Battery Operated". And if the words were insufficient to push home the message, the green background ensured they did.  

I’ll leave the debate on ‘Are batteries eco-friendly?’ for another time if for nothing else than for the fact that atleast the Govt. is thinking in the right direction.

Men and women, some lugging purchases made in the bazaars of Chandni Chowk crowded the few battery-powered rickshaws outside the Jain temple. The Red Fort stood to my right, its ramparts marking the skyline.

I had gone looking for the Bird Hospital in the temple complex where rude caretakers keep an eagle-eye on visitors for signs they’re about to step an inch beyond the imaginary (and invisible lines) they’ve drawn to mark the limit beyond which they cannot wear their footwear.

~

The battery-powered rickshaws, limited to speeds below 25 kmph and powered by a motor less than 250 kW, were originally meant to connect commuters from pick-up points with Metro stations. A rate was fixed for the distance between boarding points and the Metro Station.

The Chandni Chowk Metro Station was located a 10-12 minute walk away from where I stood outside the Jain temple, discounting the time it takes to get through the crowds. If you’re one for looking into shops along the way, and I see no reason why one wouldn’t be curious of what lay beyond the shop fronts given their eclectic wares, I’d subtract a few more minutes from the walk.

Even so, a ride in one of the eco-friendly rickshaw saves hassled pedestrians time and energy, more so if they’re lugging their purchases.

The rickshaw drivers call out to commuters the moment they draw up at the boarding point. The quicker they reach capacity, the more rounds they can notch up between the Metro station and boarding-points, translating to more earnings for the day.

The rickshaws I saw had seating space for four, two facing two, though I saw a fifth squeezing in on more than one occasion, and a sixth who shared seating with the rickshaw driver upfront.

A family of five fresh from shopping in Chandi Chowk haggled with the rickshaw driver of one of these eco-friendly rickshaws to accommodate them at the expense of a solitary commuter already seated in the rickshaw.

They presented him with no-brainer – “All five of us or none”.

Not one to let his conscience get in between business choices, he requested the seated passenger to get off to make way for the “five”, telling him, “There’s another rickshaw behind mine. Get into it.”

He was not about to turn the five down for one ‘liability’.

The visibly displeased man, hounded by the sight of the family of five glaring at him with a sense of righteousness unique to collective bargaining, muttered curses under his breath before getting off. I could only hope he didn’t have to contend with another family of five at the next rickshaw he sought.

The family got on, and the rickshaw sauntered past me.

~

Also known as Electric Tricycle, the sale of these “pollution-free” battery-operated three-wheelers are advertised as a means to earn 20-25 K monthly.

As they’re limited to under 25 kmph and powered by a motor less than 250 kW, they do not come under the purview of the Motor Vehicles Act and do not require vehicle registration or a driver’s license to operate them.

~

Eco-friendly rickshaws are fine. 

But what Delhi really needs is commuter-friendly rickshaw drivers who do not pick and choose the routes they want to ply, especially the 'notorious' green and yellow rickshaws. 

Further Reading

1. Eco-friendly ElectricTri-cycles/Rickshaws

From Barkha Rani To Varsha Rani

Surely he made a play on Barkha Rani. How could it be anything else? Varsha is Barkha, rain. And it’s July, the rainy month. Except Varsha could well be his living, breathing muse unlike Shatrughan Sinha pleading Barkha to continue pouring so his sweetheart would stay longer, with him.     

Remember Barkha Rani from Sabak (1973)? That evergreen classic monsoon melody where Shatrugan Sinha asks the rain to keep raining, for years (Tu Baras, Barson Baras), so his drenched-to-the-skin girlfriend can't leave for a lifetime (Yeh Umra Bar Na Jaaye Re)?

It might just as well have been Varsha Rani and nothing would’ve changed in Mukesh’s rendering of the 1973 hit from Sabak, Barkha Rani.

Ah, the romance of the rains; trust Mukesh to communicate it. I never tire of this melody, rain or not.

Barkha Rani, Jara Jhamke Barso

Mera Dilbar Jaa Na Pahey, Jhumkar Barso

Barkha Rani

Yeh Abhi Toh Aaye Hain

Kahetey Hain Hum Jaye Hain

Tu Baras, Barson Baras

Yeh Umra Bar Na Jaaye Re

Barkha Rani

Mast Sawan Ki Ghata

Bijliyan Chamka Jara

Pyar Mera Darke Mere Sinhey Se Lag Jaye Re

Barkha Rani, Jara Jham Ke Barso

Mera Dilbar Jaa Na Pahey, Jhum Kar Barso

(Lyrics of the song, Barkha Rani) 

I hummed the first stanza as Varsha Rani zigzagged alongside, watching her weave in and out of traffic, this way and that. Soon I lost the song beyond the first stanza. 

The evening was slowly haemorrhaging light in face of gathering monsoon clouds. It’s been July since the first week of June. Newspapers are saying Mumbai hasn’t seen rains this heavy this soon for this long in a long, long time. Monsoon records have been threatened if not broken already.

Can’t help thinking Shatrugan Sinha would’ve been happy with the monsoons this year, Jhamke Jo Barkha Rani Baras Rahi Hai, Ya Kaho Varsha Rani Baras Rahi Hai.

I catch a quick glimpse of the sky. It’s getting darker with heavy monsoon clouds moving in, and with rain gauges around the city registering unusually high rain levels, it looks like Tu Baras, Barson Baras is within the realm of possibility, just that Shatrugan Sinha is long past romancing in the rain, maybe someone else is, invoking Barkha Rani with the same ardour as Shotgun Sinha of yore.

I hope he has passed on the baton to Sonakshi Sinha this monsoon. It helps to have the rain in your corner.

Rain is truly the Rani. And no, it's more than a mere juggling of alphabets. Rain Rani.

Note: Varsha is 'rain' in Sanskrit, and so is Barkha. And, Rani is 'queen' in Sanskrit.

Married 2 America

The first time I heard of the film was when I saw it advertised on the parapet of a suburban railway bridge in Mumbai. Intrigued by the name, I looked up the film online and recognised the suave Archana Joglekar from her distinctive stone gray coloured eyes not uncommon among Chitpavan Brahmins of Maharashtra.

While she dabbled in films without really ‘taking off’, she has had better success as a Kathak dancer, her performances in the US a regular feature.

The film was advertised as “A Single Minded Fight Against The Forces Of Corruption”.

Advertised on a parapet where you’d expect corner institutes teaching English to advertise, promising students jobs in ‘America based company’, the film couldn’t possibly have done any better than the students enrolling into ‘Learn English Speaking in 10 Days’ institutes.

And I didn’t quite succeed in tying the theme of the film to its title ‘Married To America’ other than the fact that Archana Joglekar is married and settled in America.

Koshur Saal, Kashmiri Cuisine at Hornby’s Pavilion, ITC, Mumbai

If you’re a Kashmiri living in Bombay or are interested in Kashmiri cuisine, you’ve until 26 May to sample Chef Suman Kaul’s preparations for dinner at ITC Grand Central’s Hornby’s Pavilion. 

Food is an occasion to connect, with self, and with people. It’s a reason to explore traditions, invest in a culture that shaped the cuisine, and revel in the happiness that appreciation of patrons brings to the chef, in this instance Mrs. Suman Kaul of ITC Kakatiya currently in charge of Kashmiri Food Festival at ITC Grand Central.

Unlike Punjabi cuisine that’s found in every nook and corner restaurant around Mumbai, served up to each cook’s own reading of the recipe, Kashmiri cuisine is conspicuous by its near total absence in roadside restaurants with the exception of what passes of as Kashmiri pulao, regular pulao you’d expect to find at restaurants, only this one is prepared with smattering of fruits that varies depending on what’s available in the restaurant kitchen on the day. The Kashmiri pulao has been my only introduction to Kashmiri cuisine, one I suspected is Kashmiri in name only.

I was looking forward to the opportunity to find out what the Kashmiri pulao actually tasted like at Koshur Saal, the Kashmiri cuisine festival currently underway at ITC Grand Central’s Hornby’s Pavilion (17^th – 26^th May, 2013), to which we were invited to partake of Kashmiri culinary delights, except the Kashmiri pulao was not on the menu the day of our visit, having featured on the menu the day before!

So I suppose I’ll have to wait for another day, another time to find out. Kashimiri pulao aside, there was much else on offer, none of which I had heard of before let alone taste any, and it was as much a learning experience for the palate as it was an evening of getting to know Suman Kaul and her husband over dinner along with Arundhati, where they kept plying us with Kashmiri food and stories of food.

“My grandmother, Sati Razdan,” said Suman Kaul when I asked her of the person who got her interested in cooking. “We’re from Srinagar,” she said. “We had our house there. That was before we had to leave Kashmir,” she continued, her voice trailing off abruptly at what must be memories of a land lost, of memories orphaned by a virulent campaign that significant sections of  Kashmiri Muslims waged to get the Pandits, Kashmir’s original inhabitants insofar as religious heritage is concerned, out of the valley.

At one level, stepping into Hornby’s Pavilion for Koshur Saal was about solidarity with Kashmiri Pandit heritage that has survived the jihadi onslaught on their identity. And in sharing their cuisine and interacting with the wonderful couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kaul, it was about bringing home a better understanding of a cuisine, and by consequence, the people for, food does define ethnic identity in many ways.  Here I leave my ‘pen’ aside and let the other take over.

~

“There is no love sincerer than the love of food.”

           ~ George Bernard Shaw

Synonymous with Kashmir’s picturesque beauty is its aperitive native cuisine more so the Kashmiri Pandit Cuisine. From the land of saffron and red chillies comes Koshur Saal at The Hornby’s Pavilion at ITC Grand Central. On their invitation we visited them for a special Kashmiri Pandit culinary experience. Authentic Kashmiri food was served, with recipe which dates back to hundreds of years and ITC Grand Central is one place which has never compromised on quality. Some ingredients like collard greens for Haak, the famous Red Cherries of Kashmir and fish used for Tsok Gaad (fish in tamarind sauce) which are not available in Mumbai were transported from Srinagar to my surprise.

Festival had a sumptuous Kashmiri buffet selection for vegetarians and non-vegetarians alike, featuring a fresh selection of Murg Sufyani Tikka and Veg Shammi Kebab accompanied with mint chutney and Sattaras (Lamb Soup). 

There was a carving buffet station for freshly made Green Apple and Potato Fritters (pakoras). Green apples are a Kashmiri speciality and they were perfectly thin sliced and battered in gram flour to deep fry and get a unique juicy crispy texture to them.

For the main course the la carte menu had both vegetarian and non vegetarian dishes which were without onion and garlic which is a speciality of Kashmiri cuisine. The gravies are pretty hassle free with usage of hung curd, sometimes tomatoes and occasionally tamarind for sourness. "Preparing gravies in Kashmiri cuisine is a lengthy process as they are simmered for hours with ambrosial flavour of spices such as cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, aniseed, fennel powder, cumin seeds, saffron, dry ginger, turmeric and to top it all hing (asafoetida)," Chef Suman Kaul exclaimed with a twinkle in her eye before continuing, "hing to hamari jaan hai as it gives the required flavour to the slowly simmered non-veg dishes."

For the vegetariano in me the buffet had a lot to offer. My favourite was the Nadur Yakhni, i.e. lotus stem in yoghurt. This delicacy was perfectly sober, crunchy and juicy, with a vinegarish taste. Guess the taste came from yogurt simmered for good few hours with spices. Hedder Aluro (mushrooms cooked with potatoes in kashmiri style) was a lovely combination of two vegetables. 

Dum Monje (knol khol in kashmiri style) had a distinctive flavour and is one of the first European vegetables grown in India and it grows well in kashmir valley region. The Kurkure Bhindi (crispy ladyfingers) were so crispy and fried to perfection in mustard oil. For cottage cheese lovers there was Tomato Chammar (paneer cooked in tomato gravy).

For the meat eaters there was the most famous Kashmiri dish Nainey Qualiya (lamb in yellow gravy Kashmiri style), Kabargarh (lamb ribs marinated and fried in ghee).Chicken even not  quintessentially Kashmiri, has slowly gained acceptance with youngsters. Gandee Kokur (chicken with onion) is worth a try according to  Chef Kaul.

The staple diet of every Kashmiri is rice, the most preferred being the dense, slightly sticky grained variety. Rich and redolent with the flavour of the spices used there was Nainey Pulao ( rice cooked with lamb in Kashmiri style) for the meat eaters and the perfectly cooked steam rice for the veggie in me was on the menu of the special buffet at ITC grand central.

On the sweet note there was the all time favourite Shufta which is a lavish assortment of dry fruits mixed with honey, sugar and saffron and a mesmerising dish called Zuk-e-Shahi which was khoya dumplings soaked in sweetened milk.

It's been a long day for Suman Kaul but the prospect of introducing her native cuisine to the city and have  visitors acquire a taste for it must be a satisfying experience. Back home in Kashmir, the Pandits after returning home on a tired cold day would've had their Kehwah (sweet green tea with almonds and cardamom) post which they would gather for their dinner and at the end of the meal would sip Sheer chai (salted pink tea with almonds), more of a digestive drink, before inching toward the end of the day. The rest of us non-Kashmiris, returning home from this outing would've no such luck. I make a mental note of checking out Sheer chai someday.

"At any given time we would've 10-15 people gathering for food at our place, to taste my grandma's cooking," Mrs. Kaul told us of her relatives visiting their place in Srinagar, remembering her time in Kashmir before they had flee for their lives. "I've never been back there after we had to leave Kashmir."

Mrs. Kaul credited her husband for unflinching support through her career. At the Koshur Saal, they relished the opportunity of meeting fellow Kashmiris over dinner at Hornby's Pavilion. I'm sure many stories will have been exchanged of things back 'home', of food, of memories from Kashmir, wistful and poignant.   

Kali Rides

That evening in Calcutta we wandered aimlessly among people and before long I found myself seeking the boats that’d take Durga home.

But as I walked towards the ghat on the river, the waters pulled away from me as if intimidated by my presence, retreating slowly but surely, pushing at the land on the other side until they could push no more. Confused, I paused and wondered - How was I culpable?

That’s until I saw Kali riding on the banks.

Then I understood.